Long Curios Poems
Long Curios Poems. Below are the most popular long Curios by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Curios poems by poem length and keyword.
He accumulates oddments and curios,
contrivances with strange gears,
attachments that bolt unlikely parts together.
Pieces of something he is structuring or
assembling, a mechanism
too intricate to be entirely recalled.
He discovers these devises
on the leeched rim of vision.
Part of his mind
burns with the light of a kerosene lamp.
He does not want to waste much light
on impossible projects,
yet slowly he feels the inconceivable
taking shape.
He imagines stumbling across
the last piece of a construct.
Fingers search for connections.
He realizes that his whole life
has been spent building something
once seen.
On sandy beaches and along fertile riverbanks,
In fecund soil and in lush green plantations,
Coconut trees stand tall towering into the sky.
They are benevolent palms at the service of generations.
A coconut tree is a marvel of creation, every part of it can be used.
Its umbrella like crown of leaves shades us from sun.
Its circular, heavy cluster of fruits enrich our bodies.
From coconut husks, coir mats and ropes are spun.
The milk-white kernel inside the coconut shell,
Is used in curries, cookies and for extracting oil.
The water inside is a healthy, delicious drink.
Its vast net work of labyrinthine roots holds the loose soil.
Its sturdy trunk is used as a support for anchoring small boats.
Coconut shells in the hands of a craftsman turn into attractive curios.
Palm fronds are used for thatching small hovels and sheds.
Thus, from foot to crown, its uses and charms are various.
If one is stressed, it is therapeutic to de-husk a coconut.
It is a fine exercise and an ideal way to de-stress.
If angry with some one and wish to tear him limb by limb,
Break a coconut and it will take away all your noxious distress.
Still if you don’t feel comfortable and are with tingling nerves,
Scrape a coconut bit by bit and by the time you finish,
All your anger must have slowly gone as steam into air,
And in course of time, you will see it thoroughly vanish!
Waiting in line until it is my time.
I wondered what I will say,
What did I do, what is my excused?
Looking apposite me,
I am curios who is she?
She looks so pale and fragile.
I know she is dead by the blow in her head.
What life she had been living, by the clothes she wears,
And the blood dripping from her hair?
I bet she will bargain, to be pardon.
The man next to me, looks very conceit.
Bet he will plea that’s not his fault he had a wealthy life,
Killed by his jealous wife.
It looks like he had an affair with the person in the other chair.
Because both are still naked, with gunshots in their heads,
The reason their lives were terminated.
Still pondered what I will say,
Why did I deceased on this day?
Mr. Peter, the gate keeper looks so very stern,
No regrets if he had to send you to burn.
I don’t think I have to say anything,
After all He knows my history and my abusive story.
As I look around and see these dreadful faces,
I know this interview is not based on gender, wealth or race.
You will be judge by the rules of the holy book,
It depends on what choices in life you took.
At last I heard my name,
Now my interview begin.
I saw the scar down his calf
long smooth and white
standing out against his tan
in the bright summer light;
whisky surgery he told me,
seeing my curios glance
and I got him talking
while I had the chance.
We both settled down with a beer
and he told me how it had been
just so casually describing, to me,
an horrific dangerous scene.
Fishing in a storm off Iceland
trawling for the cod
risking their lives
under a fickle sea god.
Then the steel warp parted
catching just him alone,
whipping back to gash his leg
right down to the bone.
The whisky forced down him
until he really didn’t care,
the skipper producing a needle
to sew him up then and there.
And the crew carried on fishing
with no time to waste
every second’s fishing necessary
in the profit’s chase.
He said it really didn’t hurt
with the whisky in his gob
and he reckoned the skipper
had done quite a neat job.
Very soon after that
he decided to come ashore,
said the lure of the sea
didn’t pull so much anymore,
and with a wife and child
didn’t want to push his luck.
As an ex deckie he fairly easily
obtained his docker’s book.
A very quiet person,
very pleasant and shy
but I go to know him well
as the years rolled by.
Never again mentioned his leg
which I only saw by chance,
that long smooth white scar
having just caught my glance.
Oh, Look not for the jewels in my crown.
Nor draped on throat, or on silken gown.
For my treasure-trove of gems,
lies buried deep, deep within me,
for you to see, for you to find,
for you to catch,
and mine the gems, deep within me.
