Long Tremolo Poems
Long Tremolo Poems. Below are the most popular long Tremolo by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tremolo poems by poem length and keyword.
HEARING
Don’t come near me with that tune
You know it will make me cry again
With its sixths, elevenths, thirteenths
All conspiring to take over my brain
Expanding in my head like a balloon
Melody goes wherever it wants to go
That long held note, it does it for me
Leaving those complex chords behind
Holding on with pride to that top C
Together with that touch of tremolo
I also hear the bass line slowly move
An anchor for the notes all in flight
Like a susurration in the open skies
Where every single one does it right
As each has a point they must prove
My heart is lifted as the music swells
And images pervade my open mind
It is a sensation that I cannot control
As if special roles have been assigned
Across new worlds without parallels
Hiding here inside my closet, I feel safe in the dark
knowing on a pile of sheets lies my very psyche;
it's only a thought, yet I am unhurt among drawers…
so I curl and stare blank, imbibing bits of gentle
murmurings that whisper on hangers as they
sway with the lint...I strain to listen
but prickly voices gush out of reach
from the sleeves of a night
like a conversation behind closed knobs…
I hear yet can't quite grasp
what my heart wants to say in low dips ;
like a tremolo carrying mould of twilight...
it hums all sermons of a Sunday church bell
speaking in tongues I knew once...long ago.
The moon folds around me in black suds
washing a laundry of venting desire, only to find myself
trapped by needles…I feel a stab, a grating chill: perhaps,
I have no language when no one wants to listen.
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke 6/12/2020
Tomorrow’s Dawn
This concert-filled night thrums with slow-motion static.
No signal, no return, with no way of meeting you.
Our sense of consciousness has become an intermission,
On a winding road in the fog, as the night fades.
One moment before, when melancholy weaves an overturn
For part one.
Subconsciously, it orchestrates a Cassandra. Met with impediments, as this moment resonates.
You’ll find yourself in the scene,
As emotions rise and fall in the
Waves of our concerto.
That fades into limbo.
Only to part tremolo passages
through mirrors of moonlight, the lover’s duet
Adds a refreshing luminescence to the atmosphere.
Allegro vivace, rushing into,
Tomorrow’s dawn.
Don't forget to remove the Bay leaves from the
pot.
Make it easier on yourself
put the bay leaves and rosemary sprig
in a cheese cloth.
I'm in most incline to agree
yet some deemed them useless
almond ash and hickory ash
was used to create a super
strong aroma.
Pungent and earth friendly.
TENUTO___
The Zoomies
a group of five
songstresses
Clutter ( a Contralto Alto)
Clowder ( Contralto Soprano)
Glaring ( Mezzo- soprano)
Pounce ( the Soprano)
Bunting(Contralto)
allorubbing
glissando
tremolo
trill.
Piano!
Piano!
Staccato< paino
an detached and fast tempoed!
She detached her relationship
to be seen as more uncaring
toward the male gender.
She said such allowed her to negotiate
from being lesser involved from actually
being responsible
inside a fully functional relationship.
The legend goes that 1n 1887 at a festival somewhere unknown.
A group of Women who were hired to perform and were allowed
to have concessions.
The woman (The Zoomies) were fixing to serve up some delicious foods.
An inspection by a local there
who looked troubles in the face with a laugh, came up
to the head cook in the busy campground.
He told the woman she better take those bay leaves out of the soup
before someone starts complaining. The woman didn't take to kindly to this citified person
turning his nose up at her with an order. She sat the hot pot on the piano (according to legend)
She went down in her blouse, and pulled out her mini firecracker canon and launch a firecracker at the visiting chef. It's said the shoot knocked off the gentlemen's top hat. People thought it was part of the show.
* Point of Reference- The guy is said to have come up to the stage while more then 50 people( paying customers) were there and said "the rat and kitty stew smell like beef: that b*tch better not forget to take the BAY LEAVES outta the pot" Another legend is said that 6 woman singer corner the fella and stood above him and releived there selves. Ans said while the guy was enjoying his supper a woman reached down in her blouse and pulled out her breast and asked the man did he want her to make it a french creame soup!"
Waves in many ways—
eradicate what is straight
strident ripples roam
stroking cadence through our days
with vibrato, tremolo.
These waves wander in—
from sea-swell and drifting dunes,
patterns everywhere.
crinkles, murmurs, punch-lines rise,
breathing life with rhythmic beats.
