Best Tentacle Poems
she disturbs meaning
in rhythmic pulsation
exciting to fluorescence a deeply subtext'd verse;
'but don't mistake a stinging strophe for arrogance.'
'that's just fierce presence,'
moved by waves of astonishment
cascading through a nervous and vascular system
spontaneously overflowed
sea through
with a reaching iridescent tentacle
she simply, elegantly, fluoresces a gleam in your eyes
Categories:
tentacle, allegory, nature, on writing
Form:
Imagism
Exorbitant-
extortionist,
self-orient-
red-royalties with,
oil based rents...
Ten-tentacle dresses,
head-level-leftover-ness.
"Instead of shedz we're getting into the mess,"
the fled are those who made precautions press,
loftily next.
Categories:
tentacle, blue, class, color, cool,
Form:
Free verse
During sunset reigns small blooms of blue
lovely is the enchanting azure bell flower
their tentacle roots grasp for evening dew
brightest in the midst of the golden hour
peepers sing during the long trail home.
I wish none were too old for a nature walk.
as green grasses will soon wither and die
the moon begins rising to a soaring goshawk
breezes touch the petals quivering and shy
We spend days content in the warmer times
watching lightning bugs dancing like stars
far away we hear the lovely wind chimes
a pair of Mourning Doves call from a tree
while a small Red Fox listens rather intently:
free.
Categories:
tentacle, animal, bird, blue, nature,
Form:
Diminished Hexaverse
Every step forward brings an
energised momentum. Leading
me toward a portal which leads
me to the Styx ferryman
I am confronted with this resoundingly
unique shape, the emblem of its industry.
His coffin puts out its tentacle seeking my
name
Past aisles filled with '***-ash' Lils and lipstick
smothered whore's, I walk inexorably
on. Past the row of walking stick,
benefits claiming, blue badge carrying,
hand-me-downs.
And those 'mutter-under-the-Breath' blue
veined brigade, always ready to Judge the
dress you've chosen for such a solemn occasion.
Well, today I didn't let them down!
When I get there, what I see is a pseudo-realistic
pantomime. A Frieze of alibaster-marbeled
features, a mask of barely recognisable
'What used to be'
I'm confused. Am I supposed to love
this empty form of you? Should I kiss
your brow? And taste the loss of you
on my lips.
Or enter into a pact of believing that
you lie there, waiting to kiss me back.
What I want is to be guaranteed this
will never happen to me again.
I want to be able to give my love to
someone and not have it thrown back
when their 'use by date' has expired
I want the time, before time stopped,
to start again. I want the muscles in my
neck to become unknotted and my wine
bill to become averagely normal again.
Oh, and I want his wife to know I
was the other woman
Categories:
tentacle, funeral,
Form:
Free verse
I'm a simple guy,
I like video games, music and succeeding without trying,
So when a man comes up to me and tell me he can save my life,
Who am I to turn down a free book from a generous passerby,
Strange how after hundreds of Reddit articles I find these red words the most astounding,
Each verse saturated with a truth beyond my understanding,
I embraced the scripture in my new-found belief,
Ditching skeptics and scientific contention for a biblical motif,
So with my newfangled faith I embarked on a holy endeavor,
To sift through a lifetime of personal uncertainty to uncover the answer,
I found myself under bottomless pizza boxes,
Buying time stocks from the evolutionary clock,
Discovering purpose through glimmering game discs,
Fashioning polygonal personalities into personable obelisks,
Uncovering the depths of my psyche excavating mountains of dirty laundry,
Rinse on, dry off, purging both physical filth and emotional quandaries,
Sharing walkways with speeding cars enslaved to a monetary duty I can't shirk
A journey of a thousand steps every pilgrimage to work,
My blood a bubbling brew of ambition and potential,
Yet required to surpass insurmountable credentials,
Ignoring the marked symbols in newspapers they seek to brand on my forehead,
Subjective opinions of civility and idealism dropped on me like warheads,
Cryptic predictions of personality and fate,
You think I need a dice roll to determine if I'm straight?
Countless evaluations to rationalize the psyche and soul combined,
What makes their opinion more viable than mine?
