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.


Morning Joe

Juniper blended with the richness of Mohagany 
as the well soaped Maidens accompliced 
in the impness of Dawn.
A strong coffee poulticed a hint of Cinnamon, 
and Clove prepared expectations. 
The morning fog was lifting her skirt 
in a slow tease, as both veil and curtain. 
A suspenseful reveal that caromed 
with the steam of my cup.
A main event about to be undressed, 
and redressed with the Maidens.

I johned in, in that usual unpure-,pure- folly.
Knew it was welcomed guest, 
practically an extorter, to creep in at any hour, 
in to steal a gloat in unwarded cameo. 
This inadvertently but unthwarted- headtable-
"honored guest", that shared more and more 
in my ritual of daydreams, that intertwined 
also into some of my more run of the milled needs.
Melding more and more, 
as a dysfunctional elixir of happenstance, 
and of either need or greed.

I found them also, the "Barista Girls", 
like a gaggle of something curious- in cackle,- 
buying entrance with teased looks mocking,- 
my inflammation of inflection,- 
with their vixened vexation, 
-but also in snare; flared to wonder their wander 
into mine stare.
One of a thawing malaise,- of curiousity shops 
and shared spaces.
Places:

Coffee bean aroma and aproned bread 
trinkets- become a "suitable"
showcase.
I realized its humorous "colorance" 
in poetic knowledge's abionce.
"Man shall not live by bread alone."
But the scone was a genius match.
Something to chew on.
A fitting poetry, (binding really) 
by the Master Story Setter- that forbode,- 
the Protaganist himself and also let me know 
that, 'he is aware of my dirty thoughts.':
To prop my stage and to reflect as a mirror does.
To hold in check the soul.
How the pillows fluffed. 
My thoughts blanketed me, 
"tucked me to the chin" with their silkys 
and fuzzy warmths.
Feathers that cascade in a rockabye lull-fashion.
My system of down.
Downy.
Snuggle.

Oh women will be my downfall.
Vipers that push their venom.
"I think God created coffee and tea 
with Poet in mind."
I rebuked my thoughtful sins to Him 
and left a healthy tip for them.


A Voice From the Ground

Ode to the dew of morning’s youth:

Cling silently 
to your fresh presence
in an iridescent world 
absent of horizon’s 
shadows.

Glowing amber reveals 
your eager luminescence
as you await 
her spotlight;

Yet her ardent rays 
merely celebrate 
absorption 
to a lonely atmosphere...


Signify 
pure liquidity;
bask in droplets 
of
chromatic adventure.

Commemorate 
your velvet green stage
and layered 
petal curtains...


At maturity, we 
float 
in muddied complexities
and fallen blades;

Dutifully enrichening the soil,
taken too soon
by the g r a v i t y 
of time.

Premium Member Memories in Twilight

Twilight invites a quiet, solemn space
where time begins a slow arc  of expanse
And the thoughts from years are etched on my face
as the glitter of night starts to enhance
When memories bloom from deep in my mind
to set the stage as each love's unveiled
with beautiful faces there to remind
of the many times my heart was impaled
Yet, could I have known a life more divine
When I chased moments of laughter's sweet guise
dressed as a poet for hearts I entwined
till' celestial heartbeats rose with sunrise
The evening falls dark, replacing twilight
My memories grow mute, into the night
Form: Sonnet

A poem is a river

Head-hardened dead rocks dare to block the way—
The stumbling blocks of poesy well-nigh, 
The rules of grammar gathered yesterday, 
And those of prosody pose how and why. 
Still, let a poem’s river flow ahead, 
Let melody gets born from natural noise, 
Let things get ruled by heart, the least by head 
And music arise from poem’s own voice. 
In purest form, in its simplest so far, 
Ceaseless does flow river of a poem 
That shines like starry strings, not a lone star 
Whose brilliance blinds like a studded gem. 
So said and done, if a poem gets made, 
A product be of heart much as of head! 
________________________________________ 
Sonnet | 10.08.2014 | poem 
Poet’s note: Flow of a river, and that of a poem…. Intellect contributed by head, dos and don’ts and the like, seem like rocks and stones blocking the flow of a river. When the river flows ahead over and aside these obstacles, music starts with the flow. A poem is always a product of heart to start with. The heart may have reasons unknown to head, but a stage comes when the later comes in to play some role. Yet, creativity comes from the chaos created by heart as the Gangotri, the womb of all poems.
Form: Sonnet

Premium Member Minds Over Matter Theater

The curtains drawn the room very gloomy
the stage free of debris and finally the 
music plays at first it seems like I'm 
dreaming my spouse his lover the mouse 
I'm conducting this play as the velvet day
moves the shadowy figures about for I am
the mistro the ushers are a no show the crowd
began to beg for the director to open the
show soon the notes all off the pages are
torn my legs bleed my nerves right out of my
body the theme song so simple as a teen with 
a pimple that burst right in me before the dance 
silence please I must conduct from my knees for
they are sore my fingers tremble at deaths doors
as I open them for I am sure that the gods move in
full circle and right on cue the cello so broad so firm
takes my soul as the violins began to cry my mind sigh
for the crowd has stopped and followed the pitch 
as the Bella screamed death to the poet 
for my souls an empty theater 


Written by Yolanda Nicholsen May 14 2004 Fort Myers Florida my sons graduation day from high school so many emotions that day i must have written 10 poems that day
Form: Epyllion


Premium Member You and I Were Meant To Be

Remember our High School classes?
Watched you fidget with your glasses.
Slender fingers twirled chestnut hair,
enough to make me stop and stare.

I caught that twinkle in your eye,
envisaged stroking supple thigh.
Then you flashed me your trademark smile,
made perseverance all worthwhile.

