Long Audience Poems
Long Audience Poems. Below are the most popular long Audience by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Audience poems by poem length and keyword.
The people surrounding me keep asking “why are you going back and forth uneasily on the empty stage shedding crocodile tears, and telling the stories of negative effects on others, though you are not of a man of faculty who is even able to produce a theory comparable to 'Blind Will of Universe', one of worst hypothesizes a man can think of.
It’s because though,
when a worldly-minded snob shouts from a podium
“you should have a positive attitude,” while displaying
his resume proudly with the title that is little-to-do with his personality,
his limited academic background that barely conceals the lack of intelligence, and insignificant accomplishment with somewhat concocted experience hiding his real being and thought, he receives respect from the audience who fascinated by every movement the snob makes in the form of applaud with standing ovation, I was always treated badly from audience, fed only by unwelcome astringent fruits of rejection and drink bitter tasting water sprang from unwanted rotten roots to quench my desire…
And that’s why the course of my reasoning became negative,
and, as a natural consequence, no matter how often you may say
to the audience “you ought to be a person of positive attitude,”
since there are more negative aspects surrounding us than
the positive elements, and that’s why I was accepted by
others negatively. More importantly, I was treated negatively
from others simply because reality goes before me.
Although positive thinkers boast themselves as if their thoughts are
sound and healthy, by saying that the water in a cup is half full;
negative thinkers sigh with a defected air and say that a cup is
half empty. However, it doesn’t make any difference how you think,
men’s thoughts cannot surpass the physical phenomena
and, therefore, a half is a half, no more nor less than a half.
In the boundary and limit is as such, whether you like it or not,
men have to go on the path of their own destiny.
Then, why does everyone has to have a positive attitude? I suppose,
that is, not more than a writhe of the men who won’t admit reality
in desperate agony. That’s the self-gratification of men
who are not able to face the facts as they are.
[The irony is, nonetheless, man is able to bear and raise a baby
by an act of self-gratification. It’s amazing, the world is a place
full of wonders.]
The elegant thoughts of a precious mind the computational formula of a wicked demise.
Conceptual seires of theories a conspiracy to seduce persuasive succulent poetry.
Wicked mistress of promiscuous thoughts succulent dreams aromas of fresh gratuities a blurring of mixtures to blended abstracts.
Funnels draining the gravity of intellectual force to persuade a complete set of cycling ways to convey. The Amoure of flashing movies pictured all in the thought whispering speeds of domesticating breeds many ways a heart bleeds. Bundles of delightful Joys the taste of blissful, many ways eye's see to conceive the thought.
The almonds of joy roasted to enjoy conceptual way of a thinking blinking fast ways of thoughts. Orchestra's of notes orchestrated instruments of Beethoven's musical symphonies. Genie in a bottle unleashing the mysterious, unveiling imaginative ways of cultivating the seeded flower to bloom.
Enduring the elegants of an elite Romance rhythm of a Romans aroma's to inhale changing the taste of eloquence.
The artist works mending fears transducing hours to love live love with the sweat of fears8.
Rome's architectural wonder the protects precise sculpture of a wordsmiths glamour. Struts the catwalk with a book 2 premiere, lives on set, broadcasting his heart to revere.
Prince's of prancnig dressing rooms, Broadway St of dramatic dramas, elterically shocking emotions paints new moon phases, mixture of Picasso's colors a dramatization of pain seats the audience.
Photographer of a pictured humanity, colors rainbows of negativity with brilliant prisms.
A King to lion's spiritual pride brilliance of a star, rearrange the theater's of studed premieres, lives with sentiments of love's lifetime unconditionally the greatest of philosophy.
Unique elegance of sun setting romance blinding the artist of a premiering wedding, preaching the marriage of universal energy.
Rays of hope displaying poetry of wholehearted hearted beauty.
The statue of persuasive values premiering spiritually harmonies the elegance of mankind.. Energies of unleashed imaginations dreaming of pots of gold, loving the insecurities of the worlds diversity walks the testimony of £ove.
?U N I V € R S € ?
{INT€R CONN€T€D}
°O ? N S € £ F°
Pen's Broadcasting Brilliance
21st century's Poet
#WickedRomancer
?#poet #poetry #poem ?
Me think it's true that one day time shall be no more. Me think that 'mere oblivion' may be the dying wish
of those claiming to be 'master of their own ship'. In eternity's world, there can be only 'One Master'.
Me think it's not true that all the world's a stage. Notwithstanding, there are scenes enough to amaze,
and no shortest of interesting parts and people to engage. A broad stage where all may and ought have their say.
But also narrow stages that invite trouble, darkening our day. A world of 'make-believe feelings of reality' that we wish were true.
Platforms and plots enough for all, including me and you; plenty of room for the many and the few; and gifted works, old and new.
