Long Virtuoso Poems
Long Virtuoso Poems. Below are the most popular long Virtuoso by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Virtuoso poems by poem length and keyword.
On a shattered pebble beach my kernel,
becomes this dervish dancing to the maniacal symbol rash tune,
of inchoate monsoon grass beat timpani,
that’s dimly frowned on by sonic virtuoso,
but terms like briny carrageen sea sweep gain purple splotch kudos,
I gaze with indigo ocean eyesight,
at sheer rock face sunken mould gradient,
where faculties solicit august maxim,
from eternal parchment, grain whirl sand dune smorgasbord,
mud-strewn psalms primed and pumped by ebbing sotto voce stream,
gust smitten lighthouse whose solitary pulsing wink always welcome,
syntax that gray matter genesis scorned geoform tag,
I scribble quintains in a quagmire that ooze magma inkling,
prose stolen from jagged facet incline or whatever,
has this elemental moment turned ghost writer by sixth sense?
saline vista swung pivot on tsunami doorway,
brackish carcass rife with clamped seashells as mirror,
weather-worn thoughts skim eccentric apex,
behemoth undertaker facing self-scripted gauntlet,
but this pilgrim shall yearn evermore imbibing loose mist,
with marble slab as jotter and squid ink another fountain pen,
who really knows what tidemark gems may yet surface,
do metaphors sequester diurnal cycles like day/night swop?
rhetorical or not this lambent aspect must be met on grit-etch blue boulder,
vice-grip of visual plunge belies gravity,
yet this blustery conundrum is just this water drop,
something inconsequential for one clutching at faint will-o-the-wisp,
pepper-strewn haze does obstruct linguistic odour,
despite a caustic rebuff from deep down warden as inner slant,
zany whirlpool blob grasping at ambiguous twill plume,
faraway tangerine canvass might stir tongue-tied raw sketch,
ingenious quest might throb for charmed portrayal,
nought shall thwart this dreamer off-course,
spectral pantoum, geometric quatrain, jewel-crust tanka,
prolific silken sentient suzette an overarch odyssey,
regardless of vernal totem, sumptuous literary harvest,
with its dogged catalytic compass point,
to maunder without curb despite prevailing opus storm,
sculptured outcrop on an apt idyllic text,
once off ephemeral from boundless paragon,
a colour burst vocabulary pending but when?
As I fall asleep the delicate icy fingers legato up and down following the flowing countryside laying the crystal masterpiece a winter’s virtuoso with the shortening days and abundant harvest inside Awaking and shivering again I do wonder will I ever catch the lacy hoar frost in the act seems far away like the dreams of summer for wet days drown out the intricate icy track and the tickling ivory is overtaken by the light snow I’ve never seen a leaf changing or caught Jack playing
The Tramp Persona
Who was this boy, a pauper born?
Existing in despair and continual forlorn
Scandalized, accused of communist sympathies
Encompassing both adulation, and social controversies
Charlie Chaplin how can I take you seriously?
Chucklesome slapstick injecting tragedy
Awkward, little mime tugging at the heartstrings
A cathodic empathy he brings
of all those around him, a famous clown
A wiggled walk, a cane, a grin, a frown
The Great Dictator, as plain as black and white
In the struggles against misfortune, the tramp persona typified
A virtuoso kid he found at a hall by chance
A four-year-old child, he saw him dance
A gift he gave to us, a sharing alliance
The Tramp who mastered the power of silence
I was hardly aware of a crisis because we lived in a continual crisis; and, being a boy, I dismissed our troubles with gracious forgetfulness. —Charlie Chaplin, on his childhood
Marylin Monroe “She was a tramp.”
Without her contracts at 20th Century Fox and Columbia (which had both been dropped) who were hungry for denial and headlines. Instead, Marilyn said this:
“I was broke and needed the money.
Why deny it? Tom Kelly’s racy nudes of me
You can get one [a calendar] anyplace.
Besides, I’m not ashamed of it, I’ve done nothing wrong
I was a week behind on the rent and it’s here where I belong
I’d never have done it if I’d known things would happen so fast in Hollywood for me.”
Her candor and honesty charmed everybody
You have this sense of having met a wounded little canary not a peacock. Only when you pick it up in your hand to comfort it … beneath the wounds, vulnerability, and innocence, you find raw strength, and a big heart—I Am Anaya
Lady And The Tramp
A warm and loving story
For dog lovers, in the sense of humor
A carefully nurtured cocker spaniel, Lady
Born in New York City a Baby boomer
Natural beauty overwhelming, a pedigree no vamp
And a rakish, debonair, freedom-loving wanderer
of a dog who wares no man's collar, Tramp
With the tremulous dark vista so far and yet so near
Abandoning my defences ~ I stand in awe ~ not in fear
Virtuoso Maestro unleash
a Composition Grandioso
To Overtures of a Symphony
herald the raging storming Tempo
Staccato Strains cascading
rapid torrents of Treble and Tremolo
Rhythmic Beats a Prelude
to an intensifying Triple Time Scherzo
Silken sail unfurled I embrace the storm of your tempestuous symphony
Crashing~ drifting~ floating~ flowing~ tasting ~awakening my melodic epiphany
Effervescent chilling thrilling air as
Allegro whelms Allegretto
Electrifying sizzling Musette ~
Trills a mesmeric Capriccio
Registers booming Bass Notes
rumbling within your thunderous Vibrato
Echoing claps of thunder Prompt
a spectacular Cadence Crescendo
I release my Spirit to gratify every phantasy in its sight
The soaring Tempest of my Soul liberates its own Philharmonic flight
Inhibitions abandoned as I succumb to your Music of the Night
Footnote:
By way of musical term allegory, I have endeavored to dramatize and romanticize the Awesomeness of an Electrical Thunderstorm and simultaneously likening it to the rush of tactual Sensual, Sexuality and Emotions experienced in romantic instances. I felt that the instrumental rendition of ‘The Phantom’ Musical, aptly accentuates the trepidation, anticipation and elating sentiments portrayed in the various elements of my poem.
