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 stand on the highway of hope getting ready for the train to go on a trip to the mountain sphere, the passengers are pouring in, the seats are filling up, and everyone is in a mad rush. What on earth is going on? The passengers have been here before the break of dawn and excitement is all over the lawn. The cities and towns are flooded with lights and everyone has made an early sacrifice, smiles and laughter are everywhere and the people have nothing to fear. The highway of hope is taking me to the show, you can get an all-inclusive ticket wherever you go; you have a ticket for the train ride, the theatre, restaurant, cinema, the football games or just to go jogging up the lane. You have tickets to go shopping or to work out at the gym; there is a bus and a train for everything and there is one reserved only for music, singing and dancing. You can ride the bus or train any time of the day and your mornings and evening will never waste away, every ticket you buy will contribute to the blue sky and your donations will not die. Meet me at the highway of hope and I will show you where to go, the mood has change and joy is spreading everywhere. If you have nothing to do, put some snack in a bag and join the picnic train, and view all the terrain. The goal is to make a million in an hour and leave the sorrows in the showers. You will have something formidable to look forward to at the end of the day and your burdens and stress will surely roll away. Come with me to the highway of hope and join, the campaign fundraising train .Every ticket you buy will raise my ambition; every train you ride will elevate you to the sky, the numbers are growing and the passengers are swelling and my life has just begun. I have five-dollar tickets, ten-dollar ticket, a thousand- dollar tickets and any money tickets. There is a bus and train for every price and someone to show you how to roll the dice. If you don’t want to ride the train, the bus will do the same; a hundred bus and a hundred train is parked up on the highway of hope in every state so buy your tickets and join the masquerade. The goal is to make a hundred and fifty million dollars a day in the all inclusive bus and train ride on the highway of hope in all the fifty states so join the fundraising effort before it's too late.
Meet me on the highway of hope anytime of the day and don't delay.
This persona, picks up the mask he placed beside the bed
And the actor, feels the lines he’s already read
They hang their syllables on his tongue
As they breath into his lungs
Answered by a soft restraining sigh
As he buries the reasons why
He no longer wants to be a part of this
It’s a footstep, taken through a place he no longer feels apart of
As he is cut by the angles of the brick
As they force their intrusion with their ugly, scraping intercepts
While his eyes hunger for the leaves
He hangs poised between their branches
Floating through the spaces between the grass blades
And sees the prison bars
Everything, including him constructed
This persona, so ready in its plastic skin of parody
Hopes that it appears to be an acceptable front for normality
But behind his hungry eyes
His separation dances in the skies
He’s not crazy in the spin, but some insanity beckons him
As the prison bars grow wider
If he could only just step through
And release himself from all the things
He thought he knew
As the day break, drips onto the essence of sublime
But his heart ache, tells him that he really doesn’t have the time
The repeat run between the gears
And his place amongst the cogs and wheels
Smoothly jerk upon the performance of their strings
Just like the puppet of himself, his day begins
While every piece of litter he calls his dreams
Are blown into the shadows in his soul
The eyes see, but they don’t see anything anymore
They are a horizon, on a beach of some distant forgotten shore
While he hungers for the trees
The open fields where nature breathes
He fights to break his own perception
Alone in a prison cell of his own making
Every thing about him is scratched into the unyielding brick
His persona, so ready in its organization of plastic skin
Prays that he executes a well played part in normalities theatre
But behind the sadness in his eyes
All he was has slowly turned to lies
When he touched upon the truth every person keeps inside
The desperate aching in everybody’s heart
To be free of all the deceit
Which stole their lives, from the very start
And as the prison bars grow ever wider still
He asks for the strength to just let go
He prays for the courage to step through
And pick up all the litter of his dreams
And release himself from all the things
He thought he knew
The rain keeps coming,
Masking tears of despair, and rivers of agony
Seem in no hurry to crest
In this orb that is my world, I stand in frozen animation
As I listen to the venom of tangled tongues and crooked lips
Then hear the critique of the man in the street
I stop to analyze and find that nothing is said, just a horde
Of ghastly lies
My heart grows heavy, and my chest tightens.
As anger builds, my lungs feel the fire of the now forsaking
Breath, the pain is real,
And I contemplate my fate
In this world of mine
The sun is sad and the moon weeps,
And the walls inch closer.
As my neck plays a melody of twisting knots, my shoulders
Feel as if stomped by the passion of a flamenco dance.
As my temples lament the torment of this harrowing crescendo.
From a place called malice and rage, hate and contempt
Send bouquets,
But in the glory of this floral splendor, lies deceit,
The bewitching fragrance of the day.