Waves caress photons
wind embroiders still smooth ponds,
perms crinkle warm hair —
sand grains stream off dune-crest spines,
wave crests leap up to applaud.
Soft waves rock the boat,
lullabies for seafarers—
lilts in sea and foam
restful calm before the storm,
when wily wind turns wicked.
Twirling the senses,
waves blur the world's hard edges
with a gentle tone.
violinist's vibrato
with tremolo's memento.
Nature resonates,
reverberates waves' accord,
with quivering rhythms—
in myriads of heartbeats
in earth, water, sky, spirit.
I May or May Not Be Opposed 1-3-24 Original Poem Tremolo Torrents
I could not get the bold function to work so I put the original lines in parenthesis.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Opposing Tremolo Torrents
“Thundering fat raindrops fall
Driven deluge in wild squalls
As torrents pelt the thirsty ground
Sheer rain staccatos resound
Tempests fury rides the storm
Wind-swept raindrops leap free form.”
Whispering mists kiss the air
Float on sheer quiet prayers
Murmurs of a zephyr’s sigh
Tiptoe through a misty sky
In rhythms of hazy veils
Gentle brumes rest on cattails.
The Art
The art of music reveals the soul's effigy
The overture that eternally imparts its recital
To amplify our harmony with ageless elegy
To Give....
To give the great crescendo to all that we can endure
Through tone, and pitch - notes from our melodious score
Saturating the beholding forte of the hearts core
To Share....
To share the unison of our lives in common
The Maestro lifts our spirit beyond the raindrops that fall
To shelter and lighten the load of us all
To Embrace....
To embrace the air we breathe, the sweat we engender
The times of our joy we muse to cheer
The sunless hours of despair and fear
To Become....
To become what we feel
What we know - who we are - why us
To play the cantata, the fugue, the opus
The Pinnacle....
The pinnacle star of our absolution is music
The worthiness of our quality
The celestial harmony of knowing our reality
The Music....
The music of our substance set us free
The Rondo of our song, the Tremolo of our Rubato
The Oratorio in the narrative of life's flow
Transposing....
Transposing ourselves
To be mingled as the fish to the sea
In the concert of life's great ocean so free
October 19, 2020
Completely Your Choice (29)
Sponsored by Brian Strand
I murmur like a rivulet through the
hitch of your hands, where the canyons
carve their parched longing into your fingers—
where silences sublimate like cera,
pooling beneath your glissando touch.
Your tremolo breath convulses rough and low
like sibilant submersion in water—
spilling, sinking, staining everything it meets.
I watch the estuary of your gaze split my horizon—
watch you hush abysmal eyes into
celestially arched surrender.
There is no stillness between starlight,
only the pull of mighty magnitudes,
fuses lit beneath the ribs,
pulses and throbs teaching the air
how to cleave—how to…
sforzando!
Love, here, is neither reserved nor reticent—
it is lightning bottled in glass—
hellfire burning beneath the tide—
language that deconstructs
even as it is uttered.
I step forward—some faltering cadence,
some submitting ascension—placing my hands into your fire,
not to be consumed, but to remember
how stars revel and rain.
If I listened would I hear the trill of peace
Sense the presence of its calm
Become the hum of gently tuned violin strings
Quavering in erotic fulfillment
Would the song of dancing thistles hold me captive
Allow its swaying tremolo to consume me
And clouds, oh distant clouds,
What mysteries would you share
Shaped within your wind-blown pantomime
Perhaps the eyes forever questions
Must be shielded
To allow the music of a raven’s wings
To share their black-silk feathered tune
Or ripples strum their fingers
Gently on a distant shore
Or is it in this listening
That I become
What I have heard
Sundown creeps,
across adorned amber,
sky whose welkin,
shades volte face,
as evening edges,
into cosmic chakra,
of visual feasts,
orange, pink, purple,
prelude which emblazon,
point of day exodus,
atrophied moon winking,
mystic morph of,
dwindling halo,
to homeward bound,
throngs thirsting,
for redress within,
winter jasmine enclave,
cabal, clique, cluster,
in shrunken retreat,
from dreary toil,
nudge from nightfall,
whose cryptic code,
a dark art patois,
exemplified by,
eastern screech owl,
whose stocky medium,
and varied volume,
that twilight tremolo,
purring incognito,
among other creatures,
wet soil genus,
brisk firefly flash,
in town backyards,
wing rubbing katydid,
tree top rasp,
or amid green bush,
chirpy cricket,
midget burrow dweller,
allow oneself to wallow awhile,
in evening habitat,
in all its allure