A few things you should know about the things I love
like the magic of watching asteroids above
the fact that I was born on Easter Day
the joy of buying a summertime bouquet
off-hours where I quietly sit at a café
talks about our Thousand Islands get-away
matinees at home or at the cinema
chunky fruit in a pitcher full of sangria
the caress of sunshine on my face
success when uncluttering my place
curls of waves unfurling on the sand
the perfect treasure found second hand
long walks along the riverbank
discussions had both deep and frank
bullseye shots that hit the mark
sugar kisses in the dark
a glass of wine to enhance dinner
games where there need not be a winner
coming first and acing all my tests
faeries who live deep in wild oak forests
biting into a big luscious peach
seaglass gathered on the beach
poppies and peonies growing in a garden
maple walnut ice cream begs your pardon
new york cheesecake that's real yummy
brownies that wind up in my tummy
incandescent hummingbirds in flight
nighttime bubblebaths by candlelight
the mystery of butterflies and dragonflies
perfume of lilacs assailing passerbys
glowing moon hanging low up in the sky
a delicious plateful that's exotic thai
a virtuoso playing the piano
the starry night painted by van gogh
hot french pressed coffee shared at dawn
the surge of nostalgia when I hear Elton John
carefree runs across wild meadows
telephone wires lined up with crows
aromas of basting turkey in the afternoon
hotdogs over campfire in the month of june
sunrise burning mist across the lake
wishes blowing candles off a birthday cake
strokes of vibrant greens in watercolour
luscious textiles that utterly feel like fur
christmas tree decorations hung
mango juice upon my tongue
a classy outfit that fits me like a glove
these are just a few of the very many things I love.
AP: 2nd place 2025
Mary was the poetess
who loved handsome Franco,
the tall Neapolitan orchestra leader;
and in Naples they met:
at The Galleria Umberto,
under the surveillance of my father...
Mary was barely eigtheen,
and writing was her only passion;
even her big, hazel eyes were
as light as the Tyrannean Sea in summer,
somehow too melanchonic as a fading moon,
which longed more for a friend than a lover!
Her first song was recorded in Milan, with a brilliant
production of composer Angelo Camis;
that song became quite popular in Capo D'Istria,
and in all the booth-shaped Italian Peninsula!
Ermanna Melli from the city of Forli was the artist
with that mellow, sensual and expressive voice!
" What's this desire? " a delicate and spontaneous love song,
captured a large audience, both young and old...
it was a song telling of the emotions of a young heart too naive,
falling in love with someone much older that she was, indeed;
and it made many people cry, perhaps recalling the time
they fell for someone as special and gorgeous as Mary's dream guy!
Mary, your song still plays on the airwaves of that radio station and although
you no longer sing it in the manner of a famous virtuoso: the visions
of your past life become too real as you performed it by surprise;
it is the jewel you left on earth for us to remember you by,
and it immesely dazzles like every rainbow in the Capri's sky...
when an unknown tenor improvises his impassioned aria with an absolute sorrow!
Mary was the poetess who dedicted her time
writing about love, but never found it in reality;
she was my oldest sister inspiring me with her creativity!
Mary had the potential of becoming great and shine,
but the tides turned abruptly and fate wasn't kind:
even today, her fearless voice comes alive through her poetry!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
I always said expectations will be the death of both of us
I made this bed and now I'm lying in it
But I was lying when I said the nails were gone, cause they aren't
Now the bloods running and where you're sleeping just looks like a ritual gone wrong
And I could write a novel of indecencies you've taught me
But no one lives to an age to read something that long
At your roots, you have me to thank
Robin Hood might have put the arrow through the apple,
But the tree put the apple in his hands
When I start admitting,
Your gears start turning like the guts of a clock
Your stares in silence drop a bomb on my mindful city
so you might be ticking and counting down until I go away,
But even a broken clock is right twice a day
But you seem like you're ready for me to go
I hope that funeral in your head that plays for me
every time you text me back
Is enough complacency to keep us attached in the meantime
But I'm sure you know the dress code!
