Long Tenors Poems
Long Tenors Poems. Below are the most popular long Tenors by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tenors poems by poem length and keyword.
Altos and sopranos
Blend - songs
Are heard in the distance . .. . . . .. . .
bass and tenors sings songs of joy
Noises...(pleasant noises to be precise)
Musical noises increase in volume
Some people talk and sing at the same time
Some are having the time of their lives
Then...something breaks the innocence of a professional choir -
Bad language! I bet you didn't expect that, did you!?
People speak freely now
It's as if the teacher is saying, "Go ahead, class, and cuss all you want now!"
Very loud - the commotion is banging at my ear drums
My ears are sensitive to the noise
Yearning to hear songs instead of chit-chatters
I wanna hear music, not the latest gossips!
Songs and noises get my full attention in a good and bad way . . .
Just sayin'. Now, I'm hear payin' the price.
I'm obeyin'. Now, can I roll the dice?
In my black or orange voice, love blossoms,
Like in a film, among giraffes, in a world of dreams and thrills,
The death of giraffes becomes tender in the tenderness of feeling,
Women-tenors sing an eternal melody, knowing its secret.
The others, lost in the rhythm of meanings and shapes, find their way,
Making love in convulsions among giraffes, like dancers at dusk,
In the eyes of a serious child, the blue of immortality is reflected,
In craters, the wind flutters their ribbons, and regrets are silent.
We sleep on the ground, and the grass grows, covering our shadow,
Roosters sing in the crowd, and our bracelets shine,
At the pit stop, ecstatic hours are offered to us,
While evening burns fires near the ruins of our memories.
Lovers teach us the vulgar language of our enamored hearts,
In their fluid rotation, they spoke exciting and unleashed words,
On their land, we lived, we felt, we were lost in the breeze of love,
The dog tries to adapt, and the lamb wanders the streets, confused.
Runners with the knives of time describe distant times,
In alphabets without letters, the confusion of their descriptions entices us,
We stand with our soles over the oils of times, blind and frenetic,
We list the wonders of the century, from A to Z, in a poetic disorder.
An impatient messenger, my wet boat, searching for destinations,
An angry bird on the last tree, a wild relic in the sad landscape,
Under the pitch of the sun, we rest, seeking ameliorated feelings,
The shadows have remained behind us, beautiful shadows on shoreless water.
Pathetic words, slightly ajar, scratching on the shadows of the past,
Connections and indecency, in reconstructed plates, honor and integrity,
With love, we promise to find each other, in this dance of existence,
And in our pocket we keep memories, a key, and a corner of curtain.
When tuscan tunes of twilight,
cascade as clementine confetti,
She searches for secret silhouettes,
swirling to the symphony
of sunflower serenades.
In the midst of faded fields,
marigold memories crawl back,
refraining yesterday’s
tangerine dreams.
Swans glide in
sullen grace,
illustrating a saffron
backdrop from
sweet sighs of
fauna’s concerto.
Harmony of melodies
is the idyllic essence
of dulcet beginnings.
A plethora of
prewritten words
soar as passionate notes,
harvested through
hypnotic crescendos,
emanating amber toned scales,
whilst she sways below
apricot streaked skylines,
adorned in champagne
hued consonants,
synchronizing dandelion
desires,
fluttering beyond
darkness that floats,
as lyrical lines vibrate,
and ascend to
euphonious heights,
where bronze keys of
her mellifluous heart,
evolve from a tapestry
of twinkling tenors.
Her muse mimics
scentless petals.
There’s no wrong interval,
when performing in a world,
where rays of
honeyed glow drift,
veiling the rhythm,
between bleeding
dusk and dawn.
Changing chords remain
oblivious,
to the pulsating pain,
as her perfectly
manicured fingers lift.
The hunter’s moon
too refuses to see,
how her heart no
longer is made of flowers,
but nostalgic ferns
and leafless forests,
that twist and turn—
wilting away to
songs of sorrow.
But there’s a maestro
with a pristine prologue.
He understands her mind
blisters when colors tumble.
How her fragility has
been sleeping on
weathered pansies.
He guides her to
softly press the
porcelain frame of
piano keys,
playing the prelude
to a classical sonata,
lost in the maple waves
of wind-blown whispers.
Her oak leaf twirls and
sows duets
of sanguine tomorrows,
pitching lines within
veins rhymed in vain.
