Long Unplayed Poems
Long Unplayed Poems. Below are the most popular long Unplayed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unplayed poems by poem length and keyword.
Hope, are you still out there?
As buoyant as the blue?
Plight and poison, pine to pare!
Dark fire, burn me new!
Chains a-causal, wrap us tight!
Flicker as you fly!
O Erebus, bid good night!
Light of spark, bely!
Wind atop the pinhole shade?
Machine, marmalade!
O for games as yet unplayed!
Belladonna, bade!
Torment of the tornado?
It spins unevenly.
Swiftly flies the dappled roe!
Io, lost at sea!
Rejects of line, assemble!
Serry thou thy ranks!
Sing in we, O brazen bull!
Soldiers, guard the tanks!
Salvage operation?
It helps to pay thy rent.
Sacrifice! Such songs to shun!
Queen Dido, where went?
Rage and riddle, red rook rhyme!
Roundabout and reel!
Prisoner, what is thy crime?
Show them how you heal!
Plight and passion, prickly pear?
Pyramid, receive!
Load on my back, burr to bear!
Ricochet, reprieve!
Harpy star in skies of grey?
Onward, O hounds! Bay!
Poison pill, debt to repay?
Crucible and cay...
She left, and took the season with her breath,
Now every corner murmurs only death.
The walls have drunk my cries, the floors my fall
And silence is the loudest ghost of all.
The roses rotted black beneath her gaze,
Their thorns remain, to mark the better days.
Her gown still hangs where moonlight dares not tread,
A shroud for all the words I left unsaid.
The portraits weep with eyes that mimic mine,
Condemned to stare through time, unloved, malign.
Each step I take replays her parting sound
A heel, a hush, then absence most profound.
I walk through rooms she left without a glance,
Each one a tomb where echoes dare to dance.
The curtains hang like grieving widows’ veils,
And even air seems thick with whispered tales.
No light beneath these eaves has dared to shine
Since she renounced this house, this heart of mine.
I keep her final note, her shadowed veil
The script of sorrow death itself set pale.
The stairwell groans beneath my every tread,
As though the house still mourns the love we bled.
Each creak, a curse; each step, a dirge unplayed
A hymn for all the vows we once obeyed.
The wind slips through the cracks with aching grace,
As if it seeks the echo of her face.
It curls around her chair, her empty place
And leaves behind the scent of her erase.
She was the storm that broke me into prayer,
A requiem I breathe with each cold air.
Now love lies buried in the earth below
And I, its mourner, dressed in endless snow.
What good is the wave, if sails,
It awaits no means, destination.
What good is the tide,
If it rises and falls over sights of unpleasant expectations.
What good are words,
If it's origin comes from unproposed intentions.
For even, has man never danced from unplayed strings
Nor played from strings that cannot be danced of.
What is beauty,
If the beholder views from strays?
What is love,
If well known to man, remains unknown to him?
What will it be,
If time ticks randomly to unachieved desires?
For even a time enjoyed wasted is never wasted.
How do you make bridges?
Is it not by breathing while you have the woods behind?
Does not one path open a way for another?
So why does one need his ribs to make strings
When the twines are beneath his covering?
When life hovers over to inquire of you
Be sure to give it your best
For you cannot know
If your best can be best enough.
Digital Regret
Smoke filled the room as dark shadows play,
A man sat lost, day after day,
With a mouse gripped tight in hand,
In a pixelated world, hes made his stand.
The hours slip by like grains of sand,
While laughter faded, a distant band,
His son grew tall, his daughters too,
But he was blind to the life that flew.
“Just one more quest” he’d often say,
As the sun dipped low, then slipped away,
Sons ball lay still, untouched, forlorn,
While dreams of fatherhood were slowly worn.
His wife, once vibrant, now a ghost,
Her laughter silenced, her heart engrossed,
In the echoes of anger, sadness, despair,
He wore his headphones, oblivious to her stare.
She packed her bags with a heavy heart,
But he was lost inside digital art,
The windows screeched as she tossed out her bags.
A life once shared, now rancid and sad.
“Where did you go?” he’d whisper in vain,
As the quest rolled on in his endless game,
Some quests were conquered, the battles won,
But the real-life journey had come undone.
Now the house is quiet, the walls close in,
He’s old and weary, where to begin?
His children are grown, their laughter a ghost,
And he’s left with memories but he can’t even boast.
He stares at the screen, but it feels so hollow,
A life unplayed, no path left to follow,
Regret is a shadow that lingers near,
A haunting reminder of all he held dear.
In the silence, he hears the echoes of pain,
The love that he lost, the joy turned to rain,
And as he sits there, alone in his room,
He realizes too late, he’s sealed his own doom.
So here’s to the moments we often let slide,
To the laughter and love that we push aside,
For life is a game, but it’s not about score,
It’s the bonds that we cherish, the hearts we adore.