And serpents of a human Ilk, their minds filled with disdain and
Spite, come to feed upon my life,
As their minions nibble,
I question my sanity
In this world of mine
Is the theatre of suffering,
Where shadows of rage cloak, a dominion of corruption,
And evil keeps a watchful eye,
And vultures with hearts bitter and cold, stalk,
As if waiting for a carrion to be born, that a feast may begin.
And in this presence of immorality,
Void is the integrity of soul.
As I listen to the wind, I hear the voice of purpose,
And in the verses of the night, Is the message of the day
And the lessons taught,
Are real
In this world of mine
As this deluge of decadence baths a candid soul,
I strive to be freed, from the afflictions
Of being.
And amid the craving for contentment, I beg,
For deliverance,
And rest my fate at the foot of the mountain, for there
Lies truth.
In my meditation, eager I am to see behind the light
And reconnect with the presence within,
For it is there that I hear the sunshine in your voice,
And see the laughter in your eyes.
It is there that courage is present, and I am fraught with the
Effervescence of your smile,
And your face is vibrant
And passion enriches me,
And I, am reborn
In this world of mine
Earl S. Jackson
July 2014
Copyright © 2014 Earl S. Jackson, all rights reserved.
The judge sent me to spend ten years in jail,
After a sweet talking lawyer saved my tail,
The wind which blows the soul of men from grave to grave,
Told me of your messages and reminded me of the pleasure we had those days,
They called me nuts and said that they were all in my head,
Especially the psychologist whose wife cried of loneliness every night in bed.
I am a tall mean looking woman these days,
With little hair and a haggard face,
I'm thinner than when we met,
Broken by life, broken by death.
They released me from jail today,
And I thought it worthy to come to your grave today,
So here I am Sweet Elizabeth,
This pen in my hand,
This knife at bay,
Hoping to join the band of holy and unholy men,
That will be taken by death today.
I hope to see you today,
Maybe in heaven or maybe in hell,
That's why I kneel besides your grave,
That's why I've made this choice so brave.
There are a thousand ways to write a poem,
A million ways to kill a man,
A billion ways to show that you are waiting,
A trillion ways to tell that a good soul is dead,
But on that day you left,
I stood there a soul bereft,
Waiting, yet knowing that you're dead.
I loved you more than Shakespeare loved the theatre,
More than Tesla loved to tinker,
More than Einstein loved his head,
More than America hated the Nazis,
Till they said that I was mad,
Till I killed the driver who took you to hell,
Till they took me to jail,
Till heaven came and went.
But love is never enough they say,
Not enough to feed or clothe your radiant beauty like summer's day,
Never enough to stop the claws of death,
Never enough to heal the madness of a tortured soul,
Never enough to stop this pain.
I'll be lying beside your grave,
As you lay on my hands that day,
The sands will soak my blood,
As my clothes soaked yours,
You'll see me in pain,
As I saw yours that fateful day,
You will hear my mourning,
You will feel the writhing of my body atop your grave,
You will hear my soul going with the wind,
You will hear the willows blowing in the wind,
And not even your tears which I hear in my head every day will convince me to stay,
Till the wind blows down a thousand willows,
For if the wind blows a thousand willows,
Then I'll be dead,
I'll be holding you in the darkness,
Kissing your every being...My sweet Elizabeth.
Checked by www.howmanysyllables.com> syllable_counter
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If Fantasy Were Reality
Human mind is like a wild cheeky horse,
Untrained, it pursues its own wilful course
Of IMAGINATION that lively brains
Can freely wish and afford to sustain
In a DREAM world of reckless REVERIE
Amidst the glow of frantic fantasy.
Flying on silvery wings of fancy
I dream being the king of my country
With beauties of my choice serving on me,
Attending to my WHIMSY wants like flees,
Basking in the sun in midst of the sea,
Inhaling freshness of the air, carefree.
Alas, when the dream comes to abrupt halt
I feel being struck by a thunderbolt
Viewing it as VISUALISATION
Bordering on a HALLUCINATION
With the sour sense of dropping from the moon
To face the realm of reality soon.
If fantasy were a reality
There would exist no shrines of poverty
No climes where wicked woeful wars are waged
No theatre where violence is staged,
But a land where blooms the flower of peace
Where in every soul sprouts the seed of bliss.
If fantasy could endow us with grace
Evert poor man`s house would be a palace,
Man could dwell on earth many thousand years
Without shedding a drop of pearly tear,
Without an iota of divine fear,
Decreeing earth as his very own sphere.
As light plays upon the dark, that moon through stained glass windows
cutting a swarth across cobbled floors.
It seeps into the cracks like it's found home at last
How a distant piano to a curious ear attracts
a de'javu moment and yet it is unwritten.
