Long Strummed Poems
Long Strummed Poems. Below are the most popular long Strummed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Strummed poems by poem length and keyword.
When Spring’s soft murmurs broke the stillness of the rolling hills,
He took his guitar outside to welcome days of daffodils.
His music wound throughout the pines in greening melodies,
The gypsy lady heard them and was stirred to fantasies.
Across the daisy meadow, his tunes reached out to her at night,
On his front porch she could see him bathed in yellow cabin light.
He played upon her heartstrings with chords he never planned;
She was his gypsy lady ... he was her music man.
At night, she softy crept into the nearby forest glade,
With moonbeams woven in her hair, she danced the notes he played.
He watched her whirling, twirling form reach out to him in love,
But bound by love to another, he cursed the stars above.
Each night she gathered up his songs in the folds of her gypsy skirt,
Then shook them out as a healing salve for her heart’s deep, aching hurt.
Danced among his guitar songs, wore his music like a shawl,
The image of his smiling face was painful to recall.
When sunny brightness swept across the daisy hills he pined,
While, cat-like, memories of her slipped in and out his mind.
Each night her presence in the glade made him sing a sadder tune,
‘Cause he belonged to another; she belonged to the moon.
She danced throughout his moonlit dreams, he knew his thoughts were wrong,
Though he was bound to another, his heart sang a different song.
She knew she could not have him, his ring showed he was wed,
At night while she lay lonely, he was warm in another’s bed.
Years passed, the gypsy’s youth was gone, but not her love for him,
His fingers stiff, he still played on though her moonlit dance grew dim.
He strummed out songs of passion with a calloused, shaky hand,
She was still his gypsy lady ... he was still her music man.
One April’s eve those piney hills lay bathed in quiet peace,
His guitar sang to her no more, his soul found sweet release.
From the agony of loving her through years of silent pain,
Now daisies pushed up through the sod in a gentle spring-time rain.
With silent gypsy sadness, mourning love’s unkindly loss,
She lay upon his sun-warmed grave, head pillowed by cool moss;
Tears glistened on her grief-worn face, her heart burst from the pain,
In death, she’d be his gypsy lady ... and he’d be her music man.
Inside a grotto scooped out by a wealthy earl for his seated pleasure,
There sat a bard amidst the edelweiss strung 'round the hole of leisure.
Fallen droplets of acidic water pitter-pattered in echoes across the cave,
Slowly weathering away its leaky limestone layers as would a mason's lathe.
The bard, whose unimportant name shall be dismissed, strung away at his lyre,
Tickling its strings with unclipped fingertips which pick up songs from every wire.
Mediocrity had once been the nemesis to the boyish bard in his recent youth,
But now, after endless nights of practice, his expertise needed little proof.
He grew bored, however, with the memorized music that his body hummed,
From hypnotic and melodic languid limbs, which on their own had strummed.
Seated that evening on the edge of the grotto's bank,
He put down his lyre as both his eyes into the water sank.
"I am but twenty-six years-old and I've already come to master," he pined,
"Trading tales told inside of tunes; what more on Earth for me is there to dine?
Have I drunk the goblet dry in but a gulp?
Have I swallowed the savory pie in but a bite?
And have I been denied, in gluttony, the right to dessert?
Please, oh motherly moon, dearest Selene,
What more is there for my life to mean?"
During his pouting pitiful preponderances of apathetic patheticism,
A scattered image on his own reflection distracted him from his pessimism.
An eidolon of Endymion appeared before the startled bard,
And he held within phantasmal hands a deck of playing cards.
"My name is Endymion and I once walked awoken in Earthen woods,
Until I fell in love with Hera before her husband banished me for good.
I succumbed to an endless and dreamless slumber, but I can now see,
You fear you already lived your life and will be put to rest like me.
Yet life is but a game of Pitch, there are highs and lows and jacks and game,
Which is scored in not one hand but rounds whose cards will never be the same.
You've played your hand well in an entertaining trade, as you have felt,
So now its time to shuffle the deck and play with cards that've yet been dealt."
With that the ghost of Endymion drifted back into his eternal sleep,
And the bard in the grotto grinned and eagerly forgot why he did just weep.
When the smoky quartz sun
slumbers into a cold winter,
we see the aftermath of a garnet twilight,
it is then, we find rose stars
that refuse to abandon us in shivering solitude,
and beneath snake-skinned skylines of nadir,
we learn to appreciate
the truest colors of nature……
Hope is but a hollow rope,
hanging loose on empty lies~
splattered across eclipsed skies,
and this aching heart sighs,
singing to the fallen flowers,
fading into depths of
black-magic silence,
for peace is a distant memory,
frozen within pixelated Polaroids
of poignant pain.