Human drama is broad and twisting; faithful as the morning dew. May all captives of ignorance and fear be released from their cage.
Last scene, last act; and for the last time, the curtain is raised. The story line and character performance left the audience ablaze.
A staged world, one so predictable, pristine, and finite. Eternity's world is a never ending story, and another page. 03242017; Premier Contest, Brian Strane
THE CONCERT
The members of the orchestra had each gone to his chair;
The audience was waiting now for the conductor there.
And when he stepped on to the stand, applause was heard, and then
He lifted up his white baton and music soon began.
It started out quite beautiful, each person played his part,
But soon some went on their own way; they thought they were
more smart.
Some put their music on the floor and stopped playing at all,
While others stared around the room at all the lights and walls.
Some started playing other tunes, some played too sharp or flat,
Some even talked among themselves, some even got in spats!
The leader was beside himself, not knowing what went wrong,
For he had planned this concert night for oh, so very long.
And now he was embarrassed by the actions of the band;
He tried to calm confusion there by raising up his hand.
The members of the orchestra just went their separate ways
Each thinking they were doing right with music they did play.
The audience was quite disturbed, for what they came to see
Was surely not a show like this confusing, sad melee!
This story is a parable of Christendom today:
We started out as one in Christ, but each went his own way.
Denominations, sects, and cults, all claiming to be right,
But all they do is disagree on everything and fight.
We can’t agree which Bible is God’s word for us today;
We can’t agree on how to sing and sometimes how to pray.
We can’t agree on baptism, security, or gifts;
It’s sad to see how very far from early truths we drift!
And some have even now denied the basic gospel truth
That many died for in those days of the church’s early youth.
They say that Jesus was not God, the blood was not required,
Or say that there are other books that God has now inspired.
They say that hell is just the grave, that Mary is the way,
That purgatory is a place where we could go someday.
Yes, many doctrines have crept in; just like that concert hall,
It’s hard for many to believe there’s any truth at all!
Yet our Conductor wants us back! We have a job to do!
If we would follow as He leads, what impact we could view!
It’s time we got back to the Lord, Conductor of our life,
And put away these selfish ways and arguments and strife!
It’s time to come back to God’s word, not ideas of man,
And follow our Conductor, Christ, and trust His guiding hand!
EDDIE MARS AND THE SOLAR WINDS
The biggest band in Lisburn and fronted by Eddie Mars
A guy who could play anything, on his collection of guitars
On vocals, Charlie Venus, who was the joker in the pack
He played his fender tele' through a great big marshall stack
On bass was Johnny Neptune, with his yellow platform shoes
He harmonized on vocal, a disciple of the blues
The keyboards were delivered, by Hector Mothership
He worshipped things electrical, and loved the microchip
Ray Uranus kept the beat and he wore a bowler hat
Sure only a crazy drummer, would adopt a name like that
They played all over Britain, with their rockin lunar style
They sold out gigs in Wigan, they were lauded in Millisle
Their stage show was fantastic, with a massive lighting rig
A spaceship and some planets, lit the stage at every gig
That grew a loyal fan base, as they played across the land
They lived a life of excess, just like any touring band
Success soon followed in their wake, awards came thick and fast
And very soon the space machine, had an ever growing cast
Five young lads from Lisburn, fifty people in their crew
An entourage of strangers that they never even knew
Five big trucks, a fleet of cars, a chopper and two planes
A man to do the finance, who didn't even know their names,
Still, fashions change, the sales dried up, the audience died away
And soon there were no big crowds, to watch the five lads play
Their last gig at the Ulster hall, was an evening to forget
Out of tune, and full of beer, as they stumbled through the set
And things got pretty messy when accountants came to call
They had no cash, they had no rights, seems their manager had it all
Their luck ran out, the band where broke, they had to end the show
They had to sell up everything, the spaceship had to go
Ray could never come to terms, with all the hurt and pain
He took some drugs and alcohol, he just never woke again
Hector went to college and he earned a top degree
And now he is the I.T guy in a light bulb factory
Johnny is the local star, who likes to talk about his fame
He tries to pull the young girls, and dine out on his name
Charlie lost his family, when the alcohol took hold
He shelters in the hostels when the weather gets too cold
Eddie left the country, when it all became too much
He now lives in Australia, but he never kept in touch
In numerous locales countrywide, they hold sway
Pirouetting at intervals like ballerinas from Bolshoi
Beauteous, feline and very feminine
Slender to the point of emaciation, not quite
Cultivating the undernourished look on a frugal diet
Decidedly austere for a longer tenure in the limelight
Basking in the fleeting warmth of an adulatory audience
A gathering of the doting kindred and the upwardly mobile
Some dirty old men on the sly, dirty young men too
Glued to their seats craning for a better view
By and large captive by choice, a handful perforce
Sitting through to pen their weekly column
Giving those they fancy their due in the sun
Witnesses to a parade of demure eyed lasses
And a few with flashy looks walking tall on stilettos
Essentially female and contoured though not prominently so
At least not to a marked degree, yet with excellent muscle tone
Opulence, no longer deemed a career necessity
Once considered right stuff, now rejected as wrong size
An hour-glass shape belonging to an age bygone
But hardly so, from the viewers’ mind, in retrospect
Enchanting and alluring yet not overtly titillating
Each in a state of dress and undress
Willing tools of designers flaunting their creations
Sporting dresses and hats and shoes, and lingerie too
In black or white and loud or subdued hues
Displaying formal wear, casual wear, swimsuits and sleep suits
Some scanty and figure hugging, others flowing and loose
A bony look required for some, others fulsome
A voyeur’s paradise, to be sure
Indulging a fetish without stooping too low
Chilly weather was never reason enough to cancel a show
Heat of arc-lamps taking care of goose pimples
Or brandy taken neat infusing the needed heat
Harbingers of tomorrow’s fashion and pall-bearers of today’s
The strobe lit platform of the pageant
Serving to launch new faces or is it legs?
