Long Tone Poems
Long Tone Poems. Below are the most popular long Tone by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tone poems by poem length and keyword.
I am 15 years old.
They say my mind is scattered stars,
too many, too bright, too far apart.
A sky that sparkles wildly,
never settling into constellations.
I try. God, I try.
To sit still in a room that moves faster than me,
to focus while my thoughts
bounce like marbles down cathedral halls.
The world whispers lazy
while I carry lightning in my chest.
I am chaos stitched in skin,
a spark mistaken for a storm.
Pain blooms behind my eyes,
dark roses growing where thoughts should live.
Migraines hum like broken hymns.
Doctors scan, stare, and shift their tone.
Masses press into the space
that once held dreams, distractions,
love, music, and fire.
They call me brave.
Fear curls around my ribs anyway.
I don’t want to become a memory.
I don’t want to be
just the girl with messy hair,
ADHD, and a ticking clock
buried in her skull.
I want to write songs in the dark.
I want to kiss someone
and feel it in my spine.
I want to forget my meds
without being punished by silence.
I want to lose track of time
without losing pieces of myself.
Each day, I flicker.
Light slips through me quietly,
as if my brain is slowly
erasing what makes me bright.
Let them remember me
as more than a mess.
Let them hear the music
I hum when no one listens.
Let them see what I see:
cracks in ceilings,
truth behind blinks,
love blooming in silence.
I am a girl
with a thousand unfinished thoughts,
still, I am whole.
The stars dim around me now.
Still, I shine in broken patterns.
Still, I hope someone like me
lives long enough
to finish the song.
These soaring chords of white, these chords that lift
The heart and spirit with their stirring gift
Of simple harmonies and bold refrains,
That energize the measures they sustain
In bright transcending notes of lows and highs,
Which rise in rhapsody and realize
The perfect tone and timbre of the score
To draw from us a deep, resounding chord,
Enchant us with their subtle ebb and flow
That deftly moves within us as it goes,
Surging high and higher, as winds prevail
To carry us aloft, while we avail
Upon cathartic wings of pure delight
To soar in reverie on clouds of white –
*Nuvole Bianche (White Clouds), a piece for solo piano by Ludovico Einaudi
Like many precious diamonds,
Good teachers are hard to find
Yet sometimes one can discover
A rare and priceless kind,
It’s not like all the others
For it out-shines the rest
You know as soon as you see it
That this stone is the best,
A good teacher is that special gem
They do far more than teach
They make you feel, through learning,
There’s no star you cannot reach
In Art, they help you see differently
From new angles, not straight up and down
They make Geography an adventure
As the world you travel around
In History, they make you feel
You’ve lived and breathed the times
And Math is not sums, but puzzles
To stretch and tone your mind
In English they encourage you
To not just write, but feel
So that each one of your stories
Will read as if it were real,
If you ever have a question
You call and they are there
With patience and understanding
Your problems are theirs, they care
There’s usually one in every school
Superior to the rest
For they’re the ‘Star of Education’
And as such are totally priceless!
As a child, I yearned to glimpse the ghostly trace,
Wake at midnight, staring into the mirror's face,
Months passed by in this eerie, haunting quest,
Till one fateful night, fear put me to the test.
A sudden shriek escaped my trembling frame,
In that dim-lit room, I felt a ghostly claim,
Fainted in terror, yet fulfilled my desire,
For in that haunting moment, fear lit the fire.
Now beneath the cloak of shadows deep and dense,
Whispers of the Halloween night, a spectral presence,
Moonlight flickers, a ghostly pale,
Haunting tales within the moonbeam's trail.
Eerie winds whisper through skeletal trees,
A ghostly wail carried on the breeze,
Phantoms dance with ethereal grace,
In this haunted realm, lost in space.
Creaking doors and footsteps unknown,
Echoes of the past in a ghostly tone,
Phosphorescent eyes pierce the inky black,
A chilling shiver down the spine's track.
Dreadful silence fills the haunted air,
Echoing the souls lost in despair,
Midnight tolls with a mournful knell,
A symphony of fright in this ghostly spell.
On this night, I'll play it safe, no plight,
Beneath the moon's glow, witches take flight,
Should I stumble and cry out in fright,
Little ghosts and goblins would scatter, fleeing from my trick or treat sight.
Some students with a tanned skin tone
have decided they should ***** and moan,
over the fact they were made to read
the greatest writers in history.
It wasn’t the content they attacked,
instead it was that the writers lack
the desired amount of melanin,
as if that were unforgivable sin.
Of the classics they would not avail,
because their authors had been pale.
They're too young and dumb to ever see
it is they who reeked of bigotry.
Judging men not by their souls,
and the great tales they have told,
as if human nature applies to
only those who might share your hue.
They’re idiots who fail the test,
make their lives all about flesh,
no clue the wisdom awaiting them
if they’d only read those old ‘white’ men.
To understand man you must know
of the things that Shakespeare wrote,
no better judge of how we act,
of where we thrive, and what we lack.
He understood what made us tick,
why we go from joyous to tragic,
why we love those we can’t have,
how power corrupts a noble man.
All the foibles of those on Earth
In iambic pentameter,
and though he shines brighter than most stars,
in truth he only is the start.
Dickens told all the peoples’ tales,
with novels numerous and hailed,
and not just tales, but tomes that seek
the betterment of society.
Dostoyevsky probed into the mind,
to see what hidden demons lie,
while Tolstoy took a wider glance
or countries clashing, nations askance.