I'm taking buoyant steps upon the swamp to reach my destination,
Swapping carnality for divinity to achieve the ultimate self-preservation,
Cremating my mortality I seek to ascend,
Past primitive understanding of a purpose I cannot comprehend,
This road we walk is coated with trip-wire and paved with scorching coals,
Watch out for those flaming hours in your 5-day forecast so find the nearest foxhole,
The burden on our shoulders has already been lifted so there's no reason for us to be aching,
We're on the path to eternal salvation why aren't we skipping?
So why don't you tag along with me on this self-realization odyssey,
I can't promise explosions or tentacle-headed aliens but I know it'll at least be interesting,
Just you, yourself, me and I,
The most dynamic duo to ever breach the sky.
Categories:
tentacle, bible, hope, jesus, journey,
Form:
Rhyme
(hatched January 2008; snatched October 2010)
nature took you in her loving arms
she saw you needed rest
her garden is most beautiful
for she only takes the best
you shot to fame during Fifa 10
absolutely changing the fate of men
under intense media scrutiny
you altered a country’s destiny
your accuracy was strange
once predicted
the result could not change
the cynical may feel
it was the mussels you were made to feed
made you such a sure-shot indeed
be that as it may
you never put a tentacle wrong anyway
thus in astrological matters
you were second to none
by all standards
the world had immense fun
this poet is devastated to discover
that mystic molluse will sleep forever
you will be a hard act to follow
you will surely be sorely missed
O my beloved Oracle Octologer
no one can Predict
where in the heaven you are
Categories:
tentacle, dedication
Form:
Rhyme
hello, my name is deadly nightshade
and I bring the nightfall of scarlet fever
down the endless winding stairs
I am the cause of malice in Paris,
tentacle spectacle and bullet ballet
fear my endeavor, this is my caprice
through shifting mirrors
I'll vanish in Venice
on eve of delight
I realize, tottering
scarce but not fanciful
starlings are on their way
starlings with green irish eyes
blazing upon me as witches sing
that art of war is not the same
as war of art (among the insane)
and so crooked count sleeps unaware
through the night shift
till the dawn of flames
Categories:
tentacle, dream, imagery, surreal,
Form:
Free verse
Don't stop the CHOP
dash the glorious bits of foam and froth
let the leeward side fill
let the fertile delta pray
for mercy from Poseidon
All hail the storm God...
Angry, black-and-blue, bruise
the coast, claim the futile calm...
meditate on the black hole of the abyss
Can’t STOP the chop…
Brash and brazen tentacle of DOOM
destruction stirs the devil’s cauldron
Watch the witches brew boil over the
capes of man
removing the zen garden
prissiness of the pandering fools
Batten DOWN the hatches boys
There BE a BLOW on ‘er…
ships flail like paper boats
RALE against the dieing, FIGHT
Ride the crest on boards LIVE the fright!
Categories:
tentacle, adventure, nature
Form:
Free verse
Pink octopus turned herself into an exquisitely beautiful woman.
She had round fat circular tentacle curls and fair skin, best of all, feet.
The mermaids were jealous as Pink lifted herself out of the Caribbean Sea.
She turned and gave them a thumbs up with her new left thumb.
They cheered wildly, which was fake. They truly hated her now.
Categories:
tentacle, 3rd grade, 4th grade,
Form:
Free verse
This is not a country for living souls
Recoiled the heart lives under the enshades
Of vampire ridden nature and all its pards
On beggarly sums amassed by the pauper
Of bleakness and cold hunger and mort
Here existing we burrowing like moles
In drenched country in termite eaten rocks.
Here are no events images or happenings
But over the same the generations waste
Cobwebbed on a bold spot their anger
In rimless cups in pale lipped liquors
Time eaten tales aimed at amusing
Lamenting on their irrecoverable loss
A loss which was never their gain
Forward they go groping in search of substitutes
In hotel rooms where empty pouches hang
Over the pegs of wealth work and pleasure
All have accepted with harried hands
Stiffening nature humbly no measure for measure
Their guts hanging loose from under their stomachs
While vultures of low airs peck their brains
Piece by piece removing the gilded frowzy matter
Leaving the skull festooned and vainly waste.
The ancient cults of sacrifices still existing
Among jeremiad rules of the gushed brain
Each fang beak or tentacle of spidery web
The venom just dents entwines with its embrace
No grief for marshalled loss no pent up for soul remained
The old conscience just sleeps in arms of lap dogs
And each hour becomes just sanctified and sane.
