Long Vocal Poems
Long Vocal Poems. Below are the most popular long Vocal by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vocal poems by poem length and keyword.
This fire warms me, every bit of my soul,
Down at my regular local.
Sitting alone, all the thoughts in my head,
To ponder before they're made vocal.
And the menu for the night on the old chalk board,
Hot pasta, soup, oysters or a steak.
They even have treats for after the meal,
A meringue, ice cream or cheese cake.
Soft music wafts throughout the whole place,
Past pokies, dim lights, and horse races.
And of course, as the place fills with people from work,
It fills with the regular faces.
I sit in this seat, same time every day,
Just an old war vet of a male.
It's here i feel safe, my family of friends,
Sitting quietly just drinking my ale.
Oh how you cantilate and croon,
On pilfered beams from Mr Moon,
Quite dapper, your tuxedo tails,
Yet stolen, too, your every tune.
It's not through lack of expertise,
Or dimming strains of vocal ease,
That you're persuaded to perfect
All other's songs in grand reprise.
Such voice to set your dame afire,
The chorale king without his choir,
There inside your feathered breast,
A heart that thrums with lilt desire.
Those jealous rivals hush to hear it,
Your damsel heartens to be near it,
The grandest copycat thus known -
Of sharp attire ... and dulcet spirit.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Pick A Title, Vol 6 - Personification" Poetry Contest, Edward Ibeh, Judge & Sponsor.
(I chose title number four, The Mockingbird)
I know you are the one Song Version
Vs 1
It's hard to believe...that day
the day you came to me...
I hope you'll always stay...
Vs 2
You brought me to life again...
did the impossible...
Don't want this feeling to end
Chorus
A smile appears when you are near me...
the future now I see so clearly...
I know you are the one...
I know you are the one...
So take my hand, let's walk together...
travel the pathway to forever...
I know you are the one...
I know you are the one...for me
Vs 3
Stay with me...
let's dream this life together
there's just one thing I'm sure of
vs 2 repeat
You brought me to life again...
did the impossible...
Don't want this feeling to end
Chorus
A smile appears when you are near me...
the future now I see so clearly...
I know you are the one...
I know you are the one...
So take my hand, let's walk together...
travel the pathway to forever...
I know you are the one...
I know you are the one...for me
Vs 1
It's hard to believe...that day
the day you came to me...
I hope you'll always stay...
(repeat refrain)
I know you are the one...
I know you are the one...for me
I know you are the one...
I know you are the one...for me
repeat and fade
John Derek Hamilton
December 14,2020
revised with music and vocal added September 14,2021
The elf prophecy predicted the Shroud of the Ghost Wife would arrive
in the company of a seventeen point buck; a full-fledged stag
It was well known in Outerland, but not so much in the May Forest.
I had not expected it here. Mysticism should have told me better.
An odd moon captured my breath and held me hostage.
As the Shroud of the Ghost Wife came into my vision I tried to scream
But my vocal cords were paralyzed. I was also rendered immobile.
A terrifying feeling; one I hope to never have again.
I did not know if I was about to be snatched up and taken
To the underworld, or transported to Nirvana.
The only thing I knew was that the prophecy was real.
I sat still, awaiting my fate.
David can often be seen hot on the trail,
Of Richard Whitehead, sprinter, runner,
And was reported in Rio de Janero’s mail,
As the 200m bronze medalist, stunner.
He went to St George Catholic College,
Located in Southhampton, that busy port,
Attended Hertfordshire Uni on the page
Of mechanical engineering, to his purport.
But having joined the Army, made officer,
One day he stepped on a hidden IED,
So both his legs were amputated, better,
But he walked in no time, sports to see.
During his rehab at MOD Headley Court,
David found himself by sports enthused,
And got into swimming, basketball’s court,
Also sitting volleyball did find him amused.
After rehabilitation David did a Masters,
In biomedical engineering, at Imperial,
He inquired into an amputee’s masters -
Their prosthetics - he had opinions vocal.
At the Invictus Games he did many sports,
To win the gold in the 200 metres sprint,
And so made the 2015 IPC Euro consorts,
In Doha, Qatar, to bear the UK flag, flint.
The next year in 2016, Euros in Grosseto,
He was clipped to the line by Whitehead,
And so ran in Rio to entertain with gusto,
When he almost fell, but recovered dead.
Lo, Oh poet of mine admire;
Speak to the fire;
Converse open flame thine heart dire;
Arch-poet, ballad maker compose lovely lyric rhyme unto me prior;
Ballad singer, balladeer voice still cry;
I ballad monger, idolize beat poet, bucoliast, elegist shy;
Fair epic poet, folk singer gleeman, journey lands,
Idyllist speak unto me emerald skies;
Imagist, jongleur, laureate recite toss the voice bell righteous ringer;
Librettist, major poet, maker, Meistersinger, minnesinger;
Best-loved favored treasured vocal
closest to one's heart preferred chosen
Sightseer mishear appeal reveal wordsmith zeal
Mimic speak life Celtic minstrel bard of Avon, Shakespeare!
