Long Symphony Poems
Long Symphony Poems. Below are the most popular long Symphony by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Symphony poems by poem length and keyword.
You are the fresh pink rosebud when it blooms.
A creek murmurs as it passes past smooth rocks.
such as the hive bees' jig if they're full of perfume.
Curlicues on a vine look like your eyelash locks.
Red-winged birds have wings on their plumes.
Your laugh sounds like waves on a pond surface.
A cat's purr is as humming in your favorite size.
Coral sunsets over calm seas have a clear purpose.
As darkness falls, I gently kiss your closed eyes.
In the pit of hell, where there is no extra service,
In my empyreal den, I can feel your company.
"Amore mio," my creativity brings you to life.
When I surfed the web, I kept you in mind, honey.
I utter a sonnet, thrilled that you ease my strife.
Your delightful glance outweighs a pity symphony.
Flames jolted her body, indicating victory.
As the party became louder, she felt in charge.
Cheers and laughter could be heard from a mystery.
Rushing over farms and hills, yelling in the barge.
Attempting to stop her would have been history.
She smiles happily as the light caresses her skin.
She could hear the murmuring of the spirits at home.
A delightful, terrifying indifference swirled and spin.
She needed to relax in the halcyon springs to come.
She was almost there, nearing the valley's light therein
Written: February 12, 2023
This is it
the last trumpeting and drumbeat
once loud, boisterous,
beating anticipation at the open gate,
greetings to the world, brilliant, powerful, stately,
intense, a spiritual singularity victorious
accompanied by the drum rolls
a life well-loved and lived'
a thundering barrage, resonating roar
time exhausted, expired
deliberate and steady beats,
last pulsations in the universe,
the stars and moon dancing
to a fading out,
the dream over, complete,
played by the orchestral;
the symphony in one last tango
a quavered upbeat echoing
spinning, whirling, twirling with memories
content, satisfied, without the need of control,
images and visions lost in time
from past to the ever-present now
simple harmonic call without words,
without breath looking back with no regrets;
my final goodbye.
A need to paint with all the colours of the wind,
For you over a hundred times, yet time and time again.
While the city lights shimmer like a thousand diamonds in the night,
This scene on my canvas is all what I want to unveil tonight.
Watching the neon signs flicker and glow, painting the city with vibrant lights.
Streets adorned with city lights, creating an urban symphony.
While the lights illuminate the bustling streets, guiding the way for night wanderers.
The darkness falls, the city ignites, revealing a vibrant nocturnal world.
The city lights create a sense of wonder, captivating both residents and visitors alike.
Yet you and me still ponder upon the depths of the ocean greater or the dreams of the city tonight.
In a space that should hum with focus,
Where thoughts flow like ink on paper,
I walk the halls, and what do I hear?
The clatter of egos—loud, brash,
A symphony of insecurity,
Each voice a drum pounding louder,
Drowning out the quiet rhythm of real productivity.
Oh, the harshness of noise!
Your chatter like chainsaws,
Hacking away the sweet silence,
The sanctuary where ideas bloom.
Conversations compete like wild animals,
Roaring for attention,
But who’s listening?
Who's doing it?
I can’t hear my thoughts,
Lost beneath the weight of your bravado,
Your anecdotes, your grand proclamations,
About deadlines, met and spreadsheets conquered,
But all I see is the façade,
The show of work,
Not the act of working.
It’s an orchestra of distraction,
A cacophony of competition,
Where silence is a crime,
And whispers are for the weak.
But listen!
True strength speaks softly,
In the space between breaths,
In the echo of contemplation.
But here you are,
Standing tall, voice raised,
As if volume equates to value
As if the loudest in the room
It is the most productive.
It’s a mask you wear,
But I see behind it—
Just shadows, just noise,
Just the harshness of insecurities masked as power.
