Long Sounds Poems
Long Sounds Poems. Below are the most popular long Sounds by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sounds poems by poem length and keyword.
Androgynous Angel in white
Wings of satin about to take flight
like some Space Oddity
searching for a bit of life.
I gaze in fascination at this being
which entered my house as a vinyl cover.
You flirt around my consciousness
morphing again and again;
speaking to me from your place on the wall.
Rebel Rebel is your rally call.
Let's dance in red shoes and blue jeans
until we’re dancing in the streets,
unified by the music.
But you didn't stop there.
You surprised us with
a kiss of modern love
and absolute color blindness--
sloughing the image once again
from rainbows to black suits and fashion models.
You made non-conformity the norm
And did it in style.
If only you could have stayed
a little while longer...
You paved the way for new sounds;
who will be a trailblazer now?
As your flitting around in celestial skies
an androgynous angel taking that
heavenly chorus to new heights.
(Written and performed for World Open Poetry Mic on January 15, 2016 David Bowtie tribute segment.)
As a lotus raises its head to receive the sun rays
I wait expectantly for my Lord's whisper in my ears.
In the forms of Satan or tempter, evil has its ways.
Amidst my fears, it enters my spheres and wishes me cheers.
Whispers between blossoms and flies are secret and sacred.
Agape of give and take are amalgamated in them.
What else can the ways of the devil be except hatred?
They deceive as the fading colours of petals and stem.
I'll give you the world and wonders, he says, as though they're his.
Can I take these with me when I pass through the cave of my grave?
Each moment of my existence has been a baffling quiz
His whispers would enslave me while the divine grace would save.
A tree might listen to the voices of both storm and breeze.
Though they bear the sounds of storms, does any tree feel at ease?
Words on a page, sounds, Mother's calling
soft tones rose from leather tomes sweetly,
through rouged lips they tumble with love.
Lullabies call through the coldest of nights
as frost haloes about the curls, open-hearted,
eager, a child of contested love’s joining.
What would this chimera become now joined.
Oh what would be the result of this clarion call?
Angels wonder at the blend of unformed heart,
as words of Our Fathers resound so sweet
for the thrice kissed lips of child and overbearing night.
May all who come from the light delight in love.
May the child addressed bring comfort, bring love,
grow in service to the higher good and join
the wholesome hearts who warm the darkest night,
for bringing comfort, kindness, and caring is a calling,
which teaches every opened soul of sweetness
and heals the aching angry sores of forlorn hearts.
With words of joy, and a voice full of heart
let her hands touch, and sooth, each pain lovingly,
with the like-minded teachers and nurses sweetening
the balm smoothed upon the brow of man, enjoined
to heed the call, the ancient ever-present call
of majesty in morning and peaceful rest at night.
Each life presents its morning and ends in eternal night.
Each soul stores fonts of happiness and heartache.
Conception buds and blooms, sending out a clarion call
enjoining all who have the healing gift to garner love.
Gentle ones, who plant the seeds, tend the hearts join…
be the humble gardeners of the meek and sweet.
What task could be richer or path sweeter
than that of those who doctor, and nurse, and warm night?
Tender hearts and helping hands come together, join…
in the higher consciousness of he’s and she’s heartfelt.
Raise the banner; fly the unifying flag of healing love,
make this your onward path the Way, the Red Road your calling.
For what is sweeter day or night for each are joined,
heartily we love and live to heed these fine callings.
39 Stripes
You have always been here from the beginning
You planted the greatest sacrifice with 39 stripes
When the world was blind
You asked for nothing in return knowing
You washed our sins with your blood
From your painful stripes, came redemption
For you are our deliverance
No one will ever deserve the atonement
Sons and daughter have all fallen short
For the scourging of 39 lashes
Human kind will never be thankful enough
One day, you will return
For a loud trumpet sounds in unimaginable volume
He took the punishment of the whole world
And said, for it is done
Fallow the old wooden cross
Walk the narrow road
Lean into his understanding
And one day, we will all be together
Hidden behind the clouds forever
Lesson Learned
Onyx black no diamond twinkling stars doth fill the sky, just the silver light from a winter’s moon shines down upon emerald coloured grass both dark and bright, under melting snow from the northern tempest, which to pastures new hath it moved.
Ensconced snugly under covers of double down, like a hibernating creature hiding from the cold a single heart beats, arms empty of the love from another.
The hand of the clock moves slowly round, tick-tock sounds the beat down the hall of this empty home. A crooked frown looks back from a mirror above a water filled sink, and eyes once filled with joy now contend with questions of why it went wrong?
Plans made for a life of which together both grow old, sit under a warm sun in foreign lands. Laugh and cry with children we would have, now tossed away, for twas all a lie.
Now the memories of those happy times lay far behind and itch at the base of a confused mind, one entered no secrets unsaid, the other’s devilish plans oh so well were they hid. But time moves on and what’s done in the dark, always will come to light.
A smirk turns the frown upside down, as realisation rears its pretty head, a lesson learned as it all came to an end, they tried to keep you down, but a new life lays straight ahead.
Chapter closed pages turned to thoughts anew, and things once stopped because of them, now begin once again. To their tune once you danced, now skipping on feather light feet, a laugh erupts they taught you well, for that you are grateful, but hence forth now happy days abound.
By
Patrick D
A slow funeral dirge loops through my head as I bend the reeds
of wild alley weeds in my old neighborhood, pausing to listen
to the drunken diatribes hurled by the shell of a man, 3-houses
down…praying I won’t be seen.
Newcomers don’t often visit, the same faces cringe in surprise at
the sudden change in tempo or tone, afraid a new direction may
result….sounds never heard before….questions never asked before.
