Long Theater Poems
Long Theater Poems. Below are the most popular long Theater by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Theater poems by poem length and keyword.
The wind whispers secrets, a rustling refrain,
Of falling leaves, a colorful, swirling train.
A crisp, cool air, a touch of frost's embrace,
Autumn's arrival with a happy face.
The golden hues, the browns, the reds so bright,
A canvas painted by the sun's warm light.
The trees stand proud, their branches bare and bold,
A symphony of whispers, stories untold.
The squirrels scamper, gathering nuts galore,
For winter's coming, and they're ready for more.
The crows caw loudly, a raucous, merry sound,
As nature's theater, with vibrant hues, abound.
So let us laugh and revel in this time,
When autumn's whispers paint a happy rhyme.
8/24/2024
Whispers of Autumn poetry contest
Sponsored by John Lawless
My dear ones, years and accounts have passed since we spoke about the New Man, "Le Horla."
From the midpoint of the Reset cycle, it is known to emerge from the mix of slaves and technology.
Rudolf Steiner knew, the beginning of vaccination, non-foods prepared in the shadows of the times.
The control of the masses through technocracy, a vision of the 1900s when the world was slowly transforming.
Under the influence of drugs, Hitler saw prophetic nightmares, screaming in fear before "Le Horla,"
A fearless and cruel monster, a presence deeply haunting the collective social subconscious.
Poe, in 1840, sensed that autistic presence in crowds frightened by the mysterious inexplicable,
And Bulwer-Lytton, through "The Coming Race," showed us the way to a future full of uncertainties.
I merely connected the threads, for geniuses often reveal the hidden truth in the folds of time.
We lament the lack of empathy, the mimed emotional life in public space, a theater of our days.
"Le Horla" spreads, USR, a symbol of technocratic times, an experiment of the present.
A nano-metallic transhumanist nervous system, beyond which only Zombies can survive.
Zombies, USR members integrated into the 5G network, coordinated by towers watching from the shadows,
Soldiers of an unchosen destiny, in a world led by the deepest and darkest shadows.
Remember the '50s, when the danger wasn't in vaccines but in the hunger and fear that reigned,
Today, technological terror and transhumanists bring us times of darkness and fragments of hope.
The worst satanists lead, and strategic starvation is just the beginning of a story.
Under the command of 5G, group intelligence manifests like drones drawing messages in the sky.
A trans 5G USR member becomes an appendage of the Beast, an eye on the ground for its unrest.
And yet, in this nightmare world, there is still a chance, a thread of light in the dense darkness.
Can you make a friend— like a craft project?
I know, I hear this parental voice, “just be yourself.”
All of my classes this semester will be in one building, but I’m a control freak, I wanted to walk my schedule, go class to class, like I will on my first day. I have a locker too—this is so high school—but I wanted to find it, try the combination and plan what I’ll carry. I have questions too, like how’s the wi-fi, are there charging outlets, and where can I get coffee?
Orientation is Tuesday—but who can wait until Tuesday? Classes start Wednesday. I’d never sleep this weekend with so many questions. I’m already having dreams where I’m lost, late and embarrassed.
So there I was, this morning, dressed for class with my green messenger bag—doing it—schedule in hand. I went into a small auditorium with cushioned, crimson, theater seating—where my first class will be—and there’s this other girl, dressed for class, schedule in hand.
We were like twins, except she’s tall and black and I’m not. Right off she commanded me, handing me her phone, no preamble, no “How do you do,” to “Take my picture.”
Of course, I obeyed, I’m not from outer space. I burst 50 quick frames, as she slightly varied her pose and she did likewise for me.
Her name is Chella and she graduated from Yale last week too, with a ‘Bachelor of Science in Global Affairs.’ I think I saw her on campus once or twice but our paths had never directly crossed.
“But IS 'Global Affairs' a science degree?” I asked skeptically.
“Probably not,” she answered, “but some of us can live with ambiguity.”
Her first direct, commanding phrase limns her personality perfectly.
Yeah, we hit it right off.
.
.
Songs for this:
Cruel To Be Kind by Letters to Cleo
Perfect Day by Povo
Are You Trying to Be Funny? by Everything But the Girl
ON THE FORECOURT OF THE STARS
Mama Mia! What a voice!
Her depth of emotion carries the show.
Cast of friends slow burn the audience.
Shimmy of stars with sensual overtures.
Mama Mia! My eyes fill with tears.
My granddaughter’s resonance reaches the rafters.
In overalls, flashy jumper, robe, and evening gown.
Inevitabilis, her handprints and footprints
on the forecourt of the stars.
Theater in her veins! Mama Mia! What passion!
She hits the high notes, with dolorous countenance.
Her range displayed through high school years:
comical timing in Mean Girls & Hairspray.
Bit parts were jumping stones. Her theater group
allowed her one performance, as The Wardrobe,
singing opera in Beauty and the Beast. On sides,
older performers, The Candlestick and Mrs. Potts,
gave her adulating applause.
Mama Mia! Grandparents are proud!
Hush, the world will never know the mystery hidden in silences,
Paper bird feathers, drifting like the specters of unspoken dreams,
From my heart, scattering like stardust on angel wings,
Grains of dreams carried by infinity, suspended in the universe of an unwary thought.
Neither the reddish breeze of autumn, caressing the leaves like a messenger of sacred shadows,
Nor the melancholic rain enveloping our souls in mantles of endless longing,
Cups of dreams and wishes, scattering like petals in the ocean of destiny,
As I, like a wandering wind, lose myself among the falling leaves like dreaming tombs.
And no star in the opal sky, will ever know how its gaze captivates me,
How it embraces me in its blinding blue, like a wave crashing on the shores of solitude,
In cold and painful velvet, touching my heart like a shadow's caress,
In opulent silver masks, playing their roles in the theater of the night.