We chase the clock,
Tapping away, thinking,
We’re winning some races,
But it's not a marathon,
It’s a serenade,
A melody of purpose,
And you’re just playing the wrong tune.
So, let’s pause.
Lower the volume,
Tune down the tumult,
And Let the silence reign
In this kingdom of commerce.
Let whispers be the wings of ideas,
Let the quiet be our battle cry,
For in the stillness, we create,
In the calm, we conquer—
Let’s reclaim the space
From the harshness of noise.
Let’s work with purpose,
Let’s make a change—
Because the loudest voice
It doesn't always win,
Sometimes it’s the softest,
The most profound,
That ignites the fire
Of true creation.
On this typical Sunday morning,
alone in his room,
he smells his favorite breakfast being prepared,
He is almost overwhelmed by the barrage of
fragrances wafting from two teenage daughters' rooms.
The loving tug at his heart is quickly overwhelmed by
his constant companions--
sadness, darkness, and self-pity.
The sounds of morning fill the house~~
water running,
bacon sizzling, eggs being cracked on the side of a bowl,
bathroom squabbles,
a TV preacher, coffee gurgling
into the pot, his wife humming "Amazing Grace."
Once like a symphony to him,
these sounds are now intrusions
that create a grinding dissonance,
an excuse to withdraw even deeper into himself.
A gentle, cool breeze touches his face,
proof of a just-opened window.
A soft pat on the back startles him.
"Breakfast, Dear--all your favorites!"
"I know. Could you put me up a plate? Thanks."
"Go with us, please."
"Maybe next time," he lies.
They're gone. Now his Sunday-morning service
begins. After a brief groping, he seizes the hidden bottle,
a substitute for the Word and faith for a
bitter, angry man long ago plunged
by a devastating freak accident
into the terror of permanent darkness.
The wall, impenetrable for family and friends,
soon dissolves into a warm, bubbly puddle.
When the family returns,
they will find a temporarily happy man.
Once again
they will cry and pray in another room.
September 18, 2017, entered in Russell Sivey's In the Dark Contest
March 3, 2018, entered in Laura Loo's Free Verse on Sadness Contest
CREAT LIFE
Create life by
making introvert interactive,
giving boost to indolent inactive,
attributing enthusiasm to passive.
Great time will fly.
Cheer up each,
lone, without hope or distressed,
deprived, aloof or depressed,
pessimistic, strained or stressed.
Life is rich.
Life is graceful
Life to love, life to care
Life to enjoy, life to share,
Life to nurture, life to bear.
Life is calm and cool.
Life is music
to be sung in chorus
with all around us
joyous, vivacious.
Symphony: Unique.
05/15/16
Edited on 06/16/20
Come walk with me
in this wind littered park,
please don't kick the skimpy rose bushes,
God is everywhere watching,
lipreading your foul words.
We can be romantically attached
to our thoughts,
share, collaborate,
speak each other's words before
we know we have.
Pond life chokes upon its own thriving.
Savage are the dunking ducks
who write nothing worthless
and yet that 'nothing'
is ignored by every city gent
whoever pissed against a tree.
Sit upon this graffitied bench,
rest your disappointment
under this scabrous oak.
There is beauty here
research yourself
there is poetry at your feet,
a hurdy-gurdy symphony
in the slimy fungus rings.
If we rest long enough
our red fanged hearts
may eat themselves.
The scrawny daffodil's
burst into prayer.
Please don't grunt so loudly,
my own windbreaking flatulence
is a natural response to your ugliness.
Our sincere attempt at urban poetry
has unearthed the buried bones
of a divine muse,
and look,
pure white doves are carrying them away!
In the city dump, God assists the raccoons
with His large, clawed paws.
Carefree in leisure time, one blasé tourist,
almost happy, I once had collected a complicated stone;
after the sunny hours had ended and last opportunity
for keepsakes began.
In my hand the stone had kept all of its mouths sewn shut,
holding its amalgamated story, and likewise in the car,
on the plane, through US Customs where it was not
in the least suspected.