You follow the fleeting seeking some origin
reaching out for inspiration as if it were original sin
All recitations from what remains unwritten
Those words hidden under the tongue just below the surface of a heart.
Contour of an image meant to be lived, yet remains unchanged, namelessly forgotten.
Its a melancholy of indecision climbing the walls of narrow passages like wisteria
you adhere to the impulse to cover all that once lay bare.
I drag tired fingers around the next bend, the next barrier
is more impressive than the last.
There’s an attempt to grasp something in the lapse between thoughts
to trade abstract beliefs for the tangible, it is enough to inspire devotion.
a shadow climbs the wall only to stall in its climax
abiding but a remnant of the unwritten.
Something is always left in these corners where candles aid their illumination
and thoughts drift elsewhere in the dancing theatre of undefined movements.
The unknowing becomes vagabond to the warmest of comforts.
You find yourself in these blankets of cloud cover observing holes in the disguise.
The veil suddenly lifted, experience immediate, no longer a stranger
so you can gaze upon these mirrors and hasten that journey toward home
Home, your feeling is kept fleeting, A temporal haven so you can continue repeating
these steps that lead you towards the perfect escape.
Always almost there... In this world of smoke and mirrors
Trapped in illusion that holds time obscurely
"The Unwritten"
So we bend beneath the wing of watching eyes.
Trenched in the words of silver tongues, frozen by the voice of awkward edges
For if the unwritten were to be before its time, If it were to flee,
to break free and roam; Become the breeze through these hallowed halls
of desperate belief.
To write the unwritten...
Then though they'd cry and shout and leap, No wall could stretch from sea to sky
Nor any kingdom stop it.
It is etched on the soul more deeply than stone
And we have given it a name...
Our Destiny
Somewhere over Europe
A B-17 flies
Strafed and damaged
In her enemies skies
The flak has taken
Its toll on the plane
This crew so brave
In this theatre of war campaign
Many hours have passed
With no sight of the channel
Only land ahead
Is it our instrument panel
A shout is heard from the rear of the plane
A Messerschmitt ME-109, beside us flies
We are sitting targets for another kill
The pilot turns his head, as i look into his eyes
He is making a gesture
For us to turn 180 degrees
Do we believe our enemy
But we eventually agree
He continues to fly
Like an escort of question
Were we right to agree
His degree of suggestion
For up ahead we see
The glint of blue water
Our horizon of hope
Are we saved from slaughter
Moments later
As i turn my head again
A wave from the German
As he banks his fighter plane
We are now well over the channel
As we sight the white cliffs of Dover
Our B-17 in struggle
This mission near over
On the runway at Kimbolton
The fire crews stand ready
Will our plane take the landing
Is our undercarriage steady
Touch down we make
As we talk of our flight back
About the German fighter pilot
Who refused to attack
It is now many years later
For we were lucky, we grew old
As we assembled on anniversary
Our story could now be told
For he had kept it his secret
But now we have to say
Franz Stigler and his German fighter
Is why we are before you today
He was scrambled to intercept
The enemy that we were then
When he arrived we awaited
The fate of us men
When he viewed our plane
He couldn't believe his eyes
Why something so shot up
Still flew in his skies
When he returned to base
In his reports he states
It went down over the sea
And sealed our fate
After all these years
I am so happy we have met
We have lived many years
While our lost colleagues have slept
I thank you Sir
For sparing the lives of my crew
As we stand together for peace
We salute you
This is a true story from WWII, written by request for Sara Kendrick,
who loves to challenge me, and i thank Sara kindly for the opportunity
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war-6.php
He worked at the local newspaper office.
I worked for his employer’s wife as a mother’s helper.
He had served his apprenticeship
and was now a full fledged printer
earning a magnificent sum of eight dollars a week.
My wages were three dollars per week.
Mrs. Miller found reasons for sending
me to the office frequently
and he was easy to talk to.
It wasn’t long before
he asked me to go to a movie
and I readily agreed.
Movies tickets at our local theatre
were twenty-five cents, usually.
The first movie we went to was called
“The Housekeeper’s Daughter”
starring Joan Bennett.
I don’t remember a thing about the story.
The next week he called again
and this time
the movie he wanted to take me to was
“Gone With The Wind”.
I protested that it was too expensive.
This time he would have to spend
fifty cents each on tickets
and the movie was so long that
there was an intermission
and I knew he would want
to buy refreshments, but
I didn’t take much persuading
and we went all out for that
evening of entertainment.
This time I did remember the story.
From that evening forward ,
he was a daily caller at our home
and my mother did her best
to keep him fed.