How I lost my heart, on an undiscovered realm, hidden under the cosmic blanket,
I gathered in my palms your poison, like an elixir of forgetfulness,
And I savored you slowly, tearing the eardrums of my soul with sweet-bitter pain,
Now you are just a deep wound, shining like a falling star among shadows.
Hush, no one will know the story woven in golden sunsets,
With how much love you, my specter, enchanted me among bleeding roses,
Seduced me in secret gardens, under the shadows of solitary trees.
Not even you know how profoundly I loved you, in the silent evening of farewell.
Moments passed like the waves of an ocean of suspended dreams,
We, eternal prisoners of a love buried in twilight,
Danced in the cold halls of the castle of oblivion, under the gaze of the pale moon,
Stars of old sighs, silent witnesses of our lost longing.
The paper bird, bearer of our hidden messages,
Flies into infinity, carrying with it the echoes of a mystic love,
We, eternal travelers through the lands of memory, remain chained by unfulfilled desires,
Your poison is now the source of melancholy, a dance of strange shadows and lights.
Hush, let's stay silent, the world doesn't need to know our secret trill,
Our love was a melancholic waltz on the edge of eternity,
An enchanted painting, painted in shades of silver and tears,
On the canvas of a life that knew how to love and to lose in a harmony of stars and dreams.
I watched as the city burned in flames, a phoenix consuming its wings in flight,
the streets transforming into rivers of fire, spirits freed from the cage of time,
politicians arrive like sorcerers, claiming they can tame the wind with words,
proclaiming promises that dissipate, leaves of a season of forgetfulness,
their echo is a dried-up spring of hopes, a river of words that never waters anything,
nothing has changed under the smoky sky, nothing will change in this dance,
the poor are shadows trapped in the hourglass of time, unseen, unheard, in their silence,
unemployment is a storm that strikes mercilessly, at the windows of lost souls,
the homeless are travelers of a desert, an endless wasteland of ice,
politicians, dressed in golden robes, feast at the tables of foreign abundance,
it's a masquerade ball of illusions that never stops, a play of lights and shadows without end,
the masks change, but the faces remain the same, a theater silently playing its piece,
and I, a scribe of this nocturnal spectacle, weave my dreams into verses of stars,
hoping that from the ashes of the old story, a land will rise where words come to life,
and the shadows of poverty are swallowed by light, a light that gives them flesh and bone.
I have relinquished my stage;
content now to be a silent audience
watching myself.
I observe that garmented voice
as it feed words into digital fonts
watch it act-out in a dimly lit theater,
a small auditorium yet it reaches far.
Occasionally this jobbing actor
glances my way
suspecting he is being watched,
he may take a bow
in my general direction. or clear his throat,
as if apologizing for an under-rehearsed
performance. It’s just as well
he cannot see my face.
If I were not there to listen
who would be so understanding
or patient?
Metaphorically speaking,
who would sweep the stage, turn off the lights,
then write a play or plot for the next time
that voice needed to play its part?
You get to the movies
And find a good seat.
Perhaps you have purchased
Some popcorn to eat.
The lights start to dim
But there’s no satisfaction,
‘Cause now you will see
The first coming attraction.
There used to be two of them,
Possibly three;
But now there’s no telling
How many there’ll be.
I lost count at six
Though I’m sure there were more;
And unless you walk out,
They are hard to ignore.
I like these small snippets
And hate to complain.
When so many are shown, though,
They drive you insane.
So studio people,
I urge you – be smart:
When the theater lights dim,
Let the darn movie start!
My eleven year old son decided to steal my car.
He drove to the theater and sneaked in to watch.a movie that is rated R.
The film is about zombies who rise from the dead in a cemetery.
Now he has to sleep with a nightlight because it was so scary.
He has nightmares that make him scream every night.
He wets his bed and sucks his thumb because of fright.
His screams wake me every night, I'm tired of having to get out of bed.
If the brat watches another R rated movie, I'll slap him upside his head.
My eyes are red and puffy because I haven't slept in three weeks.
I'm tired of changing his sheets four times a night when he leaks.
My wife blames me and she hits me so hard that I see stars.
My life is in turmoil because of a damn movie that is rated R.
Bustling Tavern, din of thieves,
prattles sounds, like mini battles
of Sorcery, at mosaic of vomit tapestry.
Endowing all sorts in your bosom
like sins-full abacus beads.
You gather them by lamplight and promisery
of Nightlife, bejeweled deeds.
Your dangle of jewelry,
imagery into the back
of the mind.
Cleaving to your cleavage, in gilded-underbelly.
Whispered confessions, aspirations un-tamed,
at the heart of game, plays.
A maelstrom of activity brews,
where thieves and dreamers carafe their craft,
by firelight, booze, and cut-throat utensils,
for stirring the plot and tasting it's ooze.
A symphony of mirth and mischief,
lies, woven into each swirl of word.
A den of vices, a theater of souls,
where desires become exhumed
jewels, brightly interred.
Sorcery of charming, bracing,
where shadows dance in dusk,
efficacing with the flickering daylight
exuding allure, a beguiling musk,
facery painting, fishing for trust.
Binding patrons, captivated by the dire-light,
broths to salivate for spitting in its flame.
Bardic stories, each worth half a codler of truth,
confess their lies amidst the clinking of wine.
Tithes abetting their cover, to mask the grape-vine.
As hearts chase fleeting pleasures true,
where fantasies intertwine,
the weight of the world measured, momentarily
subdued in fermented promise of unsealed
magic in held balance of bottomless opportunity.
So, come, dear traveler, lose yourself,
in the spell of atmosphere.
In the spray of this sacred mace,
lift of skirt, skirting of honest wage.
Panning for adventurers,
planning under-sway of sunder's way.