A sapphire glows when I'm true blue,
Revealing things, I've wrestled through,
Curios of truths revealed, in deep veins,
Among the cold lies locked in chains.
A ruby burns bright when I forgive,
With heat of fires, none could outlive.
It flares when rage, fades to embers,
When a soul lost in dirt, remembers.
My diamond reflects what scars remain,
Its glassy face, catches glints of strain.
Its prism casts, rainbows in the sky,
Saying hope endures, for mates that try.
Opal swirls with emotions, riding afloat,
On a creamy sea of speckles I wrote
In ways, you could only read by chance.
When looking to me, with a sideways glance.
An emerald stirs what grace has grown,
In every seed of kindness its sown.
Its green shoot, in silence beams -
Hope for glory, in fields of dreams.
A moonstone plays with things unsaid,
It sways with hunches spread, instead.
Of what we believed to be foreseen,
in the gemstones, we've seen gleam.
Oh, Look not for the jewels in my crown.
nor draped on throat, or on silken gown.
For my treasure-trove of gems
lies buried deep, deep within me,
for you to see, for you to find,
for you to catch,
and mine the gems, deep within me.
Eidolon, eigne, eirenicon.
Message of peace to read at dawn.
Battlefield, fallen weaponry.
O wasp and hornet, sting swiftly.
Sciomancer, silent shades, sly.
Scissure, red fissure, scorify.
Melt down to slag and fragment fast.
Difficult? Drag it home, good ghast.
Scutiform, scruple, scrivello.
Elephant, lower tusk and go.
Aim at the vital regions? Choice.
Lachrymose legions, raise thy voice.
Prisoner, panopticon. Doom.
Volcanic lava, foul thy fume.
Inferno, corner and hem in!
Tornado, typhoon, terrapin!
Butyric, byre? Buteonine?
Bring on the buzzards. Rain, O rhine.
Rhinoceros, radicolous?
Roots fair to floss? Fain. Glitter gloss.
Katabothron, thy channels vast.
Deep underground resounds the blast.
Explosives kept beneath the soil.
O witches' cauldron, hot thy boil.
Blackening soot, blackberries sweet.
Crumble away, earth, 'neath our feet.
Fortune and Fate, the falcon flew.
Entropy, chaos, discord, due.
Mycelial bodies, mushroom.
Thunderbolt, sound the hand of doom.
Oddities here and curios.
Sweltering sun ray, how heat flows.
Very strange is the world we're in.
Weird to the ear, the eye, the skin.
Faces in pictures, half deranged.
From God and reason both, estranged.
IN OUR AVENUE
NEW
Event running in our AVENUE
Central Park chosen as VENUE.
Seven youngsters casting music cum dance show
in easy free flow,
for curios passer- by and public
to stand and watch being cheerful and frolic.
Just for entertainment:
Temporary not permanent,
Only one week contract to CONTINUE.
During this pandemic session
Devoid of tension.
Wearing masks, no identification.
One boy and girl dancing
not in right steps.
Two guys playing drums and prancing
showing biceps.
Three singing chorus song.
Not in perfect tune but loud and strong.
Yet on the whole simple merriment
All in neighborhood enjoying paying full compliment.
and CAN YOU ?
Would you wish the contract to RENEW?
09/22/21
'The Avenue'
Contest b Julia Ward
Antiques and Curios
A collection of Antiques and curios,
Covered in dust on a cellar floor.
Things once made for a purpose,
No longer of use anymore.
Record Player with wind-up handle,
Once sung out the old Seventy-eights.
A music box with broken spring,
Film scores of the all-time greats.
Gas mask, unused in a chest,
A wartime ration book, stained, slightly torn.
Hobnail working boots, coal black,
Scuffed at the toes, well worn.
An old encyclopedia, open at page 12,
Dwarf stars, Meteors and Asteroid,
The mysteries of our Solar system
and a Comet we may need to avoid.
Vintage clothes in leather suitcase,
Fashionable back in the year.
Someone would probably buy them,
For the right price, not too dear.
Pots and Pans of Copper and Tin,
Ornamental handles and lid.
Hard to imagine they were ever used,
But, by the signs of wear, someone did.
A collection of old newspapers,
Bismarck disabled and sunk,
A periodical about holy orders,
The life and times of a Monk.
Moth eaten Teddy Bear, only one eye,
Tracks for a blue clockwork train.
Toy soldiers of lead, standing proud,
Down somebody’s memory lane.
