Long Theatre Poems
Long Theatre Poems. Below are the most popular long Theatre by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Theatre poems by poem length and keyword.
I was on stage the other night,
Entertaining people and showing no sign of fright.
Me, the one who used to be so shy,
Looking them right in the eye,
Giving them their money's worth
And being paid back with their laughter and good cheer.
It felt good,
More than I knew it could,
But as a matter of fact
What I liked best,
Was working with such a great team,
On and off stage they were the best.
To be part of such a team is really quite a dream,
To have their confidence placed in you
Is even more supreme.
So here's to the cast,
May they be friends to the last.
Here's to the producer,
She couldn't have done better.
Here's to lighting and sound
With no fault to be found.
Here's to props who came up tops.
Here's to make-up who showed us how to face up.
Here's to to the stage manager who made it right on the night.
Here's to the prompt who kept us all in line.
Here's to the theatre which brought us all together.
TEN WORD CHALLENGE -2 – FOR CONTEST – (*Fiction)
1. Ambivalent 2. Arcane 3. Bittersweet 4. Luscious 5. Intercessor
6. Quiescent 7. Flamboyant 8. Immolation 9. Tactile 10. Quintessence
I had been *quiescent from dating for quite a while, consumed with my career. He suddenly stepped into my life with his *flamboyant personality. He was the *quintessence of actors on the stage at the theatre. Our connection plunged into the depth of passion with sweet, *luscious, moments after midnight. It was *arcane, risky, spontaneous activity. Then I became *ambivalent. I felt swallowed up by waves of uncertainty. Was this just a momentary rush? Would my heart be ripped out like the act of *immolation? It all seemed *tactile. What about my goals, my thoughts, my work, my life? Then a true friend became my *intercessor showing me this was nothing more than a superficial bond. It is all just a play like the ones he acts out on stage. So, the fun came to an end one *bittersweet rainy night.
Heidi Sands
*Placed 5th in Contest: Ten word Challenge -2
Sniffed out from foul twisted undergrowth
Encouragement in limelight smile and sundress
Laurel of long advance, deserved antidote
Floral flamboyant signatures his status success
Musk gland masculine, meaty arm amble
Arrogance infuses ropes knotted through chest
Dangerous forest flux of financial gamble
Endeavours decipher chat in distant continents
Retiring sub fifty showcases his ruthless pursuit
Intrepid hunter clutches lithe coloratura
Cherry augmented tiramasu allures taste astute
Hedonist director of theatre spectacular
13th December
Researching Rich
- Self Made Man -
They told you America is Heaven—
and you believed,
as though Paradise were sold on paper,
as though salvation were stamped in ink.
But I tell you: a lie repeated
is more dangerous than a sword.
The Green Card—
a talisman of the desperate,
a relic worshiped by those
who cannot see the rot beneath the marble.
More than seven hundred thousand sleep on its streets,
more than a million souls drown in powders and needles.
This is the empire you kill yourselves to enter.
Once, perhaps, power clothed America—
now its aura is smoke,
its spirit spoiled,
its rulers jesters in a theatre of war.
They enrich the rich, suffocate the poor,
and crown themselves with the word democracy.
Yet their people shiver, homeless, jobless,
beneath neon lights and hollow slogans.
You dream of New York’s towers,
but you will wake on its sidewalks.
You abandon the red soil of Africa,
a true home, a true inheritance,
to chase shadows across oceans.
What folly is this,
to trade bread for dust,
to mistake the colour green for hope?
Karma waits.
An empire without discipline collapses
as surely as vapour dissolves in the morning air.
But you will not listen.
Fools do not seek wisdom,
they only offer opinions.
So I warn you, Africans, seekers of false heavens:
the Green Card is no covenant.
It is a deception,
a chain gilded in promises.
Heaven cannot be bought.
It is built where you stand,
or nowhere at all.
As the years passed as their darkened grip grew
The white right began their searching pursue
Armies they, to the black attacked
Fearing nothing but good, for freedom they react
Legions of Hades descended on mother earth
Decrying her beauty and saviour so worth
Fortresses they built, their base for campaign
For they revelled to he, forever to remain
But unknown to the dark, white disciples remained strong
For they will fight for their lands, for they belong
In masses they approach this darkened keep
Their intention to deliver plight as their light gently weeps
Hour after hour as the battle rages on
Pincer movements never dent this darkened brawn
Suddenly, in the afternoon sun, clouds so dark, is evils triumph in stride
Ebony wings many miles wide, above this theatre in gentle glide
Circling as they soar, below cobalt steel clouds
Golden Eagles so regal, their glides resonate loud
Natures fury awakens as she joins in the cause
Thunder and lightning crashes on their darkened laws
Flames rage through their keep whilst the ground below shakes
Bringing walls and towers down against an redding orange drape
Cries of death resonate through the acrid black air
Whilst the armies of the right in salute stand and stare
These legions from Hades from our world, now gone
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/dark-3.php
You thought
you were choosing Saviours.
But you were choosing
Satanists in suits—
feeding on your suffering.
From the South
came Jacob—
a boy of the street,
unable to read,
unable to write,
yet crowned a statesman.
