Long Tempo Poems
Long Tempo Poems. Below are the most popular long Tempo by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tempo poems by poem length and keyword.
The frolic boughs of trees tremble,
butterfly-latticed leaves flutter
in the trail of summer squall,
where the feisty forest plays with foliage.
Don’t make your mind
a sprawling forest of forlornness.
In descending dismal dusk,
with the flickering shadows of flora,
let it sprint and play.
The ballerina crests of waves roll,
with pearls on pitching breakers
under storm-splashed sky,
with tempest tempo the sea dances.
Don’t make your mind
a still sea of sheet glass.
On the surge of upwelling tides
of the tumultuous times,
let it float and dance.
Perched niche of nest crashes,
the scared chicks fly away,
after the midnight storm
the lonely bird soars in sapphire sky.
Don’t make life a homeless bird
of broken wings.
In the threshold of splintered times
from the ruins of wrecked hope,
let it rise and fly.
Quartz shine of sands makes mirage,
frail face of cactus hope crumples
in the cradle of dwindling dunes,
the wasteland wind sings in the oasis.
Don’t make your heart
a desiccated cauldron of desert.
The lilting lyric of emerald oasis
in blinding surge of sandstorm,
let it intone and sing.
Be true to yourself,
remain what you are meant to be.
The mind will play and dance
with the shadow of despair,
the deserted heart will sing
the song of ecstasy in sanguine oasis.
The wrecked life will rise
from the debris of distress,
if you are what you are.
A poem is more,
Than rhythm and rhyme.
The words must have balance,
With tempo and time.
Free Verse is like that,
The words have a blend,
That helps it to flow,
From beginning to end;
Sometimes like honey,
From a sweet honey tree,
Sometimes like a river,
As it flows to the sea;
But there's always a message,
Or a story that's told.
The words can be sweet,
Or compelling and bold.
A poet's an artist,
Painting pictures with words,
Bringing out music,
Your ears haven't heard;
A music that comes,
From down deep in your soul.
It makes one feel free,
It makes one feel whole.
To be able to write,
Words that reach out and touch,
Something special inside you,
And bringing out much,
Of the feelings inside you,
That we often hide;
Often revealing things,
So deep inside,
Even you did not know,
Were hiding in there;
But the words shine a light,
On beliefs and on cares;
So when you read a poem,
Don't just read words on paper.
You must feel them and taste them,
For words have a flavor.
Sometimes it's bitter,
And sometimes it's sweet;
But if you taste it,
It's always a treat;
For a poet shows more,
Than the stories he's told,
When he shows you his poems,
He shows you his soul.
Sunday dawns bright by Little Bay,
Rise from dream flights as sleepy stays.
Explore the space of rental spree,
Succinct fine pace Air BnB.
A homestay neat as tempo scales,
A lovely feat as trip avails.
Rain keeps things wet and off we go,
Car drives to set agenda flow.
Seek out the place: The Rock Sydney,
Old wharf, holds space: flea market spree.
Baby sleeps well in stroller ride,
Yes you can tell how outing strides.
Sit down to eat at the Pancakes:
Feast on fine feats with gourmet stakes.
Hungry mouths feast on lovely meals,
Dessert at least completes warm feel.
Then by and by, we walk around,
Savour fond highs upon these grounds.
Stop by coin stall to pick fine choice,
Souvenirs call to buy fond poise.
By artist stall: caricatures,
Stop to see all, such fine textures.
Stop to sit down by Munich brew house,
Beer sips, cheer clowns, with taste aroused.
Photo snapshots gain currency,
Laughter frames lot in funny spree.
And as we pass hot mull wine shouts,
Sip on warm glass as we stroll out.
Car ride home feels a carefree high,
A relaxed thrill flavours our sighs.
Old dwellings here tells a story,
Strange and odd cheer to feel and see.
Along the way sheer curious looks,
A pleasant play as flair now hooks.
Rest for a while till dusk descends,
Then seek to style what to attend.
Leon Enriquez
10 June 2018, Sunday
Sydney Tour Day Two/
(13 June 2018, ACT)
"When we are young, we try so hard for everything to be perfect, and when it isn’t we hurt." Quote by poet
A green world vast and beautiful awaits.
Invitations sent out; oh, such a thrill.
Preparing for a party all so still,
Fun feeling, so perfect that life creates.
They dance to the tempo of the music.
The table dressed in lace, a vase of blue
And yellow daisies, green ribbon weave through.
They impatiently wait, the clock does tick.
Welcome guest trickled in full of laughter.
Small chitchat, singing, games they did partake.
Small candles flicker on the pink, white cake.
Party was done, out they followed after.