Reason is a tool,
it can not escape the boundries of calculation as oxygen departs from blood,
logic operates on the body of algorhythems thumping along trails of faceless fates,
reason is a scavenger of possibilities matured into conclusions born from imagination,
without formulas to navigate the maze of Life's elasticity reason becomes music unplayed,
reason needs it's parent of the playground so to construct a kingdom worth caring for,
provided with an objective it can flourish as seed to stem, highlight the heroics of heaven,
Love is a hope,
confidence to dream is what it encourages, to orchestrate talent into the physical dimension,
love is the currency paying the mercenary of reason for a fort captured or erected properly,
schematics of soul lust, blueprints of God's sandbox gives direction to the 'chain reaction' of destinies,
where would purpose go to if denied sojourn in the mansions of love's capacious creativity,
love is the roadway feeding the logistics of our egocentric reason, the part of us seething for results,
tragedy is when love fails to convince reason to trust in adaptability, when smiles fail to persuade tears -
J.A.B.
Silent strings, once vibrant song,
Melodies hushed, where echoes belong.
A master's touch, forever stilled,
Rajeev Taranath's legacy is forever chilled.
Dancing fingers, now lie at rest,
Ragas unplayed, a silent test.
The wisdom passed, a lineage strong,
Yet music's heart now grieves the song.
Traditions held, a fading light,
The past is preserved, yet shrouded in night.
Improvisation's flame, a flickering spark,
Leaving a void, a lonely mark.
No more the sound, painting stories untold,
Emotions were silenced, and a heart turned cold.
The human canvas, draped in gray,
Taranath's artistry is forever at bay.
Challenges faced, a victor's crown,
His passion's fire, forever unbound.
Souls untransformed, a melody unheard,
The sarod's silence, a weighty word.
No loving caress on the waiting string,
A maestro's life, a broken wing.
The past honoured, a future unclear,
Taranath's memory was a precious tear.
Though death may claim the maestro's hand,
His music lives on, in every land.
A final note, a whispered sigh,
Rajeev Taranath, forever nigh.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You cannot escape the responsibility of tomorrow by evading it today. - Abraham Lincoln
Silence gathers like dust
on the piano lid—unplayed songs folded
into brittle paper wings.
The hummingbird feeder hangs empty,
sunlight glinting off dried nectar.
Each day our hands relearn
the slow syntax of stiffness.
Morning pills rattle accusations
in amber bottles. Who will read
the warning labels when our eyes retreat?
Childless. No daughters to decipher
our fading ink. No sons
to steady the wobble
of ascending stairs. Lincoln’s shadow
lengthens across the porch:
Tomorrow arrives hungry.
You cannot feed it yesterday’s excuses.
We scan horizons for villages
built of shared tremors
where neighbors become
soft euphemistic nouns—caregiver, listener, stayer~
before the light fails completely.
"Wise Monkey"
I am tired
I am so so tired
Just sit for a while
See no evil
Hear no evil
Speak no evil
Shut my eyes
Listen to emptiness
Don't speak
Shhhhhhhhhhh
I am tired
I am so so tired
Just sit for a while
Watch my world
go bye
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
"Stone in Focus" / Aphex Twin
https://youtu.be/q86g1aop6a8
"Just Fall Asleep" / Aphex Twin
https://youtu.be/2gNtuY4VAOA
bye.
Definitition.
Bye1
- the transfer of a competitor directly to the next round of a competition in the absence of an assigned opponent.
- a run scored from a ball that passes the batsman without being hit (recorded as an extra, not credited to the individual batsman).
- one or more holes remaining unplayed after a match has been decided.
Bye 2
mid 16th century (denoting a side issue or incidental matter): from by.
Bye 3
Exclamation:
short for goodbye.
Bye 4
prefix
bye- 1. subordinate; incidental; secondary.
"by-election"
In the rush to satisfy
one must think of himself
even to quill the need
of pleasing it's best to consider
yourself
The first of many
Nowhere near the last
an ongoing process
taking it's time
never to slow or to fast
Sensual and pleasing
consuming the wasted time
everything is everything
,meaning everything is just
, fine
I'll let you know
I'll let you know
I'll let you know
Traditionally it's viewed as
Something for someone else
We see it as us case I want you
For myself
Yet to satisfy I can't lose sight
of loving me
If you don't love me were through
That just how things are gonna be
Goes Out to the following
The Yes Person
The Empath.
The Chameleon
The Entertainer.
The Busy Bee
The Perfectionist
From" the Song of the Unplayed
Flute"
By: The Whims of Love
and the Exploiters
"Tryna not be one of the hurt ones!"
In the depths of his soul, the gentleman keeps chords of silent harmony,
each key a secret, a universe of sounds that will not be uttered.
He carries in his heart an orchestra of dreams that need no stage,
for true art lies in the silence between the notes, in their unplayed state.
Like a magician of silence, he weaves untold stories in his gaze,
unheard chords that dance in the air like butterflies at dawn.
Each of his gestures is a silent symphony, an invisible poem,
unfolding in the depths of his being, without the need for applause.
In his silence, he hides the sea of sounds that could resonate,
but his elegance lies in the art of keeping the music just for himself.
Just as the moonlight caresses the earth without setting it ablaze,
he leads his existence, a gentleman of silence, of perfect calm.
In a world full of noise, he chooses to be the silence that speaks,
a poet of unheard sounds, an artist of the absence of noise.
And thus, his beauty is not in what he plays, but in what he withholds,
a master of the inner chord, of music that is never revealed.