Long Studio Poems

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


Premium Member The Mouth of the South, Jerry Clower, 1926-1998

A fertilizer salesman from the South
became a famous comic years ago.
When he was young, he made no detailed plans
to rise to wealth and fame. How could he know
he’d someday make the nation laugh and clap?

His love of others and desire to make
them smile with homespun tales came naturally.	
His job would be the catalyst to take
him from the stores where he had shared a wealth	
of stories to the stage and studio.
Then all could hear of agile John, who climbed
high in a tree to force a coon—or so
he thought—to leave its branch, but soon he yelled,
“Hey! Shoot this thang!” That angry “coon” turned out
to be a lynx. One story of a meal
tells how old Uncle Versey’s pain-mad shout
ripped through the stormy night. When lights were off,
he’d tried to grab some chicken--the last piece!—
resulting in five forks in Versey’s hand.
The struggle for the morsel then did cease. 

His scores of stories are still popular,
but to his legacy, there’s so much more.
This Christian entertainer’s Ain’t God Good
describes Depression-era life before
the world knew who he was. He also tells
of his salvation, serving Christ, his years
in college, and the military life. 

Each story—real or fictional--endears            
his memory to us. Some also will
recall that, for a quarter-century,
this robust comic powerhouse performed
for scores of fans at the Grand Ole Opry.

Lord, send more Jerry Clowers. Let them prove
that laughs are like the rays from Your bright sun,
that we should spread Your light to all around,
that living for You daily can be FUN.




August 28, 2020
entered in the Living It Up for Laughter Contest       Placed 2nd
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Form: Rhyme


Studio

I'd worked on a canvas for hours
Wishing I had van Gogh's powers
to blend shades of floral bowers
Painting flowers     painting flowers

I rearranged them in a vase
on a table cloth fringed in lace
and saw the mess in my loft space
"Look at this place!   Look at this place!"

Splotches of blue, yellow and green
covered the floor across the scene
reds, pinks, and all hues in between
I have to clean!         I have to clean!

I found a can of turpentine
and soaked my brushes in a stein
The scent stronger than oil of pine
I must recline          I must recline




April 9, 2021
Monotetra Form
art
Form: Rhyme

The Acting Lark

The acting lark 
Since I was not going to be a George Ramsay of cooking
I decided to become an actor, paid my money and went
to the relevant studio, which situated in an old building
in Liverpool.
Up a rickety floor that had a lift conductor for a reason
that escaped me since he stood the and I had to press
the button for the third floor.
The hallway into the centre of learning was lined with
former actors I didn´t know.
The lessons began.
My teacher was a beautiful woman with a magnificent voice
she taught me to speak clearer, louder and confidently.
When the theatre in Chester needed an actor in minor, I applied
but was turned down.
I didn´t mind as I had lost interest in this artform pretending
to be someone else.
My next step was to learn public speaking, this I failed since
there were more than five people in the room, and I fainted.
© Jan Hansen  Create an image from this poem.

True Colours

I wrote this 2019 in the studio. I wrote this feeling the sense awareness that people around me were always attached to something and this is how the words came out. I really do hope in the future I will have these recorded into a project that connects with you.

____________________________

I remember once
walked into a room
Have you ever felt like everyone
was just talking about you?

I had to remove myself
to find my solitude

Some people are uncomfortable
with themselves
bored with themselves
There`s boredom in their spirits

How can you  be the purpose 
of creation and not feel it

We breathe breaths that we don`t believe in
I guess true color's come in their seasons

{XM}

Zul-Qarnain these days as a patsy in Babylon

 Tim Horton, Tim Janis
Kofi Annan, In a scaffold that knots a shoeless
You are mincing me on a cutting board, these days
In pounds per pounding heart , with knives and bleesed hone
You were a father's lump and a mother's grace
And slowly in your ladder you learned to term these as art 
Not those in Those Winter Sundays.

What did you do with that wooden frame?
Did you find the tree in ancestry?
In a writer's studio

Yes even without an autobiography
Surname, on a Harlem street, for one , Lucy Heo?

She is on learner's permit
Dreaming in off white in a bloodshed
That paid housekeeping in Ramses Two.

For a resume in pre-positioning Curator
Which rub will call prophecies of Moses through optical fiber
In Tele-communication. 

For an analog togetherness, long gone, scare-crow , coo!
to exhibit digital exit, incognito, too.
art
Form: Epic


Life of a No-Name Extra

To glorify the leading star he obits the big named performer
with blank face in shabby clothing and for his part is so minute
it doesn’t matter whether he exists or not.

Although, he falls under the sword with gushing blood,
killed by a single gun shot without a word, or dies 
by a thrusting spear with a short groan, no one cares 
to cry for his tragic death, because he has no name, no tomb.