The Devil spoke to me
with glee about what could be, promising, possibly,
he thumbed a drum of hearts pulsing
so I could see the drug of love
that I was missing,
a tempo true and rude impossible to elude
took my breath to the hue of blue,
reflections of calm joy and coy laughter,
refractions violent and violet floating vibrantly,
demons and angels in the flesh fighting forever for admiration
of a clever and aloof Trinity demanding dues,
he said may your body be dense and follow the sequence
of the spirits with you and never miss your cue,
I was awestruck, rendering enquiry futile
as prayers in perdition,
the clouds were copious, his face lucent & sizzling,
nefarious and dangerous these galleys and valleys are,
gamble the gambit of your soul's sanctity,
In the cold stillness consumed by a gray melody
an ancient perfume of rose blood
inflated my mind moonstruck,
a woman wise and disguised like a brilliant bandit
with persuasive eyes presented to me keys to her city,
the Daughter of my Devil was indellibly pretty and sitting lonely saying,
believe me through love and find liberty,
try your luck in rivers red
and in deep seas soliciting felicity,
pick a course and secure your rolling rope
to this feather never to pluck,
horse power and a flower dower,
love your Mother always in hallways dark,
then I was born once more -
J.A.B. 2003
CONCEPTS OF SYNESTHESIA
a visual rhythm
in heightened
musicality
with
naturalistic aspects
an elegant repetition
staggered
precise
cheery aural sound
colour
a complex
layered erudite
emotional &esoteric
upbeat tempo
essential to
this light allegory
to
evoke &express
the subjective
perspective
angled
on the
shimmering surfaces
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
My life’s apart
My toes I’d touch
But I could do
Without the rush
Midnight calls
Again Liquor’s saved my day
I see you not
I guess I’ve lost my way
Morning comes
My coffee’s stale
Let us
Check the mail
The door bell rings
T-shirt with no jeans
No class today
Wide awake
And I might not
Last the wait
This evenings cloud
Have shaken my doubts
I wonder
If I’ll ever make it out
Home from work
Dreary eyes
I lost my paintbrush
In my shirt
I’ve spoken soft
Worded cloth
But my quill
Has written dry
And to my dreams
My days
Might not say goodnight
Lost my wave
Astray in change
There’s no tempo in this trap
I am in dire need of a nap
"Her songs after brunch"
Track One, Side Two
by Odin Roark
It was time.
He knew it.
Like the cuts on so many of his albums,
As he passed through the “got your attention” of side one,
He’d often considered the “time to acknowledge some chancier-experiments” of side two.
Yeah…
Back then, even though he was only thirteen,
His father had been prophetic.
After all, how many fathers would think to give some philosophy
As a birthday gift.
But that was long ago,
And now it was time he finally rejected society’s pre-ordained lifetime marketing blitz on how to live
And allow the oft times sleeper-ideas to maybe awaken discovery.
Just like his career of producing long-playing albums
Creating the safer decisions for side one was only rewarding
When there was risk mixed in, usually on side two.
Today…
He was going to welcome the task of searching,
Go beyond the choices he had been living,
Gamble on the unexpected,
Travel down the multitier-senses
Where less familiar ideas
Might muster appreciation for more of a being’s tempo,
Rhythm,
And harmony.
When he thought about it…
How enticing that flip side of the so-called normal existence must be
Finding out what one’s unknown appreciations are all about
That discovery of a finger-snapping epiphany
Ready to produce surprises for the future.
Lest he forget
Passing time was becoming more precarious
Making life’s tomorrow a hit
Would require risk of another kind.
He recalled his father’s birthday message at thirteen,
“Embrace the unexpected,
Indulge the inordinate,
Find the willingness to try track one, side two of your days,
It’s waiting.”
Line of inquiry:
“joy, empathy, compassion
on an upward arc
an effervescence eternal
causes bliss ignition to start”
Hushed footsteps,
lilting notes play.
Brahams fills the air.
Hesitent breaths.
Anticipated waiting.
Eyes glint.
Thoughts unspoken.
Evocative emotion.
Tenderly touching.
Body trembling.
Aroused pleasure .
Inviting, beckoning kisses.
Tempestuous taste.
Tantalising whispers.
Sensual surges.
Beetoven's 5th livens the tempo.
A teasing pause,
as minds unite.
Firm pleasurable grasp.
Ecstasy within.
Rhythmic motion.
Pulsating pleasure.
Two become one.
Tumultuous need.
Intense thrust,
Ignited lust.
Passion pinnacles.
Exaltation.
Rapture.
Smoldering heat.
Pronounced breathing.
Heart beats pounding.
Melt into each others arms,
Eyes intimately meet,
Smiles,
exhausted contentment.
Exhaling calmly.
Eyes close.
Restful sleep.
In love.
When I was little, I enjoyed further more
soccer than today ... I liked it so much
every day I went to my uncle's house who
subscribed to a magazine.
There I tried to read Times magazine ... to find out
of the football teams ... but to my misfortune it was written
in English and at that time there was nothing like that
tongue ... i read, read and nothing...
i did not understand a thing...
but left with
the impression that football was a very
really important ... an entire magazine talking
of "teams" .... of football ... "
Ps. Time in Portuguese we pronounce team,
so time (team) means football team,
I didn't know it was about time (tempo))