Long Awkward Poems
Long Awkward Poems. Below are the most popular long Awkward by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Awkward poems by poem length and keyword.
It was the Halloween Ball
In the season of the fall
A mysterious bachelor called
To the attention of us all
The biggest mansion party
The cooks food is hearty
The host is definitely tardy
For most of his own party
The musicians play the last dance
The men try to romance
But don't stand a chance
For the host is here! They glance
To a man dressed in black wear
In Old Spanish attire bare
The women began to stare
For he was a young stallion, a Mare
From a top the stairs he walks
The ladies gather to stalk
The man who doesn't talk
Like birds they came in flocks
He wore black clothes and a red sash
White trim and a black mask
To find a dancer is his task
But who will he ask?
The only girl not drawn to attention
Is sitting alone no words to mention
He takes her hand There is no tention
Soft as a doves wings a cool sensation
The proceed to the middle of the floor
She doesn't know what's in store
A lot of musicians come in..there is more!
Some of them rich, some are poor
He takes his tunic off then starts
The music is written from the heart
The stand at attention far apart
Then the solo with the silver harp
The drum beat starts going
They come together emotions flowing
His risque' dance he is showing
To her mind he is boasting
They move and dance like magic
For five minutes the song's romantic
The crowd watching in motionless static
The songs end was very tragic
The last beats were hard to miss
They drew close and started to kiss
For her it was a mystical bliss
His every movement caressed her lips
The awkward silence he starts to leave
The young lady can hardly breathe
She starts to faint...she can't see
The wings appeare and she falls asleep
The girl awakes in her bed it seems
In her school clothes it was only a dream
The sound of water foils the scene
Her eyes still blurry it's hard to see
She wanted this for real
Her heart is sealed
Then fate will have to deal
Her new loves appeal
She notices something on the ground
It's the wings and mask she found
And a CD blank is bound
She puts it in and the sound...
Is the unforgettable song
It was to her so long
But there was something wrong
Where did this come from?
In the CD case is an Old Engligh letter
It said "Undoubtedly for the better
I am gone with the weather
Your kiss I will always remember forever and ever
Form:
It hasn't been long
Since I've been on this Earth
And left the place to have my life start
The people I've known
The ones who've all grown
They’re all changing now, they are
Going along their path
Going to college and having kids
Or gaining knowledge with their many friends
As I sit helpless and depressed
Dormant in my bed
While my time grows less and less
And it seems so clear I see
That everyone’s doing better than me
I work for a wage
Doing dirty jobs
They push me like a slave
I just apologize and nod
I only afford pay rent with the money I make
Things don’t get cheaper, and the income doesn’t change
Sometimes I go to parties
Meet many people who’ve known each other all for so very long
I stand around, I don’t know anyone
Don’t know why I would even come
I feel complex
But simple minded
Everyone seems to easily make friends
It’s not that I can’t put myself out there
Just feel like a bother interacting with them
As I sit alone in a chair
Drinking a beer, and fake smiling along
I could see, so plainly
Everyone is doing better than me
The more I explain myself
The worst I seem to come across
I seem to rub people wrong
And I always seem to feel lost
When I frown they say I look angry
When I smile they say I look creepy
When I look at them, they turn away from me
When I turn away, they think I’m high-and-mighty
When I say hello, they say goodbye
When I say goodbye, they ask why
People wonder why I can’t just talk to people
I feel like I’m the only one who thinks it’s normal
They think something is wrong with me
I’m not the only one who’s awkward around people they meet
I express myself in all the wrong ways
Because when I feel unhappy, that’s when I need aid
Whenever I feel happy, there’s nothing I need to say
And still I look around and see
That everyone is doing better than me
I want to grow up
But I don’t want to leave everything behind
Except for who I use to be, to everyone else I’m still that guy
I wish I had friends but I suck at conversation
I wish I had success, but I need help to make it happen
If I could be who I would like to be
I’d already be that person instead of being me
I know that when we die, well go to the same place
So it doesn't really matter who really won the race
But still it causes me to grieve
Because everyone I know
Everyone is doing better than me
Courage is not having the strength to go on; it is going on when you don’t have the strength. –Theodore Roosevelt (1858-1919), 26th President of the United States
A year of heartbreak, soundless as the stars
who glitter, surreal, remembering
while we make our wishes, feel the darkness
surrounding, gentling at best…
the beautiful kiss of a lonely death,
fatalities sitting in heaven,
never listening to the falling rain,
all the clouds, the edges of each shadow,
forbidding my heart this feeling, so insane…
hurricane helene, with her deafening embrace
left hearts without the rhythm
of hope that quiets the soul,
when the thunder leaves its witness
to the darkness’ demonic twist,
the unending silence from a storm, the risk
imagine a world standing still,
awkward without her joyful voice,
darkened by fears, tears, and despair,
all the dismay that comes to those
who witness the heavens pouring out
not only the flow of rain,
but the waters so explosive
they are truly a hurricane – hurricane Helene
writing her story on our land,
fighting the mountains,
filling lives with her shouts,
seeking to break us,
with her screams and her roar,
as she raises our waters,
our creeks and our rivers,
brings mudslides that change us forever…
oh, what a story she’ll write in her journal
about the day she touched down
on this quiet, quaint home – Western North Carolina
no, we’ll never be the same…
there will always be a hesitation
when the rain begins,
an anxious foreboding,
apprehension of what might become
another Helene, another hurricane,
another rain who silences every soul
with the breath of a tempest
so out of control….