Most of our dates were merely
a stroll down town and back
as we had no car.
We heard on the radio that
Major Bowe’s Amateur Hour
was coming to a bigger town
about thirty miles away
and both of us decided we would like to
attend that function.
Money would be a problem
on our wages, so we decided
to save up for it.
One of us bought a dime bank and
we each put any spare dime we could,
into the bank.
It held five dollars.
We managed to have
five dollars worth of dimes
by the time the big day arrived.
Dad lent us his car
and off we went.
I don’t know what the tickets cost
but we had enough to buy them
plus enough to
indulge in an ice-cream soda
at the big town soda fountain.
1940 was the year our story started.
In March of 1941
he left for Detroit, Michigan
where he had heard he could find work
at a decent wage.
He sent a telegram
that he’d found a job
at $50.00 a week.
He had a minister and marriage license.
I had never been away from home before
but I traveled to Detroit and
we were married in July of 1941.
Honorable Mention
.
So shocking was that news from France,
we stared at TVs in a trance;
no way to understand.
Those young and old without a chance
were taken down in wide expanse.
Such horror had been planned.
Who could have then foreseen the fate
upon them cast by those who hate?
Just gathered there for fun,
not knowing that their deaths await
while music played and people ate,
their lives were over, done.
Who could have thought ahead that they -
that enemy that wants its way
to change our form of life,
would sacrifice their own to say
that their belief we must obey?
Misguided thoughts run rife.
That Paris scene that fretful night
prepares us now to face the fight.
Define this threat once more
that could erupt within our sight.
Entire world must join the fight
to face this crusade war.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Rime Couee - Tail-Rhymed Verse - For France
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi
Judged: 01/03/2016
~2nd Place~
Contest: Best Sad Poem EVER
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Judged: 08/29/2016
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Rime Couee
I went with this pattern for Rime Couee as shown on "The Poet's Garret" website
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"The November 2015 Paris attacks (sometimes referred to as 11/13) were a series of coordinated terrorist attacks that occurred on Friday 13 November 2015 in Paris, France, and the city's northern suburb, Saint-Denis. Beginning at 21:16 CET, three suicide bombers struck outside the Stade de France in Saint-Denis, during a football match. This was followed by several mass shootings, and a suicide bombing, at cafés and restaurants. Gunmen carried out another mass shooting and took hostages at a concert in the Bataclan theatre, leading to a stand-off with police. The attackers were shot or blew themselves up when police raided the theatre.
The attackers killed 130 people, including 89 at the Bataclan theatre. Another 368 people were injured, 80–99 seriously. Seven of the attackers also died, while the authorities continued to search for accomplices. The attacks were the deadliest on France since World War II." Wikipedia
Yes, indeed,
I'm not quite up to speed,
These days, anyway...
Let me tell you, if I may...
The 20 odd meds I must take,
Each and every day...
Hope you got the space in your hard drive,
To see what it takes, to keep me alive...
First, the conditions...Ventricular Fibrillation (Life threatening heart condition,
which brought me tons of seizures...and emergency heart surgery within an
hour...they implanted in my heart a computerized "Defibrillator" miniture version
of those big electric pads you see on TV medical scenes, where they
go: "Charge! Now!!" and the electric shock makes the body jump. I was told it
was that, or be dead in a month. And when the battery dies, it starts beeping
inside my chest...no doubt I'll be in a movie theatre at the movie's climax, and be
tossed by the usher (do they still have those?)....Second is COPD, today's term
for emphyzema...a degenerative lung disease...where suddenly you cannot
breath, you literally drown in a sea of air....This is a peachy one, has me in the
hospital 10 times a year, plus far more suseptible to goodies like pneumonia...
which I have gotten several times, and from which I just recently recovered.
The prognosis is poor, it is incurable, progressive (contantly getting worse),
terminal...I will eventually suffocate...and I'm always with a variety of inhalers and
nebulizers...a plug in version I got from a ex-co-worker's wife, with the same
disease, but much better specialists than me, although she died from it 2 years
ago, oddly, on my birthday (2-28) hmmmmm.....I already have a plot for me and
my Rosie...lovely place....I've survived bladder cancer twice...another benefit from
my long ago days of smoking -quit in 1994- when this first showed up- I'd go to
urinate, and pure blood would flow...naturally it soon clogged, and I swelled up
with blood....came real, real close to dead several times...and I'm not a
recreational drug user...so the pain was aweful, and the later Dr. check-ups a
fearful affair...a fiber optic camera inserted up the *****....any male's worse
nightmare...with good reason, the pain is unreal...It's my third favorite past time to
being beheaded, being castrated (near the same thing), and being burned at the
stake. Continued...