Recall when snuck into your house,
not wake your folks, a quiet mouse.
Left your spare key under a rock,
so in I'd come at twelve o'clock.

I'd savour watching you asleep,
green eyes squeezed shut whilst counting sheep.
Snuggled under cotton bedspread,
know you like left side of the bed.

It's been so long, the time is right,
our passion soars like doves in flight.
I just know we're on the same page,
let's move things on to the next stage.

From the rooftops I'll proudly shout,
for in the end, true love will out.
Hearts beat as one, we're meant to be,
what do you say, please marry me?

~       ~       ~

"What the hell, creep?!  I scarce know you!
Twisted confessions make me spew!
Tainted by debased disorder,
can you spell 'restraining order'...?"

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

8 syllables on every line - checked with howmanysyllables.

12 November 2017

I used a more simplistic approach than my usual style as I was trying to put myself into the mind of a stalker - what's going through his head and how would he try articulating that to the target of his obsession?  Hope it worked.  And now I need a shower... urgh!

For the "Stalker" contest, sponsored by Silent One.
(2nd Place)
Form: Rhyme

Premium Member Joe Bonamassa and Beth Hart

As whirlwinds in the musicscape that blow so wild,
The duo sang, played guitar, and albums compiled;
Both rocked like vigorous rocks in a rough earthquake,
Their unbreakable records they only did break...!

Played and sang at their very tender childhood age,
Like tornados they shook many a music stage;
Joseph Bonamassa, at only twelve, did plan,
Smokin' Joe Bonamassa - his band he began...!

As though birds of a feather flocking together,
J.L Bonamassa and Beth Hart flew higher;
Like poppies blossomed forth "Don't Explain", and "Seesaw",
The works of the duo made one and all feel awe...! 

His works, "Blue Deluxe", "Driving Towards The Day Light",
"Rhymes", and "Fire On The Floor" are like sunlight, bright;
Adorn the altars of Harmonious music,
Cure the physically and psychically sick...!!!


14 May 2023 
Joe Bonamassa and Beth Hart Inspiration Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
Form: Rhyme

This Is Not Me

THIS IS NOT ME

You wanted me to grow up just like you,
A carbon copy of the way you are.
To run the family business in your wake,
Just as your father and his father had.
“Start at the bottom, son,” you said to me;
And had me filing letters at sixteen.
“One day, my boy, this empire will be yours.”
Oh, how that cliché filled me full of dread.
For you were seeking something I am not.
Your business genes have clearly passed me by.
Just one day in that office was enough
To tell me I could not fulfil your dreams.
      I look in vain amongst the audience.
      But you’re not there to see my stage debut.

10th August 2019
Something I am not contest
Sponsor - Craig Cornish

The Show Must Not Go On

Dark and mischievous clouds of deceit hang over the palace of the pharaoh's 
The people once again 'in their 'droves gather 'call out and speak what has been placed into their tired and abused souls .

The uncaring potential rulers each wear a wry smile , 
Trying their best not to let utter contempt for the people shine through.

The  spectacle begins with music that is supposed to show these dark creatures in a shadow of in-common.

Frantic Calls for hate and war too continue along with false hope are thrown out by these mesmerisers like bread to the hungry .

Famished these people are for change and release from their bondage.
The repeated re-shackling of themselves willingly 'by themselves has beaten them down into complete blind submission.

Their faith in the old gods without any care of consequence was given up in exchange for gold long ago .
pharaoh's from past and present have 'and  continue to give their gleeful blessings at this evil and wicked truth .

The stage is set and the people in total trance as these two demons begin to square up to one another 'repeatedly asking for their captives trust,  whilst  spitting reasons as why not trust the other .

Through the window of the palace 'looking upon this deceitful showing 
Is pure evil 'awaiting the out come of Either way .
As before and so shall be again the people will dutifully demand their freedom and rights taken away through fear and trickery 'He then shall step back in 'and make it as such .

Under his Dictates 'The newly elected pharaoh shall continue to lead and command these people away from the light 'but yet ever further into the cold darkness of hopelessness and despair . 

It is now time to awake 'and walk away from that Demonic showing ,
for the good of all and that of 'freedom sake , 

And so mote it be .

Premium Member Consensus reality is like a desert mirage

Consensus reality is like a desert mirage,
An aurora of shadows and lights where dreams become tangible,
Each desire intertwined with the invisible threads of common belief,
Our world, a palace of illusions, built on ephemeral foundations.
It’s like a spider’s web woven from moonbeams and silver threads,
Each step on the stage of life, a dance of eternal phantasms,
Reality, a paper note without essence,
But in which everyone believes, and this belief gives it ephemeral brilliance.
Like birds lost in the dream of a star-streaked night,
We struggle between what is and what seems to be,
Each thought, a shining pearl in an ocean of illusions,
We paint on the sky of our hearts falling paper constellations.
In this dance of shadows and light, we feed on collective dreams,
A paper reality that comes to life through united desires,
We weave words, signs, and symbols, building the ephemeral citadel,
A world of mist that disappears at the touch of hidden truth.
But in this sweet melancholy, we discover hidden beauty,
In the game of appearances, in the illusory theater of our lives and dreams,
Each role played, a cadence of an eternal waltz,
A secret poem where reality reveals its enigmatic and fragile face.
Consensus reality is the reverie that unites us in the cosmic dance,
Each heartbeat, an echo of common fables,
And in this play of light and shadow, we breathe pure magic,
A fairy tale of stardust wherein our beliefs take shape and life itself.
Therefore, let us keep the dream alive under the enchanted moonlight,
While our paper birds fly free through eternity,
Our reality, a delicate poem woven from threads of gold and silver,
A melancholic magic that breathes through the infinite faith of our hearts.
© Dan Enache  Create an image from this poem.

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