It is not for charter of the world do we create
Burning our brain and the light of our eyes
Each image in our mind creates
A corresponding image in the space
And each line of the verse entombs
In eternity a sightless gong
Which the poet can hear with his subtle mind
In the span of his wretched life and can find
Some solace when everything significant is betrayed
When the weed choked fields of this world can claim
Their foremost place on the altar of the poesy.
Categories:
tentacle, allegory, angstnature, world, loss,
Form:
Lyric
THE DESTINY.
This is not a country for living souls
Recoiled the heart lives under the enshades
Of vampire ridden nature and all its pards
On beggarly sums amassed by the pauper
Of bleakness and cold hunger and mort
Here existing we burrowing like moles
In drenched country in termite eaten rocks.
Here are no events images or happenings
But over the same the generations waste
Cobwebbed on a bold spot their anger
In rimless cups in pale lipped liquors
Time eaten tales aimed at amusing
Lamenting on their irrecoverable loss
A loss which was never their gain
Forward they go groping in search of substitutes
In hotel rooms where empty pouches hang
Over the pegs of wealth work and pleasure
All have accepted with harried hands
Stiffening nature humbly no measure for measure
Their guts hanging loose from under their stomachs
While vultures of low airs peck their brains
Piece by piece removing the gilded frowzy matter
Leaving the skull festooned and vainly waste.
The ancient cults of sacrifices still existing
Among jeremiad rules of the gushed brain
Each fang beak or tentacle of spidery web
The venom just dents entwines with its embrace
No grief for marshalled loss no pent up for soul remained
The old conscience just sleeps in arms of lap dogs
And each hour becomes just sanctified and sane.
It is not for charter of the world do we create
Burning our brain and the light of our eyes
Each image in our mind creates
A corresponding image in the space
And each line of the verse entombs
In eternity a sightless gong
Which the poet can hear with his subtle mind
In the span of his wretched life and can find
Some solace when everything significant is betrayed
When the weed choked fields of this world can claim
Their foremost place on the altar of the poesy.
Categories:
tentacle, feelings, introspection, longing,
Form:
Classicism
This is a story about a man
who deepsea-dived to another land.
Where forests of kelp grow so high
they can almost glimpse the blue of the sky.
Where darting fish play in a waterfall,
the man followed a sea nymph's call.
She was an octopus, he was a man,
this meeting designed by a non-mortal hand.
He followed her as she gathered her meals
and when she hid from a predator's zeal.
She knew he was there but would not interfere
with her meanderings far and near.
One day one tentacle touched his hand,
and their differences fell away like the sand.
Each day they swam, he not too near,
but she always sensed his presence there.
She became a creature of magnificent grace
touching his hand, caressing his face.
Finally, she lay her body upon his chest,
her farewell gift for his earnestness.
The next time he dived she had company:
her mate, which he knew he could never be.
He watched her give birth then, as prearranged,
she must forfeit her life in sea's equal exchange.
Weaker she grew as the days swam past
until she became part of the sea at last.
The pain was deep as he watched her leave.
Their unearthly bonding he silently grieved.
He knew sea creatures' lives can be swift;
but grateful he was given this special gift.
He learned a sea creature's ability to love
a man who, one day, appeared from above.
A beautiful saga about life and the sea
and a man embraced by its majesty.
Simply told, this story is true.
A man, an octopus, and the love they knew.
Categories:
tentacle, adventure, animal, beautiful, emotions,
Form:
Rhyme
Release the shelter of bare feet,
rhinestones on big toes sparkle.
The tentacle-shine of sunwheat
on the scrapyard-swig of river.
Like a sunflower, the mudlark
shuts her eyes, complexion
surrenders to the sun’s spark
as sighs rush about cool ankles.
This lackadaisical leisure lost
to the whimsical call of wings.
Her playful ponderings defrost —
she ponytails long cinnamon hair.
Wonders what the silt will give up
today, muscles prepare for work out.
Long hours linger — she’s no buttercup.
The slow rustle of water into the pan.
The seersucker-mud like a baby’s first
shoe — she cannot wriggle out of them
and for this Eurekan-tub she thirsts.
