Opera Poems - Poems about Opera

Candle Opera Have you ever taken time out to look up at the stars? They shine bright from afar. Seeing light dancing at night. Feeling spiritually grateful all the time. Looking up, counting your blessings. Through an orchestra, the wind is singing. Guidance along the path. Growing old, time goes by fast. Reach out and...

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Demigirl Definition A space between Androgyny and conventional binaries of female identity A gender not recognized by mainstream policies And subjected to the far corners of the Q+ community Act 1: Physicality I am a tangled mess of tree limbs With coils blessed by God Skin, a milky chocolate brown I trace the bumps around my knuckles My fingers map out the uncharted waves...

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Fantastical notes of gloom filled the orchestra pit Who was playing? No one was here. Except Paul. He felt spooked after searching for the source. A gremlin band, a ghost trio, a zombie orchestra? The music was deliberate, harsh, off beat, nonharmonic The hair on the back of Paul’s neck rose almost an inch He felt threatened, for he knew he...

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After a bubble bath last night I left the water running ‘O, Soapy Mio!’ Heaven help me...

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Verdi ha scritto molte opere tante quante sono le forme di pasta ma solo la pasta può essere goduto in meno di tre ore. Verdi wrote many operas as many as there are shapes of pastas but here’s a point to keep in mind: pasta can be enjoyed in less than three hour’s time. ...

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A Chinese opera singer named Chow Ling Had a voice that would set dogs to howling. Her high C, it was said, Could awaken the dead, And turn Buddha from laughing to scowling. ...

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In bejeweled jade landscape the topaz terrain rolls as wondrous waves, undulates with sculpted panorama of captivating cadence, entrenches in earthen frame the sprawling shape of a placid lake, sublimely sparkling, the shining sapphire face looking up entranced toward the cerulean sky, spread serene on boundless blankness. The southern zephyr whispers enticing melody to the rhapsodic ripples, rolling aquatic rhythm, intensely passionate, stretching in seraphic span of self-centric...

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The phantom of the opera, once bitter and marose, living in torture chambers, almost comatose, has got a new publicist. Don't write his epitaph. Now, he's bright and cheerful, signing autographs....

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The phantom of the opera was sincere, but, with him, I wouldn't want to share a beer. Not only that, but furthermore, in any case, have you ever happened to see his face? A spectral figure, clothed in red, he had no face upon his head. High o'er Paris on an opera house roof, she described that phantom...

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. The opera of loneliness by B. joycee rani ‘’the weeping eyes has started to sterile ‘’, ‘’the yellow skin with red stains ,bruises began to bleed’’. ‘’the monster of evil has me to eat’’. ‘’my mind began to rot ‘’, My heart and locked-mouth has something to tell a lot’’. My phobia of death has now gone, When loneliness carries...

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From: Now That She's Alone Story of a Man's Wanting ( the mention to play glissando and to sing aria) Do you know what to say does it make you wanna just walk away seems it's clear to me something more obviously maybe it's all in the song those glaring melodies something for ee I swear it alluded me Villainized by it's potential scammed to be exploited all in the...

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i've just been reliably informed that the manchester united dressing room was bugged before their match at aston villa it is a shocking security breach but classic sci-fi can be a bit hit and miss like my pancakes but we soldier on we have tickets for the opera as we still await to see on stage the essentials; making a...

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I didn't know what to say. For once in my life, I was quiet. I stood there, nails digging into my palms, it stang; Eyes too, tears reflect what they see; Tinnitus, blood rushes up above, defies gravity. I couldn't say what I wanted to. The lights, with a thud they jump on; Right on me, here My lips quiver, It's hot, my...

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Please don’t leave me hanging like that that, I hate to be in suspense, you piqued my curiosity and it’s so intense. Artfully teasing you know how to play, always one step ahead, leaving me dizzy and frayed, My head is spinning you think you’re winning, who’s got the last laugh? What’s all that...

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In a lattice-lit dorm room sits a writer. A discarded chemistry book lies beside her. because ideas are hitting off her, like a collider. Why does writing make her feel alive-er? Cause it helps sort out the feelings inside her? Repose is something grinding-study denies her. Now, rhyming isn't her primary desire the connections form, almost, despite her poetry’s at it best when...

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