The leggy look personified by Twiggy of yore
Carried through in the interim and sustained by the new genre
Captivating without doubt, and thorough professionals
Displaying unruffled demeanour and tutored bearing of thoroughbreds
Exuding confidence with every graceful step they take
Cool as ice despite the harsh glare of stage lights
And callous catcalls from boorish males
Performing in a backdrop of future fashion trends
Money and fame finding some, eluding others
Be it centre stage or in the shadows
It is bread on the catwalk for all
Although flowers bloom it’s awkward to say that they are flowers
because they are not flowers, but thorns disguised as yellow pistils
and stamens surrounded by the petals made of pieces of colorless
paper. Moreover, their fragrance bears no meaning at all because
they bloom in the night,
and each time when the scorching sun brands the cactus’ skin
it cries out loud from the pain of the thorns pierced through
it’s burning flesh to form renewed skin,
then, surprised by a heartrending cry,
the birds flap their wings to fly in the air abandoning the cactus.
However the birds may be, they only are lifeless drones
flying over a desert. And since they are lifeless, they
don’t know the meaning of life, and that’s why they only see
the thorny flowers standing open arms in the midst of the desert that is
filled with ashes of death—nuclear wastes, abandoned poisonous chemical
solutions polluted waters that drive lives to the edge of death.
To the saguaro cactus standing in the midst of man-made miseries,
nonetheless, dreamed to have an audience with
the mystic Queen of the Andes,
and in order for him to fulfill his dream,
to have a long journey toward the south moving along with the sun,
and then, after crossing the delicate line marked zero,*
climbing up the Andes for a higher ridge that is higher than the drone.
And as you go higher the wind starts to rise;
when the wind gets stronger to cut through the skin,
then saguaro’s thorns start to prick its own body from
loneliness unbearable,
and that is the time ripe for
the mystic Queen of the Andes to reveal herself
from the clearing fogs, behind the thick and heavy veil of clouds.
She appears in a dress embellished with tens of thousands of
not overly extravagant or pompous but graceful flowers that
bloom centenary.
She is the tree, immaculate and with inviolable dignity,
she bears the blooms in the serenity of the high and deep mountain.
Today too, the saguaro cactus under scorching sun dreams
a dream of seeing the elegant Queen of the Andes someday,
even afar it, stands as ever.
Enveloped in the cloud, though Queen hides her image
she has left her sweet scent behind,
in the sweet scent she left, the thorn flower saguaro stands
willing to wait another one hundred years to see her again.
*Zero: The Equator
As Artists Touching an Audience - Thoughts on Creating
Beyond the full experiencing and aims of the creative process in all genres, there are the results, the “made” productions, the works, ready to be sent
out there
from the self
to touch other people in some (any) way of giving,
the created work
presented
to affect the anyone in those moments
of being-in-audience
to an artwork (In the perceiving and receiving of it)
to any degree.
As writers, musicians, actors, artists, we are gifted through
the creative process: through
our Felt involvement
from onset to culmination of the created works
And also when we, too, pause outside artworks,
as with all perceptions,
to examine and receive, to be touched in some way:
sensually, intellectually, emotionally, spiritually, creatively…
Nearly always, then, we make a judgement
about whether we Like what we perceive
(in all of life as well) in an artist’s composition —
Here
Is the work we have met with for a time
and let reach us…
No matter how briefly, the created work
has thus gone from being some “thing”
To being an Experience.
This accounts, I think, for why artists of all genres
feel more than an ownership of “products” about the works done.
Like a god-parent might, we
artists invest our whole being into
shaping works
to the full completion of their inspiration.