Orwell warned of horror to come,
did it so well, we all look dumb
when his prophecies come true,
we can’t say,”If we only knew…”
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
The sickness is quiet, like the way winter creeps in. First with a chill, then with a silence so heavy it makes your ears ring. I carry it in my bones, in the soft tissue of my ribs, in the tiny thread between heartbeats that whispers: it’s not much longer now. I don’t say a word. Not to my friends. Not to my extended family. Not to my boyfriend with his warm brown eyes that search my face like they’re looking for something to hold onto. I smile, and I lie. I say it’s treatable. I say it’s manageable. I say the medicine will help, and that the tiredness is just from school, and that my bones ache because I slept weird, and not because they’re rotting from the inside out. I tell them the falling will stop, the vision will fix, and the pain will be gone. I tell them what was found is going to heal and is smaller than it sounds. I tell them I’m fine in a tone I’ve rehearsed so many times I almost believe it myself. Almost.
The truth is, I’m dying. Slowly, softly, like a candle left to burn in an empty room. I’ve decided they don’t get to know. Not because they don’t deserve the truth, but because I don’t want to watch their faces fall apart. I don’t want to memorize the grief in their expressions like I’ve memorized the way my hands shake when I’m alone. I don’t want pity. I want memories to stay warm, untouched by the frostbite of goodbye.
So I’ll laugh with them under the sun, even though my skin bruises from the light. I’ll dance in kitchens, even if my legs are begging for rest. I’ll write love songs with trembling fingers, kiss him like forever is still an option, and lie beneath the stars pretending I’m not slipping through the cracks of time. I’ll go on pretending until my body gives out, and even then, maybe they’ll just think I was tired. Maybe they’ll never know the truth was blooming beneath my skin like a field of bruised violets. Maybe they’ll say I was strong. Maybe they’ll think I believed I would survive. I won’t. I just want them to.
God Painted the Heavens
"Divine Masterpiece"
The sky was shrouded dark and spiritless
God thereupon painted the heavens
Mixing and blending amber and lemon hues
with the brightest bright,
flickering fire behind the waves of clouds
then,
drawing a straight line on the horizon harmonizing color.
Blending thalo and cadmium red for its darkest tone
separating the clouds from the ocean giving it motion
Blending and feathering
contrasting colors
for a mirrored look,
as the sun gives a glaze finish
coming alive with His divine breath
10/10/2016
Music notation is a skill
that trained composer posses
it combines forulating
introductions
verse
Prechorus
Chorus
verse
preouto
nd
Outros
Noting the sounds
to be enjoyed
forever
note stems
and celebration of
accomplishments.
People who understand
what you're doing
and people who make sure what you're
doing is safe and effective.
sounds and words
motioning for
understandment
done from beganning to end
never complete
but each completion
there for someone
else to share
the Vision
the orginal composer
had.
People try to
find the inspiration
the what to know
your motivation
they look way deep inside to
see how you live and love
to gain the perfect understanding
of your genius or your
maddeneness.
songs of love
with deep earthy tones
putting sounds from different sources
where they need to be
until the arrangment becomes voice with
motion .
It's objective to draw, hopfully satisfy
unite or even divide.
the purpose of a peacful time together
inspired by the
perfections of
intended sound.
Melodies and harmonies united
to recreate the the4 composers vison, through
sound.
posture and meaning
with lyrics.
When they first met
they will determine
what is Bass,
what Is Alto
What is Tenor
What is spoken by
female
and what is spoken by male.
The audeince to enjoy.
rehearsted til
the full ease of
doing is
Done with
the ease of doing!
Not all the worlds belong to me
Not all the words set me free
What the heart loves
is of will
I just free some words
to confine its spill.
****
A time, my words
on my papers sashaying
the shape to me alluring
the tone of their steps
I hear
as they are dancing
the music they are following
the soul, in a trance, just listens
without interfering.
****
A time, along with my Muse
we keep to each other
our hearts baring
secrets sharing
silently, knowingly connecting..
When it comes to share
our worlds in words
that’s the difficulty!
“That’s to be spelled”
“No! It can’t be!”
“That belongs to my world of poetry!”
“No! that’s a huge part of me!
no words allowed to touch
its beauty!”
****
How dare you invoke me
then deny my poetry!?
How dare you be wedded to me
and deprive your soul
of my verse and divinity!?
****
In my womb
you shape a life.. a reality
a present.. a past memory..
and what is to be..
And you still think
you spill your words out of will!
****
I inspire..
I own the fire..
I pave paths, not all
able to bear the burn
But those blessed
with divine grace
the power to mystery embrace
The ones who, a feeble voice
render a sublime poetry!
****
“All my words can set you free
just follow me!”
I have my say
With my best wishes
Your Muse of poetry..
Silent One contest
October 5th, 2020
Let love forever flow like a river.
Let its tone echo roughly louder so.
Let pride sink like an earthquake; deliver.
Let its seismic never forsake pure soul.
Let repentance gain control of the heart.
Let the mind focus on its goal to grow.
Let envy be secured by credit's chart.
Let aim's glut be not of recurring blow.
Let happiness sing aloud real lyrics.
Let all dance its rhythm, avowed in trance.
Let faith be for heart's joy within critics.
Let doubt not derail us off thought by chance.
Let virus not kill us, both old and young.
Let fate seal destined fortune yet unsung.