I began to feel rather intrusive,
An invasion of a man’s private life;
Never to know treasures keeper,
Was he at war, leaving children and wife.
An assemblage of curiosities,
To move them would feel such a crime.
I will leave everything undisturbed,
Treasured by someone of the time.
I see three doors before me.
The one to the left is blue, a beautiful lupis blue
with ornate lacework in its center.
Parisian-esque, it looks likes an entrance to adventure
and inspires me with its sophistication.
I imagine inside the rooms beyond that door
exotic curios on shelves along the walls
or tables heaped with charming little treasures.
My muse’s curiosity is sparked!
The middle door I see is that of a welcoming house.
Beneath two large rectangles of decorative glass
hangs a straw wreath adorned with festive flowers.
A friendly-looking white lab sits in front of this door
and on each side of it on the old-fashioned porch
are two pots of pretty geraniums.
I imagine beyond this door friends and family
gathered around the kitchen table
finishing Mom’s delicious apple pie
and preparing to break open a pack of cards
or sit beside their fireplace, playing charades
or perhaps singing along to a guitar.
The part of me that longs for warmth of family
lingers at this door.
The last door I spy
much farther away and surrounded by trees
is a light green door blending in with nature,
unadorned and not as high as the first two doors.
Were it a bit smaller and round, it could almost be
the door to a hobbit’s cottage.
A bower of vines spreads around it
covering the brown bricks of the house,
and a short cobblestone pathway leads upward
to this simple but interesting door.
I know that if I open it and wander in,
solitude will surely greet me, a solitude so sweet
that when I shut the door behind me,
I’ll leave behind the stresses of my life.
I will have entered another world
where I can rest and meditate. . .
perchance to write.
I look back at the first door, imagining the thrill
of discovery. Its charming blue entices me.
Then I return my gaze to the second door
from which warmth and empathy exude.
I redirect my gaze to the third door. . .
Which do I want more?
New experiences? Intimacy? Peacefulness?
Creative inspiration could reside behind all three.
Which one do I choose?
Which one would YOU choose?
March 28, 2017
for the Doors Contest of Anthony Biaanco
Myrtle Parker
Myrtle Parker lived on the Riviera,
That’s the English one not the French.
Her favourite tipple is Red Currant Cider,
Only beverage her thirst would quench.
Never did she marry no husband,
Preference for life single and free,
Though kept two doggy companions,
Twin Westies, Florence and Zebedee.
Miss Parker was a gatherer and hoarder,
Antiques, curios, lots of impractical tat.
Her catchphrase was somewhat familiar,
“I‘ll find a good use for that.”
Tumbledown Cottage name on the gate,
Aptly called for badly required repair.
The man from Devonshire Council,
Shakes his head in anguished despair.
Oh, dear Myrtle what are we to do,
I cannot see the wood for the trees,
Environment Officer is calling today,
He doesn’t like cockroach and fleas.
Myrtle lives close to Muscle shell beach,
Small cove of shingle and coarse sand,
Opposite the Cat protection league,
Where she buys new clothes second hand.
One summer had a house full of Kittens,
That grew into fully grown cats.
They left her in search of new comforts,
Plagued by visits of large rodent rats.
Myrtle decided on a radical clear out,
To make way for a new feather bed,
But could not let go of her treasures,
So continued sleeping on the sofa instead.
Seventy years old, obstinate and proud,
Devon Council man returned to her door.
“This house is making you poorly my dear,
Regretfully you cannot live here anymore.
Oh, dear Myrtle here’s what we’ll do,
Move you into a comfy town flat,
Environment Officer is calling today,
Condemn your cottage, so sorry about that.
Myrtle Parker was born in this house,
Her father he worked on the boats,
Mother stayed home baking bread,
From freshly ground buckwheat groats.
Tumbledown cottage is full of memories,
Though can’t find many for the clutter.
Diminutive rooms two up two down,
Walls dampened by broken pipe gutter.
If I have to go then take me in a box,
She chained herself to the newel post.
I’ll defend my rights for all I’m worth,
Then haunt Council man as his ghost.
Council man arrives excited with keys,
For Miss Parkers new urban home,
But Myrtle had been true to her word,
and perished on the staircase all alone.
Oh, dear Myrtle what have you done,
Your new flat was shiny and clean,
Environment Officer is calling today,
Demolition boss with bulldozer team.