And, then, (as a person does for a fostered one or offspring)
we have a bond…with a desire to follow the path and reception
of our works In the world beyond us.
Our created works poise apart from us…
very like living things…
Lost works are grieved …Others
Also often pass long periods asleep, away
from any receiving audience, even from us, the creators…
Perhaps going forgotten;
Some envisioned works crafted into reality
may return to a collection of once unfulfilled dreams,
which do startle if they eventually wander
out from dark corners and curled pages.
They may have stayed in sleep…to
serendipitously rise for notice in a rebirth
Like garden perennials signaled to stand
in Spring surprise…in a new season of a gifting presentation.
—————————————————————————
Experimental prose-poetry
also an “Address of Poetry” blog, PoetrySoup
(I give 2nd Apologies to Aristotle for this :-)
(c) sally young eslinger 3/10/22
Thanks be to God
Foundation of the piece.
Is life just a purging of the soul and to ascend to a higher plane of existence,
do you have to let go of everything and everybody you once loved or knew?
To do so?
Or would you wait to be called to join them if separated because you couldn't let go of your old life?
Title:
Unable to let go
(A lone raspy voice talks in the fog as it slithers in - to a hidden audience)
I crossed over
In March
On the fifth
In the year of our Lord
1902
And all these sad years
I've sat
Patiently waiting for her
I've watched
Our old beautiful world
Burn
Through the blackest of fire filled nights
Through two world wars
Witnessed hearts bleed
With incomprehensible need
Seen corruption and illusions unfold
Hand in hand
With greed
Out in the warm and cold
As the seduced welcomed evil into their strongholds
Watched shining stars fall
Sat thinking of my fate
As I wait
Pining asking myself
When will she call me to walk and join her through that silver gate
That I look to
Down this dark road
Every second
Whenever I think
Of her
For I've looked in
Old memories that once beckoned
Explored all the seconds and who knows
Linked to being found guilty of sin
Chased paper boats
With endless time
Just hoping
She's coping
In Heaven
And not broken in two
Like me
In this Deep Divine
But still
Perched
Upon this rock
Chained like Prometheus
I
Wait
Even though the Mendli
You lot listening
Think I'm crazy
But my old Love
Still cuts me open
Making me cling to an old life
With wild dreams of a new beginning
So angels
Forgive me
But hear me
Quick
Take my hand
And lead me home
To her
Give me the Star Fire
If this can't happen
Or you can't do it
For I fear
I can no longer
Wait
For the opening of that gate
So let me cross the burning sand barriers
Step straight through the eternal fire
For is waiting for true love
The price
Worth all this pain
As one
Moves on
And one remains
Show me a happy couple
And I'll show you the fire that ignites
And it's that light
That I pray
Keeps carrying me
On horseback
To my beloved wife
Throughout
All these
Endless nights
As I fight Father Time
To return to that old life
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Prologue:
For whoever think story telling is that easy,
Would properly from this hilarious incident,
scene or whatever you might call it, would know is not.
*****************
Just some couple of months ago, I was invited
by a friend who knows me too well, back then in
school as a funny guy and story teller and so he taught this
night, that his grand pa (who is a famous story teller
of his village) had fall sick, I would be in a better position
to cover up for his father's so called responsibility
to his people. "For he (my friend's father, Williams) is a good story teller.
But what about me who has never faced
the ample crowd with my 'cripple' tale unless sharing it with friends?" I mumbled.
In the middle of this enigma, my friend, John called me to the hot seat
to tell my tale to the unbearable crowd of adolescence.
"God why am I here this day... But it shouldn't have been this day" I retorted.
The barbarian noise from the seats infront of me showed that truly I was
in the middle of something and not lost...
"Uncle tell us a story!... Brother tell us a story!" the crowd shouted.
This day, I needed a free moment but they couldn't let me be.
"Once upon a time" they heard me said and they all resited.
" I am sorry, I am sorry let me restart it all over again".
Now in old man's voice, I told my tale before them:
"Once upon a time,
In our mothers' womb, when she
Ate, we ate. Goodnight!"
They all cannot but burst to laughter while I stood and walked to the room with my
shame.
*****************
Anything after good night means nothing more till the next day.
Maybe I escaped the night by dissatisfying the emotions of those children,
in that scene, what about my friend?
"Have I not brought shame to John's family? Did I do the
right thing that full moon night?". My heart beats!
*****************
Epilogue:
Not even do the audience remember or care to ask me: (In kid's voice)
"What if my mother do not eat while in my pregnancy, what will happen to her?" or
probably care to tell me: (Back to old man's voice) "What lesson they have derived from
the tale before their departure... Oh! No sorry, my bashful departure from their sight."
Note: The tale: "Once upon....Goodnight!" is a Haiku form of poetry.