I remember the night
I was unplugged and strangled
in toxic tremors,
slipping into fatigued negligence,
too tired of fighting a
battle with no prudence,
but no one hears the unspoken,
amidst the tears that
croon in tragic tunes.
Now my mind is a muted mausoleum;
weathered and withdrawn,
impregnated with deceased dreams~
and remnants embalmed in poison ivy.
Yet diabolical thoughts
keep whirling
through funeral chaos,
to cloak my conscience in
a glass casket of sleepless uncertainties,
smothering the last breath I held.
I do not seek an orchard
blooming with butterfly orchids
and pristine pansies,
yet, somehow, I am the wrinkled
willow~
awaiting dancing rays
of diamond twilight.
Perhaps this is how a poet grieves,
writing epitaphs with
bloodstained ink,
when familiar faces are
clothed in ivory farewells,
to rest amongst the forgotten,
away from the cruelty that creeps.
I know not the synonyms for healing,
the poems I’ve woven beneath
starry skies now flow undone,
and I am burning,
in my crippling confusion,
pondering why the sun is now
a curse in disguise,
why do I long to walk
through forests of ruins,
where the mauve moon was,
when insomniac
instruments of galaxies
strummed broken strings
of feathered fate.
So take this poem, weave these words
it into the final line
of tasteless satires,
streaming in the
rhythm of zestless zenith,
for I have no desire to
pretend and play,
or swirl and sway
when all I knew now is a
melancholic mystery untold.
So listen to the rhapsody of tears~
I am a frazzled firefly,
eloquently tangled in the
ruthless roots of jinxed junipers.
His name was Jack O’Bann, and how he liked to play,
if not for school I think he would’ve strummed all day,
and he had a voice of both gravel and honey,
with the kind of power that brought in big money.
It was no surprise he started a high school band,
he rocked the parties, we knew his future looked grand.
But Jack had some trouble, his family disagreed,
they did not like the path where this future might lead,
most musicians failed, and there was no hiding that,
they would tell Jack that against him the odds were stacked,
and with his math skills he’d make a good engineer,
this debate troubled Jack for all of his senior year.
During that last year, he dated a girl named Kay,
who listened to his troubles, the things he had to say,
Jack fell so hard for him, in her arms found relief
from the pressures of family, what career to seek.
His band kept on playing, more and more dates in town,
gaining fans with each show until they were renowned.
But his parents were certain this his path was doomed,
even once tried to lock Jack inside his bedroom!
still he was determined, even though they did scoff,
until one day they both threatened to cut their son off.
He stormed out of the house following a big fight,
in a sour mood went to play a gig that night.
Kay was there with the band and saw that he was pissed,
said,”Don’t worry, go set up, I will handle this.”
So he vented out back, she tried to soothe his rage,
he said,”I’m so done with this now that I’m legal age!”
But somehow she got him to take control of himself,
and he put on a great show for everyone else.
It was a good time that night, Jake’s voice was like fire,
raised the crowd to a pitch, and then pushed them higher,
none knowing that a record man was looking on,
impressed by the skill they showed with their cover songs,
and the passion for their craft they made people feel,
so after it was over he offered them a deal.
All the band was excited, this could be their break,
Jack’s head was in a swoon, it was more than he could take,
first the fight with his parents that had rattled him,
now this chance of a lifetime, he struggled within.
“I just need a moment…I need to get some air.”
He half-stumbled outside, and Kay followed him there...
CONTINUES IN PART II.
From the time we spent in vain
There was alot I did not gain
From the breath of mornings kiss
To the taste of evenings bliss
Cast a shadow of formless waste
Hollow shell. A basket case
Numbing touch I've felt before
So familiar. Hard to ignore
The stinging blade of treachery
Has cut me deep and still I bleed
Left to die this form has past
The formless void is gone at last
To seek the truth of love's embrace
And gain respect a name to face
What's done is done it's clear as day
The naked truth is here to stay
It's nestled snug in a bed lies
Disguised as shame a guilt reprised
As the song of life goes verse chorus verse
We bridge the division of it's repeated curse
Play the rhythm strummed to the beat
Soliloquy played out for me (adverse timing 2 4 and a 1 3)
I might be giving too much thought
To something that was meant to be left not sought
If so I'm a loser and tempo is weak
But this song isn't over I still have my seat
I composed this tune as a reminder of me
So you'll sing to my song note for note synchronicity
Maybe I'm wrong and I don't have the right sheet
No it can't be Noone wrote this it's improvisation cant you see?
We did it together as a natural harmonic can, B
Sharp as the blade and flat I can C
Trivial the entendre, cavalier just maybe.