12/12/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
Bard Poetry
A man’s tale
With mind control there he was,
A man for sale…
Hearing the vocal sound from this wordsmith,
A man in his own tale…
Currently, he was sitting and calling upon the earth.
Prior rumors about his love for the Queen.
Yet to come would be a bard, singing for Her Majesty-
A fool wrapped in a cowardly way.
Flowers and scars sat on his floor.
A torn heart, making its way out the door.
He caresses the image of her in his mind.
This man, this bard, sang a song for the blind.
Releasing a soft note, she turns towards the sun.
Forgetting the ferocious rage of the king.
The man kneels with the light flashing in his face.
He drinks with his eyes, one moment of glee.
His headlands under the moon's winter space.
Never again, will he spend his days thinking.
Never again-
will he feel the shivers when calling upon the earth and her beauty.
Never will he know, he was the tune that eased her thirst.
A man’s tale always ends under a woman’s spell.
by;PD
It's time I was more vocal
Only so much time I can spend
With people, my friend
I love my humans
Don't mishear
I love a curry or casual beer
But over-load..
It comes too quick
On over-dose; a switch does click
I yawn, I scratch
Just take the hint
Or let my shiny watch-strap glint
Your presence,
Though I love you dearly
Has over-stayed it's welcome, clearly
I may be rude
So spare me that
And grab your scarf, your coat, your hat
I'll write a poem
When you're gone
Plonk piano keys; some solemn song
Plug me in to time alone
Recharge me
Through nature's pasture roam
My soul needs
S p a c e
To call it's own
Hear birds and angels;
Stillness caress
Not lonely in my alone-ness
Once I'm fixed
It won't take long
I'll skip towards you with a song
I'll listen, care
And be that friend
Who's right there for you, without end
(Elizabeth II 1926-2022)
Are we - crow, blackbird, sparrow -
aware of what's occurring?
We cannot tell, they assume,
but gape and gaze from up here.
This is a land with a departed monarch.
We - sparrow, blackbird, crow -
flit or sit above the richness
of that marching red regalia.
Thousands of arms stretch, sinews strain,
cameras are held aloft
to catch the start of this queen's obsequies,
such elegance, such grace.
We - blackbird, crow, sparrow -
observe orb and sceptre on the magnificent pall,
witness the splendour, the spectacle,
delight in the sound of vocal souls.
Millions have viewed that coffin.
We - crow, blackbird, sparrow - see them gaping, gazing,
with its eight pallbearers, in their blood-red flame,
as this Abbey welcomes what they carry.
(Sep 2022)
(You may wish to see also "Trooping the Colour" of June 2022 and "Coronation for a King" of May 2023)
Roll back the clock to Josef Locke
(and not before or after),
in climes where shrines have names like Knock
without provoking laughter.
My father was an army man
(and yet me to beget),
all spit-and-polish, spick-and-span,
and quite the martinet.
Those soldier boys were short on poise
in those benighted days:
the Murphys, Martins and Molloys
were raised in rustic ways.
But Duty Sergeant Kevin Coy,
vesuviously vocal,
was out to drum-head or destroy
each vermin-ridden yokel.
His boots could pass for lacquered glass,
his gloves would shame a surgeon:
his dignitas at morning Mass
outshone the Blessed Virgin.
Imagine, then, when Cousin Ben
(all NCOs were family)
provided gen beyond all ken
(with palms perspiring clammily):
“They’re on a charge. I told them, Sarge.
I threatened savage slaughters.
Le nettoyage. A smell at large
in Ballykelly Quarters.”
They hunted high, they hunted low,
they bled the radiators,
more ebb and flow could offer no
Projection of Mercator’s.
Just how to quell that awful smell
preoccupied them greatly:
hard to dispel, suspicion fell
on Houlihan, then Hateley.
Catch as catch can, they caught their man
(not Higgins, or O`Hara):
who’s down the pan? None other than
your man from Connemara.
What Ryan knew was equal to
a peat-bog sown with barley:
he’d not a clue – “What? Put on new
bejeezers, regularly?”
His first long-johns remained the ones
adorning regions nether:
six months now gone, he still had on
the same ones, altogether.
“Wear other pairs? These stink – who cares?”
What’s harder to believe
is, unawares, his thighs’ black hairs
had grown quite through the weave!
“He’s now cashiered for being weird –
why then, we’ll depilate him.”
His locks were sheared, and then his beard,
and pubis, seriatim.
Thus Ryan, Sean, of Shirley born,
his gonads wholly hairless,
is there to warn, so sheerly shorn:
a lesson to the careless.
Whatever sins the Pope rescinds,
or parish priests connive at,
sloth never wins. Redress begins
with Shaving Ryan’s Privates.