Long Theatrical Poems
Long Theatrical Poems. Below are the most popular long Theatrical by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Theatrical poems by poem length and keyword.
Lone
Dog Tag Drone
All alone
Controlled by a cell phone
And its mysterious, dial tone
When it rings
Dog Tag does its thing
Go there
Don’t look scared
Over here
Better not have any fear
Summoned to work
Dog Tag blew its cork
Said “No
I am not going to go
My technology is brand new
Known by few
Pretty cool
Tool
Intellectual not a fool
I can photograph up-close action
Turning it into an exciting attraction
There are other duties I can do
Helping others get through
A dangerous mission
Since I can obtain proper position
Putting, human life not at risk
Just a simple disposable floppy disk
As for being used to explode
That is a definitely a no go”
Startled by the robotic machine's stance
The computer programmer took another glance
Wondered can Dog Tag sing and dance
Enjoy the spotlight
Gleaming bright
Cardboard box disposed
Leaving a cardboard flattened rose
Freeing Dog Tag from the shipping cage
Allowing it to embrace theatrical stage
Audience will enthusiastically applause
Knowing the Dog Tag Drone does indoor malls
Outside the electronic store
Confident and sure
Writing musical scores
Wanting a platform floor
Tempting teasing
Eye ear pleasing
Entertaining, customers spinning legendary military tales
Luring buyers, towards weekend holiday sales
Safely without fail
These days it's clearly the fashion
To tell college grads: "Follow your passion."
Yet consider this quick note of caution:
Make sure with your passion you'll cash in.
For Example:
What if your passion is playing trombone?
You spend years and years trying to hone
The skill to emit the purest of tones;
But will you reap what you've sown?
Or simply work your fingers to the bone,
So you can stand in line for a loan?
Remember:
In life it pays to be practical,
Neither over didactical or under tactical;
For it not, the consequences
Tend to be quite 'dramatical,'
Or possibly morbidly theatrical.
Bottom Line:
So when deciding on what occupation to make your splash in,
Do not necessarily follow your passion,
Especially if it's something quite asinine.
Sign up instead for MY 'profession:'
Do as I say, not what you're best in!
A star is born
A Young Man auditioned for a Theatrical show
He thought it might not be an accepted go
He remembered the advice his Grandfather would say
“Go out and do your best, and let your confidence shine through.
Before you know it, your expectations will pay off”
The Theatrical show was a Drama, the Director was looking for a Star Role in being the lead of “DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM”
It was a play about knowing who a person is and finding their place in life
Seems fitting as the Young Man’s life falls into the category
On with the story
The Young Man was nervous yet confident
He had no idea in how the Director will respond to his audition
The Young Man had no theatrical experience
Only encouragement being his Grandfather’s influence
He read the script with Drama, Emotion and the Director felt his feeling
Later, the Director asked the Young Man did he act before, and he replied No that he was a natural
The Director then stated, Congratulations
You got the Lead Role
Thanks to the encouragement over the years from his Grandfather
Words from the wise
It’s starting to cool down here in Connecticut. Leaves are falling, like giant, burnt snowflakes (science says that trees send chemical signals to their branches to clip leaves away).
Peter borrowed a friend's toy-like, pea green, Fiat-500 convertible and we drove into the country to see the turning leaves. We hiked a bit too and stopped, in Mystic, for seafood.
I never realized just how theatrical trees could be, with their few, simple, chlorophyll tricks and how reflective still lakes could be. Wowzer, just - wowzer.
There are some things that should never be shared. Like a toothbrush, an iPad, lipstick, strawberry stroopwafels, a slice of pizza or a secret lover (that last one just sounded good - but yeah). But life is good, I can share that. We’re young, dramatic sophomores with good hair products and we’re at it, working and playing hard.
Ahh.. ok, upon consultation, I have to add that some of us are in their mid-twenties with only a few good years left.
Did I mention that we climbed up a twisty lighthouse staircase too? Peter always thinks people should take the stairs, and not the elevators, “You want to have muscles and bones that work when you’re eighty,” He says. Since he’s closer to eighty than I am, when we’re not carrying furniture, I let him have his way. Of course, he’s never been to up Lisa’s 50th floor townhouse either.
My mom told me that they’re off to Poland again, over the holidays, for another tour with “Doctors without Borders” (Damn war). Lisa’s parents have (kindly) invited me to share their high-rise utopia again this year. Who knows, maybe Peter will have his chance to try those stairs.
Desire make me flee to England's shore,
to Stafford where Shakespeare wrote
sonnets by candlelight and moonbeams;
let me open the tall, wooden front door,
to see him in that corner weaving a thought,
swiftly turning them into theatrical schemes!