I wasn't trying to be simple or come off as a prick
Though it seems that I hurt you my ego screams "Why me?!?!!!"
The truth is I don't matter as hard to me as it seems
I'm just a fixture in the syntax that has lost its story.
Like a gleam in the blink of an eye shut for good.
I never imagined you would I misunderstood
I lost something held dear to me something that cannot be replaced
I saw it was gone when we met face to face
It was selfish of me to think I had your love it's erased
Never to be seen again on this Earth what a waste
Lost my meaning you up and leaving don't stop reading I'm still here breathing
Your love has rendered me hopeless to no avail....
Or maybe it's me but this poem's gone stale...
My heart aches with pain,
As I watch you walk hand and hand,
with him, the man who stole you
away from me without remorse.
See no one comes for me.
No one cares if I ever fall in love,
but it was kind of me;
to build their esteems up and put their hearts
back together;
So they could go out and love again.
I hear silence as they walk away hand and hand.
No, "Thank you", nothing but pure silence.
See love is a game and I always lose
my hand, when I bet all in.
I get kicked to the curb, as he takes my love
away from me.
I can't handle the pain my heart sheds for my love.
I see them go, sit on sandy beaches and give each other
kisses on each other's lips.
Their smiles kill me,
I can hear my heart tear in two,
as a single tear rolls down my cheek;
I cannot handle to hear the broken strings
of guitars being strummed away,
for I can't hear the sweet music it produces.
I am tired, weak, and weary and wanting to turn a blind eye,
as they walk on by with happy smiles,
but I am forced to do nothing,
but stare as the simple life walks on by,
and gives me a smile.
Feelings of saddened emotions,
cut me in two.
I can feel the rage build in my heart.
As my red blood turns from sweet honey,
too fiery, hot lava,
Flowing through my veins.
As I see my love go away,
without a trace of ever returning to me,
It kills me, too see this lonelieness
come my way and sit and watch at bay,
as sanity leaves me in a hand basket.
Love leaves me, and says, "Goodbye,"
as she pulls away from the beautiful rose garden,
that is my heart.
My thorns did not protect the peddles of my ruby hearted rose,
as my love took her clippers and cut me away.
And the mud, dirt and rain swallowed me
and suffocated me, till I was asleep.
Then she went with him, went hand and hand.
I awoke gasping for air,
seeing nothing but black,
and her, with him.
They walking away, hand and hand, kissing, and laughing.
I was blind, and I closed my eyes for awhile,
as my tears forced themselves out of my sorrowed soul,
and I sat there crying the midnight dawn away.
dab dab wab?
Under the simplified shade of a sparrows wing one does not strut. It is merely there to shield and shields are shapes and shapes are not shifting. Steel blows to a mud are unwelcome and untimely. Plus they are not akin to an orchestra playing in a beautiful sunlit chapel. Chat then to a small breeze whilst sitting on a rock. A beaver might join in and so might an antelope. But fifty six bison, a wheeled cow, a twisting carbonated cream jug, and an artists palate will never ever speak to such a mild force preferring instead to shout out to storm winds and hurricanes. At this time the prevalence of three minstrels is a lovely sight to behold. And the nine millimetre pool cue will talk when touched. Touching taking talking trampling tearing tyrannical tragedies. And the marking of a six pointed cross. With a circle. And Teflon reflected surfaces are akin to a doormat spinning under feet. A wide mongoose at a visitor centre visualising via video. It takes a little lemur to find a pennywhistle and play productive plateau tunes. But the belch from an uneven toad could disrupt even the finest air from a guitar string strummed by a seven metre galloping pie. Frame that then. Opinions offer octagons order officially. So get on a horse and clap several times. Then go to the mountain rope bridge and go over it at great speed. Upon return lie down in a stable on a table of golden hay. Then neigh yourself to sleep. Neighing ninety neighs. Nuances. Great. Roadworks of cars are annoying but road blocks of ant people are incessantly irritating. Mad circumference of a stomping stomach in a suit. Parading. Like a pin. Ok then. Right what is said is said and what is done is done. And that is it. And further to my duties in this house I will have further such meetings later today with 90 golf balls, a lime and lemon cordial, a fruit bowl, and a misty mash. Hahaha the legs on a keyboard are dancing. Hahaha string strap speaking xxxxxx nominative Z Z Z and deliberations deemed dramatic Z
Form:
First Steps Funerals and Nana's Hands
By Evelyn Aimarie
2 days after my Nana's funeral
My oldest son took his first steps.
She was my grandmother on my father's side, but more like a mother to me.
Palms textured like warm overwashed cotton sheets- thin but comfortable, and clothes line, spring sunshine soft.