Finally, I find the familiar crevices and secret passageways, proven
over time…..balms and knowing glances, to a place I know,
……a place
I know
10/22/10
© All Rights Reserved
5:22 am
Mom had a stroke Monday,
She’s doin a bit better…….
I’m hangin’ on
“How does it feel, studying for your first exam of the semester?” My sister Annick dug at me, via Facetime.
“Oh, I’m miserable and no one even knows!” I exclaimed excitedly.
I already miss summer’s sense of infinite time and space, and life on the lake, with its big, wet, melancholy summer rains. But most of all, I miss the travel and delicious, swirling, excesses that form the dark side of long holiday freedoms.
I’ve been called excessive, I accept that and I have to check that aspect of my nature, from time to time.
“Don’t you have any brakes?” My roommate Leong once asked me, like I was some runaway train.
I remember last summer, how we almost eased into fall. As summer had faded, things changed and slowed down, as the European students turned back to their serious, ordinary lives. The bars and streets became deserted, carousels stopped spinning, arcade games were turned off, yachts sailed away, the eager summer wait-staff vanished from the elegant hotels. Brightly lit, summer-gaudy Saint Tropez became just another faded seaside town, where the paint everywhere suddenly seemed chipped and cheap.
This year, we sped up, by spending the last couple of weeks in flashy, frantic, fluorescent Manhattan - oh, man.
Then BOOM, we were dropped, as if from a great height, back into university life, back to cafeteria lines, shuttle buses and the scholastic gridiron - which oddly enough, has a lot in common with the teenage world. It was going from a-hundred-mile-an-hour adult freedom, to dealing with all the old teenage issues, like homework, tests, studying, the endless clock-watch scheduling of to and from classes - you know, the physicality of academics.
It sounds rough, I know. We’ve been told that as seniors, we can expect an even more important and frenetic emphasis on social life. Yep, we’ll be stepping things up to a whole new level this year!
Woot!! Maybe I’ll even get to wear some makeup!
.
.
A song for this:
September by Earth Wind & Fire
The sounds of nature
As I walk ever so softly, on the brightly fallen snow, I hold my breath to feel the suns glow, I look up to see an eagle soaring through the cloud draped sky, Oh how I wish I could soar through the sky so free, how peaceful that would be.
The sun is lowering behind a bare tree so brightly, I love the glow, it shows God's light, to be in the midst of Nature's embrace, so tightly, to hear the sound of the cold winter breeze, I shiver so slightly as I feel the cold winter breeze.
The different sounds that our Mother nature provides, I'm certain have touched many children's lives, may it bring joy, love, peace, such as the sound of of water trickling from a fresh water pond, seeing newly hatched tadpoles swimming about, is sure to delight my daughter no doubt.
As I sit amongst these wonders, I can't help but breathe in and exhale my burdens, my worries, my burdens, I can feel tears welling up in my eyes, I feel my healing tears falling down my face, they fall down freely to the creek below, I begin to smile, for I have been made whole again, by our Never ending Mother Nature's Beauty once again..
Sitting in front of her piano that morn.
A single thought haunts her attention.
It's a story she found on her book.
She wants to put a lyrics and notes.
So eager to create a masterpiece.
She hung awhile and start to dream.
A song of love that everyone sings.
While playing her piano in opera stage.
She is the center of attraction in the crowd.
A newborn pianist, Lola Astanova plays in sounds.
She can see Victor Babin,Simon Barere and Beethoven.
Smiling in front of her in standing ovation.
She is the hottest talk of the town.
Her masterpieces are known and pride.
A grandest dream she weaves in mind.
Has cut when a flower vase fell in ground.
** 5th Place Winner in Isiah Zerbst's Contest A DAYDREAM **
Written: February 26, 2025, for Antony Biaanco Contest
*************************
City hum drifts through spurious ways,
teeming in a wild, woody ward.
The jasmine vine twists down to
a jagged sill for a moment before
sinking into a cool, katabatic pit.
Early rush-hour sounds—farts and snorts—
cram the air, moments blending
into the drive-by without a stroll,
as rain-soaked, worn stone slabs
Mark the corner store—
where you used to grab milk,
soap, or other staples.
The chill of an icy night—
gives way to a sun-kissed morning glow.
Sitting at my desk, chatting on the phone,
canceling appointments for the boss.
He’s staying a little longer in Honolulu,
musing over which states—
the neighbors moved to.
Do they remember how
crabgrass took over?
The streets are empty except—
for a fridge that somehow
made it to the avenue,
lingering there,
its story is low and uncertain.
Does this questionable life count?
We can’t amend it,
it won’t yield precious plums,
only a mournful structure,
shadows lurking,
and worn trousers that tell tales.
The horizon lies obscured—
by haphazard highways,
stretching into stark,
barren spaces,
where even the flowers have wilted.
Countless scorched dreams,
strained savings,
and buried letters—
linger in forgotten corners.
The fire hydrant no longer
cries out for the world.
"Honky Chateau" continues to compel—
as it meanders the sporadic streets,
streets cloaked in anonymity—
and emptied of life.
The dwindling dirge of
a forsaken place hangs heavily,
with dreams dangling—
in line for food stamps
and community cheese.
Buildings shatter, splinter, and crumble—
crashing, crushing, collapsing
submerged with rivers of fire within.
Crisis tamed,
calamity curtailed,
the police stroll in pairs,
collecting discarded shopping carts.
Dust gently falls—
as yesterday's laments hush
the pigeons to sleep,
mold mingling with the memory—
of barbecued ribs,
those hardened bones
left since last year.