A day of extra’s life is to learn how to wait and to survive 
through one day at a time.  He roams around the studio patiently 
for his given day and, while roaming around the empty studio
he becomes a dim shadow under the darkening sky, 

and when the sky getting darker and darker he follows the sets 
with a moon, with the stars, to the location where the scenery 
that is to shot and glorify the big name, as the truckloads that 
move along in a long formed line.

If you spend a day in Hades, it will shorten a day of given life.  
For death is proof of the contrary to the living, and waiting game 
is the part of extra’s life, though the life seemed to be worthless, and therefore, no cast of a play is given for his sake, the extra, the leftover life, also is the existing being until he falls under the sword, killed from a single bullet, trusted to die by a spear.
© Su Ben  Create an image from this poem.

Broke it, You Buy it a Song

[Studio Quality]
[Female vocals]
[Clean Production]

[verse]
Didn't you hear?

If you broke it you buy it

That is also true of your hearts desires
if you buy into your pain
well that is just insane

and its a way to live a life half alive

[verse]
We all start fresh in life with no wrinkles
Life provides all the kinks and the turns
and before you know it, the bends and the twists
turn you inside out and you wrestle with the burn and inner demons

[Verse]
Life has a way of teaching you yo
And its not always fun as you go
Some lessons are subtle you see 
and some bite on your butt

and learn them the first time
or you will repeat that fuss

Each building block is a step to the next
It takes all of you to not get in your own way
you can't just follow your heart or your head you see

those each separate will get you in trouble eventually

[Chorus]
Coulda shoulda woulda
that just plays in your head
the things that war inside of you

the insteads... 

Coulda shoulda woulda
your head, heart and body are on a collide

and you hope to make the turmoil subside


So one of them wins, your head it may rule
or you run with your heart and feel like a fool
your body takes point and you wake up unfullfilled

all of that for a temporary thrill!

[Instrumental]

[break]

[Verse]
You do have to get up when you are set back
on this your life it depends
no one gets to get past that, get up

Even when it emotionally rends

[verse]
So walk don't run through life
Take on the things you want with pride
Face every opportunity with the zeal 
and be genuine and totally real!

And give it your all, cause thats what it takes.

(all in relates)

(Coulda shoulda woulda)
(head, heart and body it takes)

Give it your all, 
keep your eyes on the ball,
don't let yourself down in the end

don't let yourself down in the end

(don't let yourself down in the end)

don't you dare just pretend!

(don't let yourself down in the end)

(don't let yourself down)


[guitar outro]
Form: Lyric

You Don't

You don't need to be present in a church or subscribe to religion to be connected to more 

You don't need to be receiving a pay check or income from an physical organisation or other individual to be working or to have purpose 

You don't need to be an enrolled Dancer in a studio, team and culture to be a Dancer 

You don't need to have paid mentors, because some mentor has a paid mentor and has told you not to use your intuition and to just be inspired. 

You don't need to be in a meditative state or do psychedelics to see more than this plane. 

You don't need to follow trends when your God and your intuition is leading you to set one. 

You don't need to be seen or validated by others in order to be great. 

Greatness lies within... 

And that's where the real challenge is. 

Is your greatness self serving, inflating and servicing? 

Or is it a vessel to help others understand theirs. 

Who do you do you for? 

Can you be quiet, listen and be directed in your most quiet, darkest and blind state. 

Close your eyes and listen.

Premium Member thuh implicative click bloom click

.
                                                  such it wuz
                                                     uv yore
                                                      alright
                                                  yest'er year
                                                     in       studio
                                                       mine
                                                      office
                                                     shanty
                                                      cabin
                                               click      click
                                                      click
                                                     boom (i           bloom'd)
                                                                   meant
                                                    mhmm
                                                  click click
                                            boom        ooops
                                                     boom
                                                   bloom'd
                                                   hern minim
                                                               toxic
                                                                   lily
Form: Epyllion

Premium Member The Poet's Pluck - Christina Rossetti

The Poet’s Pluck – Christina Rossetti

     In MY DREAM I see A PORTRAIT
     And REMEMBER a girl I used to know,
     SHE SAT AND SANG a loving song
     Of a boy from Oh, so long ago.

      In DREAM LAND she seems ALOOF
     As if THE WORLD were far away,
     But the song she sings I know so well,
     It is the song we learned to play.

     IN AN ARTISTS STUDIO I hear that song
     That we sang for a year or so
     And A PORTRAIT still lives in MY DREAM
     Though we sang Oh, so long ago.

    08/02/17
Form: Quatrain

Get a Premium Membership
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a Premium Membership.
Book: Diverse Voices: The Poetry of Human Rights and the Pursuit of Peace