Long Troupe Poems
Long Troupe Poems. Below are the most popular long Troupe by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Troupe poems by poem length and keyword.
To all of my friends on Poetry Soup,
you really are a dynamic poet troupe.
Though I’m not here every single day,
rest assured I’ll not stay away.
You’ve made me laugh and sometimes cry,
when your engaging works I do espy.
I sit here now with tea in cup,
occasionally I’ll take a sup.
Prodigious poems that I have faved,
command the entire center stage.
I revisit them whenever I’m down,
for them everyone deserves gold crowns.
Within this crisis there’s time to reflect
and take opportunity to reconnect.
So Guten Tag, Ola, Konnichiwa Shikamoo,
G’day, Namaste, Shalom, Asalaam, to you.
Ciao, Yassas, Bonjour, Hola, Goddag,
Nin hao, Ahlan, Privet, Goedendag,
Witaj, Halo, Helo, Selam, Hei, too;
stay well, I do appreciate you.
A channel of warm coastal breeze
and sun this afternoon lights up
the patio deck on forest hillside.
A dozen tiny flies now congregate
mid-air beneath the redwood limbs
nearby, and here the dance begins.
Clay Sombrero Man on patio delights
in all the revelry. The flies now circling,
dive and dance, a flit and flirt.
Patio Man wonders at the grace
of this tiny troupe of dancing flies,
spiraling, then vanishing in shadow.
The tiny acrobats have gone.
They've left our Clay Sombrero Man
to muse the why of things --
the where of things,
the feet and wings of flies --
the flies of wing and dance.
Womb of existence
Drum of God, cosmic current,
vibration omnipresent
manifests prismatic hues,
flowing until desire glues.
Stagnation thus is the cause
that puts flow of life on pause.
Free will once boon, is now bane,
ignorance, cause of our pain.
In the womb of existence,
ego offers resistance,
which is but our own thought form
and we suffer in this storm.
True purpose of life is play,
to soul’s rhythm, gently sway,
radiating love and light
of God essence, shining bright.
Let our childlike innocence
draw in love by resonance,
for we are all one soul group,
a part of the same God’s troupe.
02-September-2022
By Phan Tan Hai
Fifty years—sitting and remembering
a youth shattered by turmoil;
dreams still stunned with disbelief—
marching in the streets, burning cars, protesting.
Seeing my father hanging from a bridge,
seeing myself with a torn hat, begging;
seeing my mother weeping through a century,
seeing the sky emptied of a thousand birds.
Fifty years—never truly sleeping,
staring at history, eyes wide;
Nha Trang, Pleiku, Ðà N?ng—
night after night my hair turned white in the mirror.
Sunlight still falls on the old schoolyard,
dust dimming the faces of friends;
why should beauty grieve in storm season—
midnight, counting drops of rain.
Fifty years—dream or reality,
reading books by a flickering lamp;
touching life and feeling it break,
shaping a statue that never becomes whole.
Reading books, dreaming of peace for the world,
calling for gentle winds and kind clouds;
the monochord from school days—
blood still oozing from my fingertips.
Fifty years—friends from the Philosophy Group
carrying a mother’s lullaby into life;
writing verses of horses crying in the night,
mourning a history deaf, mute, and blind.
The midnight horn of the seventh lunar month,
pouring wine to send off wandering souls;
waiting for dawn in repentance,
vowing my life to be a tower of incense.
Fifty years—looking back,
sutras copied, tears blurring the page;
a thousand lifetimes drifting, still grateful to the Buddha,
sending all sorrow away with the falling rain.
History passes—its tragic river,
the conch shell’s call, the wandering troupe;
I kneel before the Buddhas of three times,
vowing my life to shine like a mirror.
--- This poem is dedicated to the writer Le Lac Giao and the members of the Philosophy Study Group at the Saigon Faculty of Letters, commemorating the 50th anniversary of their first meeting (1970–2020). Most of the group members have since devoted themselves to the study of the Dharma under the guidance of the Tibetan Temple in Binh Duong, Vietnam. This piece also serves as the Afterword for Le Lac Giao’s short story collection, "The Sad Smile of Summer".
On Wells Street in Chicago, is a sweet comedic treat.
Second City Theater for laughs and where many found their beginnings on plain stage, their life's heartbeat.
No "Phantom of the Opera" no lines, no costumes, no staging.
All actors had to do was improvise.No heavy make-up, yet one in an
instant learn how to disguise.
As in jazz, whether Brubeck or Davis, we all played off one another.
No fixed lines like Henny or famous the Smothers Brothers.
I never understood this magic of improvisation,
But once I learned it, what a phenomenal source of excitation.
This was a true gift how to act in the now.
It has served me in relationships, as I can't be a fake no how!