Ah, he weeps for a past tragedy he witnessed,
making those tears flow on clean sheets
that leave him heartbroken and drenched in tears!
Oh, those sad moments seem to disappear
as he dreams of unforgotten faces he loved...
and many say he didn't feel joy but fear!
Shakespeare's spirit is not a common phantom whose voice can't
be heard everywhere it rumbles...listen attentively, don't fret!
Glance at his pensive face, read the inspirational words of any play
he's writing on paper for all to ponder in their own, persuasive way!
(The news of the death of dear and near ones reaching us on a daily basis has left me thinking of the transitoriness of life and hence this poem)
Is not our life a wave of energy coursing through ether
Just like flickering flames or fleeting gleams that fly
Which when stopped, like a weed scorched by the sun
Or a tree felled down by a merciless axe, we will die
Is not our life a theatrical performance,
Where we don the roles we are assigned
Some, playing the roles of tyrants or kings
While some act as meek minions consigned
Is not our life a voyage through rough seas
Where we paddle on and on over billowing tide
Never asking where we are heading to
Nor knowing through what currents we ride
Is not our life the footprints left on sandy shores
Washed away instantly by the incoming wave
Not able to measure their length or width
Or be traced as they immediately cave
Is not our life as illusory as the mirage of the desert
Staying beyond our grasp and endlessly deluding
Soothing like an oasis among the dunes of sand
Sometimes like a nightmare awfully distressing
Is not our life a little space lying somewhere
Between our infant cradle and our grave
Where we have struggled to secure our slot
But soon ousted by others who for our place crave
Still we live on, never in despair but in hope
That beyond this mortal life and its tangled ties
Somewhere for us, eternity’s mighty portals await
To harbor our souls when from deep slumber we rise!
I am
the password you created
in a moment of delusional confidence,
the one you swore you’d never forget
and immediately did.
I am
the self-appointed sentinel of your sanity,
a smug little gremlin
gleefully watching you guess wrong
with theatrical disappointment.
I am
the reason your coffee gets cold,
the cause of your clenched jaw,
the villain in your otherwise peaceful morning.
I am
the cryptic code you cobbled in haste
strewn with symbols you cannot recall
crowned with capital letters
and numbered hints that once made sense
now mercilessly mocking you
from the digital void.
I am
the digital deity
who denies you entry
with a single icy phrase:
“Incorrect. Try again.”
And when you finally crack me
sweaty, triumphant, trembling~
I will rise once more and decree,
with all the arrogance of a tiny tyrant:
“Your password has expired.
Create a new one.”
I am not anymore controlled by your manipulative strings.
Freeing myself from you; my dictator who imprisoned me for a year.
You can’t put me on stage and do the most unwanted things.
I can’t be bent by your power; for I have nothing to fear.
Your theatrical works deftly let me lose control.
I will not portray the character that once you used to own.
A chance to take my life back; I’m taking my soul
and you have no choice but to leave me alone.
The hand-carved doll finally tastes his liberty for good.
Perhaps we can end it in a contract and close;
But I should have shut it down long ago when I could.
This time I play no more roles and I will repose.
No one else can tie their barbed thread on my body.
I control my life and I will not allow somebody.
The further I traveled from
me, the closer I came to you –
found myself nearing with
such found release...my heart swelling
sweet generous nectar; sensing no loss,
but, in fact, more abundance
for sharing and receiving. It is the lesson of love,
the ripening of heart's dearer agents through selfless caring –
Indeed! Love is a nurturing school...of small little
chirps, purring, and needy cries; it is cold dark
forced out by the graceful warming of heavenly
pairing: The rests minimal, and pianissimos
ever brighter: Shakespeare was not so overly theatrical
about the world being a stage, nor Poe too
speculative, about all seeming a dream
within a dream – for love is dreamy, magical
and mystically deep – The Universe shouting,
Encore!~More!~applauding endlessly such
Divine Sleep....
The war refuses the head, below wasting in dead
Rearing the front as storms fell the timbers rot
Upheavals breast, shorn and filled in neglect
Lay useless she had cried, allow dimple and deny
Tis only folly we are joined from, seasons blurry
Contemptuous fury, theatrical brevity, lifeless
Burning misery, hasn’t all gone and come
Just so fiddle and spun, as garnish and lathe
Without soured breads fortune, and curled ears late
Forever they attend, a hearts creative bend
And rule they must, alas at lose in unbreakable crust
He in hand created this land, in tales of ferried rows
Gentled slave we musn’t hate, crucible’s labors as knave
In there buildings, craving and fighting, loud and obscene
Fruitful as flies, multiplying night skies
Crying babes of violence, unruly and brutal
Off again we should shout as they, steam filled hovels in suet