His ignorance
was his passport.
His silver tongue
was his offering.
They call it democracy.
But it is a theatre
of fools and liars.
A sanctuary
for criminals.
Across Europe.
Across Africa.
Across America and Asia.
Leaders rise—
empty of wisdom,
full of ambition.
They take no orders
from the people.
Their master
is the darkness
that feeds them.
They call each other
“Honourable.”
But what is honour
in a nest of thieves?
Politics today
is a cult.
A temple
of selfish men.
And the quickest path
to wealth without work
is simple—
become a politician.
For the devil
rewards
his most loyal servants.
ACTORS BIOGRAPHY
____ ____ is an actor most famous
for his role as John Smith on the TV series Unnamed.
He is from the UK and started his
career having minor roles in small
touring stage productions for a year.
From 2023, he was cast as a
supporting role in a West End
production of Transient at the
Evanescence Theatre.
Migrating from the stage to the
screen, he had some uncredited
parts in short-lived television
shows.
In 2024, John Smith was a role that
he auditioned for. Initially, the role
was offered to another actor but
was turned down due to them
having to go into rehabilitation.
He worked on Unnamed until his
sudden firing from the show in
2026. Little is known about the
reason for this. However, it could
be linked to his current issues with
tax avoidance and alcoholism.
After a measly four year career, he
is no longer working in the industry.
My anticipation mounting as I walk into the lobby
A trip to the theatre is my greatest love, my hobby
With feelings of great wonder and excitement overflowing
For only a calamity can really stop me going
With my expectations rising, well it isn’t so surprising
I am soaking up the auras of the souls long gone before us
Moving to the auditorium an usher guides me to my seat
I sit down slowly, looking forward to this special treat
The curtains looking sumptuous, rich and velvet, long and red
I await for them to part to see the magic that’s ahead
The excitement it is palpable, sends shivers down my spine
The curtains draw back slowly and the spotlight starts to shine
Clad in Japanese kimonos players enter from stage right
As a travelling musician plays his songs into the night
For he’s in love with Yum Yum and his name is Nanki Poo
For the son of the Mikado this betrothal is taboo
The music becomes louder, my heart it beats so fast
As the show begins and transports me way back into the past
But all too soon the end is nigh, the audience still on a high
Joyous and exuberant and sad they have to say goodbye
Returning to the stage Players bowing one by one
Audience cheering loudly for the fine work they have done
I stand and clap and share with them my great appreciation
Wondering how they feel about our mutual admiration
An Actor’s life, it surely has to be a dream come true
It also has to be the hardest thing for one to do
For witnessing an Actor at the peak of their career
Is the ideal way to spend a day, the perfect panacea
written 8th September 2017
9th May 2021
Contest Name The Audience Falls Silent
Sponsor Kai Michael Neumann
Contest Strand Choice L
Sponsor Brian Strand
HONORABLE MENTION
Contest Your first poem on Poetry Soup
Sponsor Silent One
FIRST PLACE
Contest Name Impress me with an old poem
Sponsor Poet Destroyer A
8th October 2020
No 1290
Sponsor Brian Strand
Poet's ink portrays wonders so profound,
as the last crimson rose of summer fades,
verdant leaves gently float to soggy ground,
weaving a pattern of saffron, beige shades.
Autumn's theatre parades vibrant hues,
as misty fog covers frozen meadows.
Haunting pastels animate artist's muse.
as poetic palettes splash glowing prose.
Lampposts ignite with cold midnight moonlight,
as snow flakes embrace trees in a white fleece.
Astral blooms inspire the soul to recite
in a rhythmic aesthetic masterpiece.
Lost in the elegance of nature's call,
art is adored in the grandeur of fall.
When I beheld Trump and King Charles III,
walking hand in hand within Windsor Castle,
my heart broke—
for in Gaza and Ukraine blood runs like rivers,
while in Britain, children sleep on empty stomachs.
Yet here, beneath chandeliers and polished stone,
business is discussed, not humanity.
You call him King,
but what King feeds on the sweat of the poor
while his kingdom starves?
What monarch sits at banquet tables
funded by the weary backs of laborers,
while his people beg for bread?
This is no crown of honor—
but a crown of profit,
shining with the blood of innocents.
Trump—twice welcomed in state procession,
twice received with silken carpets
while the widows of Gaza
walk barefoot on rubble and ash.
Melania smiles, nobles raise their crystal glasses,
and behind closed doors
the whispers are of profit:
“How much was made from Ukraine’s fire?
How much from Gaza’s dust?”
Another voice replies:
“Sudan will yield, Congo will bleed—
there is still more gold to reap
from the bones of the forgotten.”
And I, standing at the gates of Windsor,
asked myself—
is this theatre?
Is this a cruel play upon humanity?
Or is this our reality,
where power is a masquerade
and the tears of the masses
water the gardens of kings?
O Britain—
you call yourself great,
but greatness does not dwell in palaces.
It is found in justice,
in bread for the hungry,
in peace for the weary.
Until then,
your castle is a tomb,
and your banquet—a feast of shadows.