Long Stage Poems

Long Stage Poems. Below are the most popular long Stage by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stage poems by poem length and keyword.


Santa"s Works Night Out. a Cautionary Tale

At last it has arrived, 
let there be no doubt. 
That everyone goes crazy 
at the Christmas staff night out. 

Now Santa took the sleigh. 
He did not stop to think. 
For that was very foolish 
with all that food and drink! 

Tooth fairy looked real nice 
so did the pantomime dames, 
but Grinch was asked to leave 
for calling Santa names. 

The leprechauns told anecdotes 
in the spirit of Bob Hope. 
The snowmen all got stoned 
by passing round the dope. 

Santa told rude jokes! 
and some were even funny. 
But everyone avoided 
that randy Easter Bunny. 

Jack Frost he was concerned, 
told the Elves what he was thinking. 
"That Santa"s getting drunk, 
he is doing to much drinking." 

When the meal was over, 
the MC he did stand . 
"Will you welcome live on stage, 
The Boogie Man and his band." 

The celebrations ended. 
"Get on your merry way." 
Santa staggered out 
to try and find his sleigh. 

The reindeer headed home 
they knew the way to go. 
They did not stop to think, 
to take it kind of slow. 

Santa started singing 
a chorus of Wild Rover. 
When flashing lights appeared 
and he was soon pulled over. 

"Lets see your drivers licence 
and please put out that ***." 
"Step out of the vehicle 
and blow in to this bag." 

Oh Santa was locked up. 
You should have heard him wail. 
"You have to let me out, 
you have to give me bail." 

His sentence will be soon 
lets hope the courts a fan. 
For what will happen next year? 
If he gets a driving ban.! 

Poor old Santa Clause 
it is a sorry tale. 
He got community service, 
instead of going to jail! 

By all means leave a carrot. 
A glass of milk I think. 
But don"t encourage Santa 
by leaving out a DRINK! 




© Ned Flanders
Form: Rhyme


Premium Member Coagulation

"Finally my blood began to coagulate,"
the second stage of hemostasis -- how great!
First I applied pressure to the bleeding spot,
the platelets circulate to stop it (a "clot.")

Coagulation forms a more solid wall,
in other words: a scab (helps after a fall).
That tough thing is just a temporary patch;
could bleed again, like My Girl's "blood brothers" scratch.

The vocab: "hemo" means blood, "stasis"-- stands still;
this natural process shows God's powerful skill:
to keep flowing blood --in, and harmful germs --out,
the fibrous platelet plug closes the vein's spout.

Keep it clean, and with time, the skin looks like new;
(a scar may remind me the pain I went through).
The skin's remodel is "fibrinolysis,"
but what makes it ALL better-- is mother's kiss!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Coagulation Starter Poetry Contest (just started with the first line provided by the contest assignment, and I went from there, putting myself in this situation, which I have manuevered before... scientific reference I drew from: "Hemostasis" -- a Cleveland Clinic article medically reviewed in 2021).
Form: Quatrain

Storms

when the storms blow in
I cradle your bones
flesh pressed upon flesh  
moments of high electricity  
as sky begins her show  
  
I empty my bottle    
and you yours  
twin peaks permeate  
the choir of your haze  
   
I stand in the music    
your smokey comfort  
pondering my wasted life,
til now  
caressing your femina    
   
addiction pulls me closer  
stuttering across ancient memories  
noticing nothing  
   
my mind wanders forward  
undeveloped  
undressed in thought  
nickers tossed    
towards the stage  
 
I sing on    
staring deeply    
into what I dually crave  
those forever eyes
© Ts Poetry  Create an image from this poem.

Premium Member Oh Happy Days

Oh for the days of my long lost youth
Making paper airplanes, watching em glide
Looping like barnstorming pilots of the 30s
Above the tree tops like birds they fly

Our imagination never saw paper airplanes
We saw ourselves as pilots on board
Soaring skyward with not a worry in the world
We could even hear the engines roar

Another favourite pastime was climbing trees
Just like masts on a pirate ship
Looking out on the ocean with a telescope
A musket hanging from our hip

Another fantasy, being a famous hockey star
Heard the cheering of adoring fans
Dreaming at night, scoring the winning goal
No more school, no more final exams

Oh for the old days, hmm perhaps I'll rethink that
It's pretty damn good from where I sit
Each stage in life has it's own special happening
And the happiness never quits
Form: Rhyme

Premium Member Deep within my being, a river of desires winds silently

Deep within my being, a river of desires winds silently,
a longing to open my wings and fly towards truth,
but often I lose myself in the labyrinth of others' dreams,
like a bird trapped in the cage of lost expectations.
Despair envelops me like a fog on the horizon of the soul,
whispering that I am not who I could truly be,
hidden beneath masks woven from the fear of judgment,
fear of not being loved for my pure essence.
In the flow of thoughts, I wonder if I will have the courage
to set aside illusions and embrace vulnerability,
to accept that being myself is the path to the freedom I seek,
that authenticity is the key to the gates of light.
I long to dance on the stage of life without the fear of being seen,
to embrace every imperfection like a royal garment,
despair is a cry of my soul for change,
to allow myself to be who I am, even if vulnerable.
In the silence of the night, I promise to rediscover myself,
to transform despair into courage, into inner freedom,
to learn that the journey to myself is worth pursuing with devotion,
it's the only path that makes sense in this ephemeral existence.
© Dan Enache  Create an image from this poem.