Birds of paradise croon
to orchestrated
hope and love,
while a palette of sounds
piercingly rise to unravel
a synopsis for healing.
The Love Song
I woke up early in a good mood, thinking of writing a love poem to my wife.
Looking on YouTube, I came across
“The three tenors” couldn`t resist their beautiful voices.
I was going to find “I believe in angels” by Abba, but first the famous tenors.
My wife woke up and told me to turn it off because she couldn't sleep.
I remembered Lorenzo Marcus, 1964. I was on a ship
unloading cargo destined for Rhodesia.
Everything has changed now, LM is now Maputo
And Rhodesia is Zimbabwe, and it was a good time
for a white person.
So I didn`t play the Abba song as the lyric is banal
And I was no longer in a loving mood
I gaze out my glass doors,
engrossed in
the clamorous cadence
of screeching stillness,
emitting electric tones
of love etched in stones,
and fervent flares of fireflies,
stolen from the riverbed of memories,
where songs we played on repeat~
to the moon and stars
weeping in darkness~
reverberate like redolent refrains…
And in this s i l e n c e,
I question every word unwritten,
as the essence of unspoken phases
mean everything
to the abandoned shadows,
searching for a purpose
amidst ephemeral threads~
of weariness we wear,
when white noise engulfs
serene, salty caves,
where nothing stays constant
but the garnet gravels,
glazed with smothered fears,
singing scars,
mirroring stained pearls,
resting in the heart
of cacophonous currents.
I’ve long known that
the pain
I breathe
is not heavier than the burden
you bear like a warrior,
armored with scales of strength.
Remember when gusts of grief
blurred the sparks flying
across your horizon?
I chose to walk
beneath the shivering skyline,
for I’ve tasted ivory tears
of the crescent,
felt the citrine warmth
drifting through dusky flickers,
as in your arms, every tornado
unfurls twinkling tenors of
turquoise tomorrows,
calming twisted tides,
ferrying lagoon lies, with lucid lullabies.
I’m still tied to the s i l k and l a c e
of the soaring lunar rays,
entwined in an emerald dream
carved with ethereal mists...
A saga,
eternally engraved
in the fated cusp of emptiness,
waiting for the rebirth of
entombed longings,
true love lingers like
a ghost of an ebony rose
in the graveyard
of buried promises...
When soft colors of
the amethyst twilight,
dance amongst shadows~
swirling through forlorn forests,
I count sparkling syllables of
pirouetting peridots,
looking for metered refrains
from the emerald empyrean,
while wondering,
what am I but a
speck of astral dust;
garnet silhouette of
desert orchid dusk,
hanging on thin threads
of lilac-laced lines,
seeking sanguine
streaks between
black and white realms,
composed with rhythmic reasons,
that reveal pristine pathways
to still wander,
like a soulful sojourner,
sleepwalking through pilgrims
perfumed with peace,
to attain eternal nirvana,
there, I’ll no longer
be a wingless bird,
but will soar like a golden eagle,
feathered in fragranced faith,
and porcelain-tailed promises.
And as the pink pearl moon
unveils its hyacinth halo,
I twirl to the tamarind tenors
of twinkling topaz,
that fall upon healing hills
thriving with buttercup bliss,
below funeral fogs,
where melanin phases of faces
lurk in sweltering silence,
stimulating my quill to release
pastel pigments of contentment,
like glowing galaxies of gratitude.
Yet, I am an unfinished poem,
completely incomplete,
comfortably rhyme-less,
misplaced in a melancholic
meadow of magnolia metaphors,
too vague for the eye
that sees not beyond
my sun-kissed skin.
While from ethereal verses,
scattered across
seraphic spheres, I strive,
wishing that phrases I weave
across midnight skies,
would calm the soundless storms
beneath lunar-pillowed oceans,
as this glistening ink on
the ceremonial canvas
of life and beyond,
longs to be the epitaph
that immortalizes my voice
amidst ashes and stones,
skeletons and bones,
there I’ll slumber with
light still flowing
through poetic veins,
amidst the
piercing pandemonium
and turmeric tranquility;
yin and yang of existence,
I am both, earth and water;
aura of intuitive seas~
and cathartic currents
mirroring the crestfallen crescent,
soaked in infinite luminescence
from aesthetic lanterns.
“When I am silent, I fall into the place where everything is music.”