Pastel blue intricate
barely visible veins whispered life through skin undertoned with shades of the palest tea stains and ochre,
Broken in tone only by the occasional bruise she swore she couldn't remember where she got.
Tendons like flower roots danced like the underworkings of piano keys when she wiggled her fingers.
She always wore a ring with the birthstones of all of her grandchildren on it.
There was a time before my son.
Before my Nanas hands were so tired, so delicately tired and weighted by their form from generations of holding hands
Holding babies
Holding house holds together.
Holding my heart as it strummed for a mother and she tuned into the song, danced the role beautifully and with ease.
Wore it like a cloak and draped it around my shoulders in support when I brought my son home from the hospital
As she proudly exclaimed how beautiful he was with tears in her eyes.
The time before, when I was small,
I would reach for those... less tired.. more supple hands.
With the ring tighter on the finger to the point we once had to use dish soap and string and the sheer force of panic to remove it. When the skin was not as rubbed of its youth. There was a time when I reached for her hands, too, for balance.
2 days after my Nanas funeral, the same day I inherited her ring with the birthstones of all of her grandchildren on it
The first day I had it on my finger
My oldest son took his first steps into MY outstretched hands.
I suppose, I'm keeping her cloak warm.
I suppose, I miss her.
I suppose, my Nana's hands were on my shoulders behind me that day.
2 days after my Nana's funeral,
My oldest son took his first steps
Form:
Gentoo Adelie one must wish to know.
One must want to see the sights
the ages of unseen areas.
There for al men to Marvel
the Creation only seen
by God.
Here I present to you
from the angular spectrum of loght
might the eyes find appealling
The potentail to reveal what
time and nature conseals
the surface which averages
are unknown. Might the Powers of
eager, willingness , find these labors
hope to explore and reveal.
Cimmeria Boralis
Isidis Vastitas
might these sights be seen.
Frasch the sulfer
vantage mankind
sift the sands
vantage humankind
A grous and a Fox
two roosters in a
grape vinyard
when a couple of cuddling phesants
kissing behind a Mosatel vine
where spotted.
The fox came closest to the Grouse
and made chase
the biggest rooster
saw them coming.
and stepped a side
thinking on his feet
when the running Grouse
came near he stuck his foot out
and trip him
The Grouse tumbled and flow into
the bushes
and the fox lost sight of him.
By then the farmer here heard
the ruckus in his vinyard
and came out to see what was going on
The kissing phesants never stopping what they were doing
just raised thereings and pointed
there becks to where
the fox was
The fox tired from pursuit
saw a fountain in the
beautifully decorated vinyard
and
began sipping the waters from
it
the farmer took to his bow and arrow
and pointed.
Wham! the fox
fell over.
Then the grouse stuck out his
head from the bushes where he
was hiding and
the farmer noticed him.
Again the farmer raised and pointed his
bow and arrow.
Pling! the string strummed and the arrow flow.
Wham! the arrow again hit the fox.
The Grouse flew to the farmer and perked
upon his shoulder
and asked the farmer
since the fox is through
and the rooster now is my Hero
I guess now the other one
wants to consimate to make this thing
a real story:
I'm all for that Misister!
encounter on pier 39
she sat inaudibly alone on pier thirty-nine
watching colorful sail boats go lazily by
i didn’t know her name but she was a friend of mine
and it hurt so badly to see her cry
with my guitar in my left hand and wishes in my right
i approached her quietly, careful not to intrude
the waters were darker than the moonless night
and i spoke softly to avoid being abruptly rude
“may I play a simple song for you?”
i asked, carefully watching her beautiful blue eyes
“i haven’t written it yet so we’ll see how i do.”
and with that she started to softly cry.
“i wanted to jump into the water tonight.”
she confessed when i started to strum
i said, “i could tell your darkness had swallowed the light
i suppose your desperation told me to come.”
i laid my pride down and strummed out a song
a simple story just to say i understood
and that however she felt things had gone so wrong
somehow she could still find some good
my soul has throbbed like fire in the dark of night
crunched and crushed like flattened trash in the street
like a thin shelter from wind, covering my fright
while tearing up pieces to cover my feet
so i know your broken heart, my friend
i’ve seen you through the eyes of a broken old man
so please walk away ‘cause I know you can.”
and with those words i took her outstretched hand.
i never saw her again after that memorable night
but the song was etched forever in my heart
and somehow it seemed we soared to new heights
and with the freedom of our song found a new start
i still avoid the choppy waters of pier thirty-nine
and find I must avoid the beautiful golden gate
yet i wonder what became of this lonely friend
who sat alone one night quietly tempting fate
tolbert