Perfect for your soul cause it's already dressed in black
You might be the one with a medal around your neck,
But I already won the trophy months before we even met
Let's forget the change in atmosphere
Let's make this cunning crisis
Into more of a road bump and less of a mountain
Besides, my ropes are starting to give out
And feet are starting to slip
And rushing water from your fountain of youth
Is the only liquid remedy I would sip
Your earth is hiding weapons!
This icicle cascading over me
is just a knife that's unassuming if it drips
You're a shiny new thing
But with too many miles
You're such a virtuoso at filling my tank
But with what fuel?
You're in the garage of mechanic
But you can't find a tool?
I held this intervention like I’d hold a dying bird
You’ve seen the death row-ers of a prison
But you still think this was cruel?
Somehow he was made to feel the culprit
for the sins of all house trained mammalians
the breath he drew apparently criminalized
eventually concluding that 90% of the obstacle course
was the low hanging fruits of bland insanity
designed by the get it right or we rip your eyes out faction
cooking up the usual rigorous crab claw cioppino
merrily bubbling in the chamber pot of the gods
their high court of iniquity assigned me into the care
of multinational 4 star celebrity ladle virtuoso
chef Aristotle Von Nilmann grillmeister emeritus
filling bellies quilting the perpetual food chain
long since time and gluttony began
who could sizzle the eyebrows off a veldt giraffe
using no tinder or conflagrance whatsoever
his baleful cross-eyed stare having been licensed
as a terrifying weapon of mass deduction
the product of chronic identical summation
no matter the frame or gist or significance
stretching back into the dawn of conception
spasmoegomanaically in the Germanic sense
tho equally Cimmerian or Tezcatlipocian
in the universally benificently sense
a security perimeter being a somewhat necessity
in the realms of imagination that so suffuse
our incapacity to generalize other than by self expansion
it's all a bit of me has become the golf ball in the cup
and we measure existence by the elasticity it confers
angels smile upon us in spite of their frowns
for it is not all feathers and tap dancing clowns
apparently after all these aeons we can discern
that the evidence is not discerned with acuity
belting the blues like Pork Chop Annie
I can't imagine how you could listen to him
for more than 30 seconds under lunar lighting
a hoot owl perched branchwise above
says there's money on you boy
and boy replying while eating his booger
who me the me who began
or the me who began again
Former champions (World Heavyweight and Tag Team champions)
were managed by manager Solfege Virtuoso. Trying to regain
their now lossed titles
the manger withdrew them from contention
and disallowed their return match clauses.
He fired them and replaced them with new members in his stable.
He told his former proteges that they had" fell off the Horse and the
saddle had been refitted for someone who understood what winning was all about!"
He bough in "The Hoss" Barrence Gonzales
and "the Ox" Jigero BluBarb( " Ox of Oaxaca") who
were former champions in three different organizations.
Their reputations preceded them, they
were guaranteed a title match and so was the guy who was
to defeat the World Champion upon
he first match and title opp,
in this new to him organization.
The introduction of " Lavender" Capucine Ferreira bough a quietness
across the arena and it was the beganning of the end of
the current worlds champions reign.
The promoter were said to have agreed to the managers terms
only at lunchtime the day of the
television taping. Minuet Dancer the representative of
the organization spoke of A new Narrative or a Climax to
a great story". They named the show
" Fate,and Fear, ". The managers dealing bought a new since
of change
to an organization who had a championship wrestler who worked tirerestly to promote
his style of wrestling, to be defeated by a showmen who enjoyed wrestling
and could out wrest nearly any one on the chart. This only prompted the former champions
and the now fired member to unite and recreate their selves and there approach.
They sought the wisdom of Ruggero Doolins, a manager who
had been a color commentator. They wore masks and got evening jobs .
Know one thought they were who they were
after all those guys worked for another company.
Still I Reach – Memories of my Father.
My Dad — a virtuoso, once hailed among India’s finest — was one of three English gentlemen credited with bringing Western classical music to India, helping to lay the foundation for a tradition that would echo for generations.
His artistry shaped the sound of a nation, and his influence touched the lives of his students who would one day stand on the world’s grandest stages – L Subramanian (US) Zubin Mehta (Pavarotti’s conductor)and Jerry Fernandez who finished his LTCL (Licentiate of Trinity College, London) with honours.
At 58, he came to Australia, carrying with him not only a large family but the resonance of those concert halls, the applause of audiences, and a burning ambition to let his music speak here as it had across the seas.
But the stages he sought here remained closed. After countless auditions and unreturned calls, the verdict came cold: retire from music. As if the brilliance he carried, the decades of mastery in his hands, no longer belonged.
For a moment, the weight of those words threatened to silence his song.
And yet, as the lyrics say, “Still I reach… still I dream… still I ache for what might be,” he held fast to the stage in his heart – This has been captured in the song.
One year later, the story turned. The same man who had once closed the door called again — this time with an invitation to perform with the renowned Sydney Symphony Orchestra. That moment lit the fuse of a second act.
From there, his music would rise again — with the Russian Bolshoi Ballet, the Kirov Ballet, and in celebrated musicals like Hair and Jesus Christ Superstar.
This song is for him… and for anyone who has ever been told their time has passed, only to rise and prove that true artistry is timeless.