Premium Member Stunningly Attractive

You don't see me do it
But I do it all the time
I look at you from where I stand
A living, breathing rhyme

The way you move so graceful
Your motions like ballet
The way you sing so beautifully
Beyond what words can say

Inside my heart does dances
If only you could hear
The beat of circumstances
A message loud and clear

From deep within my being 
Live dreams and thoughts of you
A treasure trove to recall
In memory or on cue

Tucked into their safe harbor
The concert stage not set
But if someday it happens
This would get better yet

They'd make the grandest entry
In triumph they would say
The long, long wait is over
Enter light of day
Form: Rhyme

Premium Member Just Pray For The Answer

We're born with bodies- set up very well
to grow, survive for sure by what we're shown;
with instincts also ingrained so we dwell
to eat, and drink, then sleep as nature's own.

But then, as humans- free will too survives
to choose and implement what we will do.
The deepest urge for power oft deprives
the peace we long for which does not prove true.

If only free will could negate this urge-
forgoing power for world wars to cease;
reject control and capture since this scourge
won't feed the promise of true worldwide peace.

This search for power must come to a halt;
but such is the dilemma we're in now.
It pains me most since we are not at fault.
Just pray for answers- if, and when, and how-

our hopes for a great miracle one day
that all world leaders draft a common page.
Fulfill this wish for us who duly pray-
humanity may live a peaceful stage.

Premium Member St. Adrian's, 1971

Saloon
Squeezed between office buildings
On lower Broadway
Desolate and out of the way
Faint neon sign marks the place
For the downtown art scene.
Poetry readings on Sunday afternoons
Only the regulars show up 
Invited or not 
Some mount the stage and  
Recite a piece or two 
To scattered applause.

The beat goes on
Summer nights fly by
No Sunday readings now
It’s Saturday and it’s a different place. 
Crowd mingles
Three deep at the bar
A/C working on overtime while
Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On plays
Jazzy and soulful
A monster hit
To no one’s surprise. 

A hangout for anyone 
Bodies waiting to meet
An Agent.
Or maybe a Publisher.
Or a Rep.
Anybody. Somebody. Anyone know somebody important?
Naw, this ain’t the place
This is St. Adrian’s
A place for  
Artists.
Writers.
Sculptors.
Working class dreamers.
Pretenders and losers.
Wannabes.
Lost children and
Casual loners on the prowl.

Carol, alone in a corner booth
Glass of white wine in her hands
On the rocks of course
Smiles at everyone like a Mona Lisa.

Jack Micheline 
Bronx’ original Beat
Wrote River of Red Wine in ‘58
Manuscript under his arm
Waits for someone 
To buy him a drink 

Elaine, beautiful in a peasant blouse
Scent of musk oil like a halo
Motions  
To the young men 
Who watch her hands 
Move like deadly weapons

Stan’s a photographer. Sleepy, one night 
Left his equipment in a car 
Morning arrives and 
Broken windshield screams 
You’ve been robbed.

Junior, a sculptor, needs rent money for a walkup in the East Village 
Otherwise he’ll live on someone’s couch
Gil does commercials 
Until he finds an old lady
Then Hollywood here he comes 
And Glenn is a writer with lots of ideas 
But no paper and no place to go.

No one asked what I did for money
Or where I lived.
I was accepted with a simple sitdownhaveadrink.
Sometimes there’d be ten of us 
Squeezed in a booth or
Around a table
Talking and talking.
Any topic not important
Just to meet and forget for awhile 
The nagging loneliness and rejection.  

It’s well past midnight
Chairs scrape the floor and there’s an echo in the walls 
Left behind are empty glasses and stale beer
As the place begins to empty out.
We leave
Hitting the still streets
Looking for a cab
Or the nearest subway
But before we do
We promise to meet again.
Form: Narrative

Premium Member Lessons from birds


The Robins dance across the lawn
hopping, with happiness to see
So big, round, full and happy
Celebrating from the start of dawn

Two other birds flirt in the sky
Twirling, the kind unknown from far
It's a show, each one is a star
The open sky, their stage they fly

The birds are living their lives free,
minding their own business too
Lessons float in the paths they flew
So much to learn for you and me

Let the world be your stage and live it
There are a million reasons why
You may not be up in the sky,
still, with each lesson dreams are lit


Heidi Sands

4/9/25

(C)opyright

*8 syllables.

Premium Member Writing

My suitor calls but I let the phone ring 
For after all I am writing
It’s not his fault I have a hobby it seems

I do wonder if he will understand
To me poetry is like pottery in hand
And my inner demons demand I dance

We all have some Yin and Yang
No one of us is the very same
With surges of urges to teal tame

I am a romantic yet I ponder
Am I fit to be his girl wonder
For my muse is one of thunder 

I don’t know but yet I grow
To find enlightenment I hope
Perhaps this gap will close

Writing is for me a  turquoise thing
I can engage stage a dream
For my hand he must be understanding.
Form: Rhyme

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