The censor that dances in your head keeps you from being free,
as if your head is stuck in a tree.
Most get stuck inside their heads, improvisation sets you free.
~Biography~
Poetess is Graduate of the famed Second City.
Was on stage for their Childrens Theater Troupe every Saturday for two years.
After that, moved on to be a stand up comedienne.I was trained by Tom Dreesen and Tim Reid("WKRP in Cincinnati."
I worked clubs in Chicago. Later in San Francisco, at Holy City Zoo. **Women comedians in the 1970's were not to be gross as they are now.
Tim and Tom were the only black and white comedy act ever. No grossness was ever displayed...best experience of my life!
Dedicated to Tom Dreesen and Tim Reid. Tom went on to be the opening act for Frank Sinatra and helped in the HBO movie on Frank. Also, launched The Comedy Store in Los Angeles. Both humble men....and friends,
I felt the tug, the loosening air~
Oh joy! I drift without earthly care.
I popped free with a laughing spin,
a tiny pilgrim, born of wind.
My comrades joined—what giddy glee,
dancing like colorful confetti spiritually.
The autumn breeze nudged us in its stride,
we somersaulted, tumbling side by side.
We skimmed the lakes, pirouetting on our way~
a drifting troupe, an autumnal ballet.
We rode the rivers, wild and free,
a giggling, leaf-born odyssey.
The wind grew hushed; our laughter stilled~
as though some deeper call was filled.
We felt the earth’s slow pull begin~
God’s summons soft as whispered wind.
We settled down in muted grace~
content to fade, to feed this place.
The new king is like a beautiful damsel on her wedding day
Whereby her uttermost joy came from the ring: a seal of authority
With a bright “Akoko” and the crown that makes him loyal to the royal
On the day of coronation, townspeople trodden in twos and threes
With continuous crossing cavalcades at the down town
Whereas the sounding “samba”tripani and percussion tom-tom are all talking alongside the talking drum
Giving the dancer troupe at the dance floor a direction of dance
No one can question His authority
The god of our father in proxy
And at the mention of his name, all heads bow, men and women lies prostrate – kabiyesi oooooooooooooooooo
Long may you reign
With the royal crown on your head
And the royal shoe on your feet
In your reign: birds will sing and not crow
Cock will crow and not sing
Popped in again here at the Soup
I'd spent too long out of the loop
I skimmed the blogs to find the scoop
of what's been dished among this troupe
Checked in to see a friend or two
Read lovely rhymes, on list of "new"
My own muse, dead! not much to do
In need of welcome of the crew
When words won't come, and heart is weak
and days are colored grey and bleak
when silence triumphs need to speak
You long for just a little peek
To read a poem, colored fair
and see the souls who dare to bare
their joys and sorrows without care
I long to tell them, "I'll be there."
I long to write and share my soul
this urge, at times above control
to be immersed and not to scroll
though lines of yours than can console
And so I stop my work to write
My uncle passed away last night
this sadness suffocates the light
Yet, life goes on with speed and might
A word, a thought, a single line
that all is well, a little sign
Poetic rest at friendship's shrine
I'll carry on; all will be fine.
Eileen Manassian
the potter tries to pinch happiness from water and clay
the painter seeks perfect light to keep the beast at bay
the poet keeps blue away-splashing black upon a page
the pianist strokes the perfect note where angels often play
the troupe dances in circles to keep from the darkest ledge
the father caresses a book to sweep demons from his head
the father works eighty hours a week to keep the pantry fed
the mother weaves a lullaby, then gently puts her heart to bed
the pilgrim braves a mountain where a virgin once had prayed
the fisherman casts a net of faith into the unforgiving waves
the prophet gifts a message to lift those swallowed by the cave
A mindful God crushes evil; soothes suffering, and lovingly creates.
In the liveliest REM stage of his night
Bert beholds an unusual sight.
A troupe of pink elephants sound a trumpet blast
Then stomp united towards the grass.
On the other side, a team of tall strong guys
March to the pitch with focussed eyes.
"I'll be the goalie!' Dan told Bert.
'I'm least likely to get hurt."
Bert referees. His reminder the same,
"The joy's in the play, not winning the game."
At half time, a call is heard from Phil.
"How have the elephants scored two nil?
It's not right. It makes no sense...
Football's not for elephants!"
The guys huddle up and devise a plan
To catch as many mice as they can.
When the teams take position on the green
A commotion begins. A chaotic scene!
The elephants pale to white as a goose
When all the mice have been let loose.
The guys score goals before the mice disappear
The elephants play on, when free from fear.
Bert awakens amazed and confused.
He starts to laugh, feeling quite amused.
He answers the question written on Suzanne's face.
He fills her in on the match that took place.