Rumi
If life was a song,
what would be your refrain?
When instruments of fate performed
in a ballad of somber sorrows,
I floated like a ballet dancer
in an eclectic fashion.
My silent tongue had no melody,
before love sowed harmonic tones,
in a reverberating remedy of refreshing
rhythms soothing a tortured soul.
As my voice softened in a symphony
of violin strings and saxophone vibratos,
our bond composed a chorus of notes,
like satin feathers from hummingbirds
in soft clarinet choral chords,
only heard in an orchestra of a
velvet butterfly renaissance.
You always have my songs on repeat,
but I wonder if you will change the record?
Together we write lyrics,
sing verses as distant duets
with drumbeat dynamics.
Yet I am a metaphor of saffron rays
lost in the absence of lilac moonlight.
Everyday you disappear with dawn,
as morning whispers her blessings.
I'm left alone with birdsongs,
who join in with my colourless chorus -
echoing my angst of yearning to be free.
I wonder if you will remain a twilight sonata.
If you are the ebony to my ivory keys
in this crescendo of bohemian dreams,
why can't we be boundless as the sea?
This vinyl veil we call existence
is a composition of heartbeats
with heartstrings woven into
a vibrant bridge of emotions.
Sadly no pedestal can reach
lingering lullabies of the sky,
so we continue to cast hues
of golden heavenly harps,
before final tenors are heard.
If life was a song,
our refrain would be an acoustic
with steady beats, sometimes
with too much bass to air -
but we can control the volume.
Tempo will always change
like a decrescendo,
but we are the conductors
of our own musicality.
Not all serenades sounds the same -
no muse sings forever.
I am like an avalanche slithering in shivering angst,
free-falling into an abyss of an aching era,
where luminous lakes reflect pixelated regrets,
for time throws my canvas into splitting helplessness,
and mind plays tricks in aimless frequency,
framing toneless tenors within paralyzed psyche,
pushing and pulling ivory strings of my ebony heart.
Now I’m dwelling in the chaotic caves of a calculative carnivore,
unable to grasp the lunar light that envelopes forsaken fields,
while crooning caged memories, like a pensive nightingale,
pondering, would the moon ever untangle these starless thoughts?
Or was it written on the wailing walls of melancholic museums~
that I was meant to drown in dizzying darkness?
I’ll rest my pen in a glass casket of equations~
cloaking this crippled conscience from seeing beyond vague visions,
detached from kohl eyes, eager to steal my voice,
as I keep sinking in black and white polarity,
pausing curative prose in screeching silence.
Who's voice meatus
with a sweet tenors
tone
which words are sung
so lovely
so smooth and sweet
Nonet Musette?
Atonal Baroque?
Vivace Trill Trombone?
uh, you don't know
Rubato Tutti?
Meatus Tablature ?
sweet, sweet tone
do you have interest
in the clefts notes, huh?
does the whiskey from de Tablature
calm you want mi?
Sensual sounds of a Clap Happy crowd,
yes which sung is sung
that which is played is danced to
yet this is the Minuet Mezzo,
who's mask is perfection
and who's face shall be revealed
this very Minuet Mezzo!
Must the Bass Note keeper
make the Cleft Note Keeper
smile, for one then to hear
them together?
Article Seven B', from the Works of Hussy, copyrighted 1856, She Chopped the forest down to create the perfect Bassoon, she found fun in a Dogwood tree. She became angered when An artist used one of her Bassoons to serenade his new lover. When a fella in the crowd took her away from where the tomato's were she was heard saying, " he so stupid, darling: he so stupid!"
She tossed tomatoes at him when he Played " Must be Love" to his fiancé.
My way (edited)
the three famous tenors sang, MY-Way
the fat one died, and the two others
hates each other
never appear in public together
One looks like an aging matinee idol
the other
suffers from being mobbed at school, looks
scared, has nightmares, and often takes to tears
I still like Frank Sinatra's version looks
relaxed, sings with clear diction
like a man going home after a night in a bar
Alas, he is also dead
My- Way is about human hubris,
we think we are masters of our destiny
but we blow along
where the wind, like autumn, leaves on an asphalt
of fortune takes us.
Thinking back (can afford to)
I never got a thing
my way just as good, I could not handle winning
the highest price, it would make me feel absurd
Yet, I dance tango in Buenos Aires
54 years ago, the applause still rings,
in my ears