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Ode Marriage Poems | Ode Poems About Marriage

These Ode Marriage poems are examples of Ode poems about Marriage. These are the best examples of Ode Marriage poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Ode | |

Ode To Marriage

Can I have this hand in marriage dear,
Can you grace me with "I do",
Let the angels sing to Heaven,
Let my heart soar with their tune.
Let us seal our love for we two,
Let no others interfere,
Let Evil, with his one good eye,
Attempt to trick and snare.
Let Age pass on his cares to us,
For bound, we are as one,
We'll ride the heady winds of joy,
Until another song is sung.
Until another song is sung, my love;
We'll drink the drink of fools;
Let passion be our compass,
And a blinding trust our rule.
Let us plant the seeds of new life,
That through Time will resonate,
Let our names be always dear to those,
Who set them on their fate.


Details | Ode | |

The symmetry of love

How can Euclidian geometry
Describe such perfect symmetry
Such soft and velvet hills
Of love, and drink, it fills
How can such perfection of bend
Of dune that dips to dimple
Be caressed – not a ripple!
As age has passed by
Untouched, as tips of trees the sky
The blue veins tattooed
Under skin inverse to soot
Inverse to rhyme, sublime!
Warm to the touch, the tongue
The taste, the subtle kiss of peach
Always just
Out of reach
The moonlight surrounds the lines
So softly, so sable-brushed
As your sleep smiled breath
My love against soft pillows crushed


Details | Ode | |

The length of love

Yes, I am guilty, Sir,
Guilty as charged.
I confess, I confess
I know it must be wrong, Sir,
And wring it must be,
Because no-one seems to do it Sir,
Is there anyone but me? 

Yes, Sir, I confess
I must be wrong
Yes, I confess,
Yes, I wrote my love that song.

Yes, yes, confess I will,
That it is true
That after all of these years,
It is my wife that I love still!


Details | Ode | |

Ode to a Failed Marriage

 
What’s in a house if not a home?
hollowed without a soul
barren devoid of affections
worthless and insincere
painted badly in monochrome.

The husband fucking probably a ripe whore;
younger than the one he married
fresher with tender skin
vigorous and more passionate
something for him to explore.

The carefree wife gallivanting daily
frittering her hours at window shopping
squandering all that he owns
wasting valuable time worthlessly  
faking truth living like a happy lady.

She cannot wait for his demise, his estate is huge
not like his manhood
petite without enthusiasm,
diminutive which one can hardly notice
more like a hysterical subterfuge.

Both live their own ways hardly meeting at all
like ships that pass in the night
overlooking all the problems facing them
snubbing all the moral bind of marriage
expecting for something unexpected to befall.

What’s in a house if not a home?
dilapidated
corroding
wasting away
until it becomes loam.