oh, my, what a tale these mountains could expose,
a story of darkness, a story of dread,
a story of fear that is filled with regrets…
how we will remember Helene
I believe… is the storm who reminded
we must always seek
the One who created us to believe,
without His protection,
we’re a people without any peace,
we’re a people without hope or grace,
we’re a people who life will replace,
with death, darkness, disgrace,
all the reasons that storms rage,
all the reasons that we have to abide…
in the love of the Father,
the hope of the light,
the peace of God’s Son,
who will heal those of us,
who’ve been touched
by the storm who taught us…
we must never give up!
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
In this evening, I wear the perfect smile, and,
you’ll quake, in the wake of my guile
Cause I’m the best liar you’ll ever meet,
Because, In a way, I swear, I’d mean it
Not, to say that I believe it, but
The intention’s there all the same
This is my confession, my admission of guilt.
Because, it’s upon good intentions, that the road to hell is built
I’m always working toward my goals, and my dreams
But, in self observation, I'm beginning to question my means
As of late, been having a lot of trouble, maintaining the tension in the telegraph lines
And for that reason, the deserving will have no honorable mention
For these wires that run from ear to ear
have been in disrepair, for the best part of the last year
And, this is my apology, as well as, a desperate plea
Because, in reality, I’m in need, of someone that can save me,
Someone to be the monkey on my back
And one who possesses all that I lack
Someone who could, with words deify the drying of paint
And, since patience is a virtue, my girl will have to be a saint
Someone who bear with me, when I beg her to stay
and then push her away
Endearingly Awkward, is all I want to be
The martyr, with out the fee
But, the apprehension in me, doth decree
My title has the need for a higher degree
of precision, and simplicity
And, In fear’s wake, I’m brought to my knees
And, despite my hearts desperate plea,
I comply, and then cease to be,
Until, love breathes her life into me
I feel poison coursing through my logic
And capitulation that could be considered tragic
I’m growing weary, of this battle,
In which my ambitions are roped like cattle,
And slaughtered, just to end up filling the bowls and plates
Of, fear, my sworn enemy, the one I’ll never cease to hate
Considered jaded by some, and boring to most
I feel the part of the silhouette, or the ghost
But, in all honesty
I am, in a word, broken.
I don’t know, I cant even begin
To tell the difference between ecstasy and agony,
Or know what to say, when asked about my identity.
in the evening, behind this perfect smile, at my fork in the road,
contemplating left, or right, and carrying a hell of a load, .
I put faith in a coin toss,
Not knowing which led to love, and which to loss,
caught in clenched fist,
And slapped down on bare wrist,
for an instant, i wonder
if this Is reprobation?
Or some road, leading to my vindication?
The future will bring unexpected things,
A woeful tragedy our heart to sting,
And though our plans be laid so well,
A power, from where we cannot tell,
Moves, or turns circumstance around,
Here giving joy there bringing a frown.
An insignificant spark, a slippery spot,
An induced germ, a misplaced dot,
Can turn someone; a group, a horde,
To bring about peace or bare the sword.
What say ye then, my wise friend you;
Is it blind fate and a little luck too:
Some random power to tip the scale,
And bring forth heaven or show us hell?
Concerning the puzzle of seeming happenstance,
Can you of the future perceive a glance?
Has it reason or design at all,
Can man influence how 'fate' must fall?
How helpless then we tend to be,
If we be pawns in a random sea,
Where utmost effort is brought to naught,
A battle comes that would not be fought,
And all this turns on the merest flick,
Of someone's seeming uneventful trick.
Who can approve such an absurd display,
Of struggling mankind's effort made,
And undone by a change of wind,
The toss and turn of chance to send?
I will not accept such an odd charade
Of appearance too early or too late,
Of a random force that turns my way,
Into some strange and awkward play.
I choose a design of great import,
A meaningful kind, of a rational sort:
With a purpose far above the crush
Of humanity's desire filled headlong rush.