A thumbnail identity I now should guess at, marking an old date,
and fixing it to, with reasonable estimate, a map location:
Plot No. 243, East end of the island, slave sugar plantation,
the stone from the corner of a ruined windmill stair—
broken free by my criminal hand, having liberated a vine.
The stone looked like a bleached out mini-monolith, square-rectangular,
able to be stood on end, leaning back and swollen at its center
like a pulled cork.
What could have moved this sequestered world to opening?
That was not for me to discover, except what came on Christmas Day,
two days after my returning.
Slave watercourses, the sight of innumerable Dutch ships,
ballasted with human flesh and hewn rock for sugar works buildings.
The drop at arms swish of the Driver’s bullwhip.
Flecks of spirit splayed on vegetation.
A mongrel dog barked beyond the windless wall of sugarcane
in centipede and mosquito heat.
Seaside, beautiful seaside impressions;
distant coral light shadows, etched deep azure;
snowy colored breakers that pencil-marked the sea.
The staid, vibrant, mocking power
of visual symphony backdrop.
So little of aid for the slaves, but for those dangerous secrets,
unhoused in the fallen coolness of the night:
demonstratively crystalline heaven of stars;
a ragged moon, clouds scudding eastward toward Africa
before freshwater rainsqualls came. And there
Orion’s Belt, mid-sky, illustrious bright, with its three
centering star points in rational line, as if
Hope could have flung such a rope anchor onto Life
engendering sanctified resistance.
Christmas morning, 5 a.m.
I had awakened from a stuck place, shapeless and dark,
half in dreaming and half in knowing I was in no dream.
I was sobbing, yet strangely, because there were no tears.
I had only put the stone inside my pajama top onto my heart.
Yo poets, preachers, and prophets,
Here this game, cause there are two prophets,
That inspire me, to keep raging against machines of injustice,
One white, one black, one academic, the other spits music,
Two preachers, two prophets of corporate imagination,
Wyclef Jean, takin’ grunge gurus, hindu songbirds, Christian taggas, and
muslim daggas,
Ragin’ war on hatred, one world, one groove, soothin’ with psalms, I mean
balms of righteous guidance,
And then there’s timothy, like biblical prophecy, he’s a young monster of
academic precision,
And on the side, he writes rhymes in secret,
And though kind of agnostic, he walks with God, cause he trusts the universe,
To help him write poems and papers,
But yo, suffering found him, in the boat, he hit the storm,
Dark forms of stress, they came to test him,
But he never lost faith, like job, he drove to daydreams of new beginnings,
Cause yo, tenure don’t define us, and neither does ASQ,
We few, who see more, can take business to new levels,
Through honest inquiry, regarding questions of justice, yo hear me bust this,
He is unstoppable, and if he simply holds on,
Like Wyclef Jean and the fugees, like Carnival Volume II,
He’ll create a symphony, that defines a hold new way of seeing,
Yo I’m seathing, believin’ in his power,
This young timothy, let no one despise his youth,
He spits truth,
And soon, he’ll hit breakthrough,
Publishin’ books, papers, and straight new frameworks,
He’ll show us how the game works,
Cause though perhaps agnostic, my God is with him, like Yoda and skywalker,
He’s gonna convert vada, through the wisdom of the Savior,
Yo avatars, coming up and going down, I’m glad I found a scholar,
Who’s got the groove, to loose his mind to find God’s rhythmic answers,
To cancers of the soul and body too,
Yo hold on, cause two poets, one black, one white,
About to take flight, and that’s real!
the sun begins to melt
from flaxen to canary~
from sangria to crimson
and blends into a warm kaleidoscope
that veils the serenity
in auburn delight
my heart hails to the prelude of
Les Colombes Du that fills the twilight air
as doves of Tenere take their flight
to search the soaring symphony
of a hundred angels humming
the melody of my heart