A simmering giggle at her search.
Tinkering with the gold dish —
shuffling treasures in the round.
Precious stones ticklish,
the swishing sound resplendent.
Her ancestors with wagons came,
ready to obtain riches and lavish land,
in the cold-hearted chamber untame,
traded ditches and shovels for pans.
Their memories roar in loss of their eyes
in the tundra of time. What’s lost in mystery,
she hopes to find — their trinket goodbyes.
What was the cost, for it was not her life.
Perhaps a broach of a great-great aunt —
oh what pleasurable mint but repetition
of weeping, for surely the ghost would haunt
but it would be a worthwhile footprint.
Her plum-warm cheeks enjoy the dive
and swirl of her memory-seeking sojourn.
Her golden irises and vibrating fists survive
peeking into the melodic riverbed’s thoughts.
Her tail swings with ebb and flow of seconds,
like a cuckoo clock with precise repetition.
Surprised, the splash of a trout beckons —
his stock contained in this friendly wave.
Up and down all day securing finds of ugly
nails and twine, but then she finds a button.
A payday! It’s small and torn but lovely.
Eureka! a Victorian star, a sign of life.
3/30/2020
Categories:
tentacle, history, river,
Form:
Rhyme
The ‘Satan’s Daughter’ always knows the way she ought to go
There’s no-one left alive aboard to haul her rigging so
Her crew and Cap’n flounder on the seabed far below
But the ‘Satan’s Daughter’ sails on for she knows which way to go
The ‘Satan’s Daughter’ sets her sails in fear of no tempest
Of all the fears of sailor men it’s fog she likes the best
Though never has a lookout seen her quickly turn about -
To head into a fog; but some have seen her coming out
Only one of these survived to rave about the day
The ‘Satan’s Daughter’ thundered from the eerie, misty grey
The Captain of the ‘Godspeed’ knew he had to save his neck
When an albatross fell from the sky and crashed down on the deck
He raved about a spectacle, he raved about a tentacle
He tossed his log into the sea encased in a receptacle
So when they said, ‘Survived’, perhaps they might have stretched the truth
For when the ‘Godspeed’ sank his log was all we had for proof
The ‘Satan’s Daughter’ sails on unmolested as she goes
Unperturbed that somewhere there’s a flotilla that grows
Moving on, they had a face off midst the arctic ice
She watched those ships all go down in not much more than a trice
But what might be the spectacle and what could be the tentacle
Can a sailing ship ever be quite so reprehensible
The ‘Satan’s Daughter’ came and went and soon we’d understand
As one tentacle… and then another… crept upon our land
Categories:
tentacle, sea,
Form:
Rhyme
This is not a country for living souls
Recoiled the heart lives under the enshades
Of vampire ridden nature and all its pards
On beggarly sums amassed by the pauper
Of bleakness and cold hunger and mort
Here existing we burrowing like moles
In drenched country in termite eaten rocks.
Here are no events images or happenings
But over the same the generations waste
Cobwebbed on a bold spot their anger
In rimless cups in pale lipped liquors
Time eaten tales aimed at amusing
Lamenting on their irrecoverable loss
A loss which was never their gain
Forward they go groping in search of substitutes
In hotel rooms where empty pouches hang
Over the pegs of wealth work and pleasure
All have accepted with harried hands
Stiffening nature humbly no measure for measure
Their guts hanging loose from under their stomachs
While vultures of low airs peck their brains
Piece by piece removing the gilded frowzy matter
Leaving the skull festooned and vainly waste.
The ancient cults of sacrifices still existing
Among jeremiad rules of the gushed brain
Each fang beak or tentacle of spidery web
The venom just dents entwines with its embrace
No grief for marshalled loss no pent up for soul remained
The old conscience just sleeps in arms of lap dogs
And each hour becomes just sanctified and sane.
It is not for charter of the world do we create
Burning our brain and the light of our eyes
Each image in our mind creates
A corresponding image in the space
And each line of the verse entombs
In eternity a sightless gong
Which the poet can hear with his subtle mind
In the span of his wretched life and can find
Some solace when everything significant is betrayed
When the weed choked fields of this world can claim
Their foremost place on the altar of the poesy.
Categories:
tentacle, angst, artnature, world, loss,
Form:
Lyric