An intent supreme,of a virtuous kind,
With purer motive and reasoned mind;
To set things right and bring an end,
Far more desirable than chance can pen.
To vindicate the cause of all,
The pain, the strife, the rise and fall,
Of man's travail from then til now;
Though to prove it to you, I know not how.
Please bear with me and consider this,
Lest some good purpose we should miss,
Could the answer be thus simply stated:
"By Him and for Him they were created"?
The purpose of creation and the Adamic fall,
Could glory for Christ be the reason after all?
More magnificent a claim cannot be made.
No more noble reason for existence laid,
Than for my existence to be,
To glorify the one who is most Holy.
The Spirit written text does make the call,
Of one Lord supremely over all,
With a secondary purpose in mind,
Of a merciful and a redeeming kind.
All wrapped up in this purpose too,
Could be salvation for me and you.
I ask you now, does this ring true,
Creation made and with good purpose too?
I see it now
flying low
over silver-spumed waves.
I am a watcher
I can enlarge the picture
zoom in
look into bright midnight eyes
as if it were I
that propelled it.
Spreading bright foils
catching the billowing blows,
a clean swell-rigged clipper
sky-sailing sailor
tacking to gypsy winds.
Within its avian breast a magnetic compass
on a pivoting gimbal,
soon to make a terrible landfall.
For a ship came upon it
a craft arrayed in the guise of a cruel crocodile,
snagged from the air it snared the voyager.
A ship blighted by its own wake,
a very flowering of evil.
A wandering navigator brutishly used,
deckhands bundling broken wings
bound it as if a flopping fish,
gaffed its body open
to a hollow of hope.
I also recall a monstrous time
inside a crocodiles smile,
a time when poetry
was cut from my lips.
Yet here I am flying
in an airplane looking down
upon England,
following an albatross
only I can see.
Few crocodilians in London
yet more perilous reptiles there,
I shall have to take more care,
plot a fairy-tale revenge
with Peter Pan’s time-frozen statue.
At last to Paris
a windborne glide tracking a dream
of slow rowing wings,
there to dine with a restless ghost
who knows well enough
how dangerous monsters
can be
on land and sea.
There to restore myself
with Baudelaire.
to remake over
an imagined albatross of a life,
return it to humanity,
should it ever want to be
that flightless.
~~~~~
“Often to pass the time on board, the crew
will catch an albatross, one of those big birds
which nonchalantly chaperone a ship
across the bitter fathoms of the sea.
Tied to the deck, this sovereign of space,
as if embarrassed by its clumsiness,
pitiably lets its great white wings
drag at its sides like a pair of unshipped oars.
How weak and awkward, even comical
this traveler but lately so adroit -
one deckhand sticks a pipestem in its beak,
another mocks the cripple that once flew!
The Poet is like this monarch of the clouds
riding the storm above the marksman's range;
exiled on the ground, hooted and jeered,
he cannot walk because of his great wings.”
- Charles Baudelaire
Dear New Poet,
Modern poetry to me engages readers in seeking their own deep or higher meaning to life experiences. It utilizes symbolism imagery and varied verse that speaks to intellect and emotion.
The best advice I have is that which was given to me:
1) Read all types of poetry every chance you can. Make notes of poets you like and why; note poetry forms that appeal to you.
2) Make lists of words, expressions, phrases you find fascinating, interesting, anything that grabs your attention. Also, keep lists of new words and definitions. I use phone apps for notes, lists, thesaurus, dictionary.
3) Write about your own experiences, beliefs, life. Write in a quiet place. Jot down whatever comes to mind, your feelings. Anytime you get an inspiration, write it down, record it. Those thoughts you just know you will remember forever will float away in no time at all.
4) Experiment. Try different word placements, edit edit, edit. Leave it for awhile or overnight. Edit again. Read your piece outloud. Pay attention to awkward points and edit those.
5) Have fun with it. Throughout the day, observe situations and people. Be open to suggestions and critiques. Poets never stop learning.
A workshop assignment led me to poetry at a time when I was emotionally on overload. Besides being therapeutic, writing poetry gives me a sense of accomplishment.
Favorite THEMES include the joy and pain of 1) Love, 2) Family, 3) Sobriety, 4) Death, 5) Nature.
My favorite REFERENCE sources are: 1) rhymezone.com, 2) howmanysyllables.com, 3) PoetrySoup Cliche Finder, 4) smallseotools.come, 5) shadowpoetry.com
Favorite poems I have written are: 1) Grandsons, 2) Absence, 3) Remembering Johnna, 4) Lady, 5) Surrender or Die, 6) Pocket Watch 2, 7) Time Of Us, 8) No More, 9) Girls of Halloween, 10) Halloween Birthday.
My literary BACKGROUND: Always an avid reader, journalism courses led to newspaper editing and reporting. After 25+ years of a successful medical research and transcription career, physical problems forced a change. As a member of a local writers group, two short stories were published, and in the last few years, as an aspiring poet, several poems have been published.
Possible Title - Let Your Poems Say It For You
May 15, 2018
Tips For Modern Poetry Contest by Line Gauthier
Third Place
Metamorphosis: a word for butterflies,
Said the science textbook in school,
Positive transformations connoted her young soul.
Age brought in a new realisation,
Life, a one-way road with two destinies,
The darker one a metamorphosis too.
The endlessly bleak days,
Dwindling success,
Slipping confidence,
Broken dreams,
The road to change now a narrow old bridge,
Fragile and frail to support her lofty dreams,
Permanency etched in this new route,
Metamorphosis it was; not a passing phase.
Yet, butterflies her eyes chose to see,
Bright pupils midst tear streaked face,
Light shone on the narrow bridge,
Carefully she lugged her weight.
The caterpillar crawled, awkward and slow,
The bridge creaked, threatening to break,
Yet held on to this struggle everyday,
Patiently trudging to the light ahead.
Metamorphosis, still a double-edged sword,
All her struggles could tip her either way,
Yet, she chose the route with pain,
Trying to metaphorse yet again.
She knew it was a story of win or die,
A second dark metamorphosis she wouldn't survive,
Yet this turnaround she chose,
To gloomy life, she refused to bend.
Cocoon she became, the saddest soul alive,
Tears became her appetite,
Broken she was in a thousand pieces,
Her delicate spirit a ruined mess.
The pain made her numb and weak,
Shallow breaths and fiery cheeks,
She closed her eyes, her bright pupils gleaming,
She felt her soul float, she felt existence cease.
But, most of all she felt her eyes open,
Her lips curved a natural smile.
Wings she bore as beautiful and delicate as her spirit,
Her body she felt, weightless and symmetric,
Effortlessly, she flew upwards,
Gliding through the wind, peaceful and sound.
Embodiment she now was, of beauty and success and all things gold.
Bleak fluorescent rooms a thing of the past,
The bridge her metamorphosis, the pain her badge of honour,
She knew it was her destiny, sweet success and enchanting beauty,
She wasn't made for this toil and grub.
Yet, that was her life, the struggles and the pain.
She was now, an angelic dream,
A lover's ballad, a sailor's home.
She was a child's wish, a fairy tale,
A land of exotic fruits, a colourful maze.
She was a drug, an elixir of life,
An ecstatic dream, a virgin queen.
She exists as immortal bliss,
Her scent seaming all earthly souls.
a flash of light ...
thunder clapped like cannons as
into the old tree
we scurried ...
the mouth of its little
hollowed-out gut, yawning like some
tired old man from a Dickens story ...
perhaps the chin of the
ghost of Jacob Marley, let loose in
horrid fashion from its
binding bandages ...
the soft pine-needle
floor of the space inside was
long enough to lay down on,
but not very wide,
so we squeezed together like shoes
in a box, rain pouring all the more,
and dripping off the scarred
cedar bark onto her coal-black,
jasmine-scented tresses -
damp ponytail resting coyly
on my bared shoulder ...
what now?
I could tell we both thought,
and the question hung in awkward
silence between us,
rain pattering like mice on a tin roof,
her almond Taiwanese eyes
looking at me for reassurance,
though I had no more experience than she in such situations ...
still, I crimped the edges of my
mouth up in the gentle attempt at a smile,
and she returned it, eyes
sparkling with a "yes" ...
odd, that we had
barely reached our teens,
for what came after that first shy, testing,
cotton-candy kiss, played out like
some grand romantic movie
on the big screen,
becoming a magical dance of
confusion and excitement,
and frightened, fumbling flesh -
a rain-spattered, dreamy
interplay of limbs that
seemed to hold time in its place …
'til we emerged hours later into
the golden glow of dusk,
covered in soft scratches and pine needles,
in a sweet post-passion delirium,
and quietly walked home,
(in different directions),
through the dimming mist,
never to speak of it …
again ...
well …
she moved away with her
family not long after, and though we had
promised each other to
stay in touch, I only received one post
card from her months later,
telling me about a boy she'd met,
and how they'd kissed on
their first date ...
as if what had taken place in
that old tree, deep in the
woods that rainy July afternoon,
was no more than a lark -
no more than a dream or charm or
thistle on the breeze ...
except ...
it WAS more ... for me
it was the most REAL thing -
the most tender thing,
the most precious
and sweet
and life-changing thing ...
it was the most fearfully beautiful,
most wonderfully frightening,
most exquisitely complicated thing,
that I have ever, ever ...
known.