Long Grotesque Poems
Long Grotesque Poems. Below are the most popular long Grotesque by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grotesque poems by poem length and keyword.
The long grass,hiding secrets,needles our bare thighs.
In the distance, magisterial, stunning, see a skylark rise.
The coax coax frog-sounds echo in the mist-cloud night
Dare to touch one, grotesque, delicious chilling fright
Our freedom. Freedom.
Joy gone now in the pain-world.
Our friend-love, once enfranchised, unfurled.
A new life embraced us
A black light ensnared us.
Diagnosis, prognosis, progress non-linear.
I called. They said, not now, maybe later.
Later. They gave you the telephone.
It was a chilled day and you were home.
We talked, remembered the long grass, laughed.
And that was just four days before you passed.
The still water of the northern swamp
shone like anthracite coal
lending a rainbow hue to the
mirrored reflections of maiden hair fern
and skunk cabbage.
Strangely grotesque maples
rooted wearily beneath in the hidden depths
of blue-blackness.
The summer sky above hang topsey turvey
Its sunlight sparkling
like fireflies upon the still water.
The leaden air caskets the first layer
of rampant growth,
misting moss, masking mushrooms,
where slick green frogs hide
beneath pink pond lilies.
The heat bakes the red clay bank
cracks gape like the toothless open mouth of a baby.
Layers of hot air create mirages of fright
as the swamp seethes in delight.
On my daily evening walk in the park, I pause to see
Beautiful squirrels and grotesque rats together feed
With neither pride nor prejudice, sharing and caring
It is clear to me that they live by need and not greed
The adjectives I assigned to outer forms I so beheld
Reflects my narrow, unevolved and judgmental view
Oh, woe on me that as yet I see not God in each form
Why on earth does my heart as yet such toxicity spew
Moving on I am captivated by a koel’s melodious song
She minds not an interruption by a crow’s jarring caw
Atop the same tree, in joy and harmony, both coexist
With no anchor for rancour, they understood God’s law
A sunbird constructs her nest patiently, straw by straw
She fears not fierce predators that around her abound
Although she’s so tiny and fragile, in God’s grace trusts
Oh, where within my fickle heart can such faith be found
Unmet expectations damage the dormant psyche,
futile promises smother the rays of fading hope,
unkind words tear the lattice of my mangled mind.
My life is wrecked by your grotesque conduct.
Your senses become the fast spreading wild fire,
uncontrolled, it boils the blood of your intrinsic pride,
and as it flares up, it burns my gentle demeanor.
Its ferocity blazes the bonhomie of bonding chords.
Your flashing eyes reveal you seethe hideously inside,
generate a malice inferno of a monster in your heart .
The twisted tongue spills out your sentiments so sadistic,
smeared with the vicious venom of your gruesome mind.
The scruple of sane sagacity turns into shredding cinder,
erupting out of your fuming volcanic fervent fury,
flows in the spreading smoke of stifling spite,
consuming the remains of reason you lose frenzied.
The scorched petals of my floral essence are dislodged
by the fierce dust storm of passionate perturbation.
The torn flower vainly tries to regain the lost grace,
sees the dreams turn into debris, suffering a silent pain.
With the arcane acumen of a trickster devil,
as sordid silhouette of menace you crawl stealthily
into the quintessence of my life to suck the ambrosia
of my soul, the casualty of your monstrous cruelty.
Having failed yet another repair, on the leaking rods
I spit my liquified bowels all over the walls
Retching up toxic filth within
an expectoration of black lumpy phlegm
forms a pebbledash of grotesque sin
Some I recognize, some I can’t figure out
but it’s me, spewing cancer is my distinctive subtlety
carries my mark, the mark of a closet misanthropist
the splattered mucus develops into a mural
speckled with irradiated lies
Etching deep into the walls
a perfect reflection of my gangrenous soul
Instinctively eating the flesh off my hands
takes away the gnawing pain of paranoia
absolving my torments once and for all,
unencumbered at last, I now feel the truth, agony is real.
look at me, look inward at my outward humiliation
Bleeding out, upon his own sick soul
innards burning like hell
The walls turn molten
meltdown complete
By
David Kavanagh
T railing along a serpentine lane, curiosity allows
H unt of one mysterious journey where glimpses trace
E vening's silhouette reflecting a dream-like scenery.
H eavy vines enshroud an old manor’s archway
A s I peep quickly through its blood-stained corners --
U nderneath, ravens hover while evening befalls
N ot knowing my dress gets caught on a thick nail,
T hat hands quake while freeing its hem. Grotesque the room’s decor
E ntwined are torn drapes, candelabra, and antiquated portraits... I run
D efying moon’s bold sheen almost vague now, undone.
H eart pulsates from loud whimper of voices in hiding--
O angels dear, I need to escape, what could be my options?
U ntil a knob opens through zoom of intemperate breeze
S hrieking, hollering down a cracked ladder, feet dash off to
E nd this TERROR, a night’s venture, macabre.
The Haunted House (Scare Me or Make Me Laugh) Contest
Sponsor: Dear Heart 8/29/2018
If truth had a color,
when twilight bleeds
burgundy rivers,
you’ll find these garnet
eyes pleading
to be heard through
poetic sunsets.
For I’ve been swirling
and twirling
through nomadic illusions,
like a goddess of
thunder with a tiger spirit,
never letting go of
the history of hurt,
left by the unkind mind
of inhumane humankind-
which throbs deeper
than the sharpest thorns
in peacock feathers,
that I’ve danced to -
in flawless frequencies
amongst abstracts
of an architect.
If truth had a tune,
It would be too ferocious
to be unraveled,
the kind of fire that
dares to burn,
the hellish tombs of terror,
constantly pushing
every contrasting dream
to be feasted upon
satan’s last supper,
painting every salvage sunrise,
with strokes of petrichor scent
dipped in astral rain-dreams.
As I’ve been the
queen of the night,
longing to soar
across the horizon
where unconfined
eagles and golden dragonflies,
shall tranquilize
this publicized heart caged
as a motionless mannequin
in a glass mansion.
If truth was covered in furry skin,
to glaze skeletons veiled
beneath crooning clouds,
it would be the beginning
of an unstoppable ending,
of an immeasurable
brokenness resting as
irreversible numbness.
As I’ve seen storms
brewing bruises
through seas of sorrow,
amidst illusory lakes
of rose quartz,
streaming down
emerald hills,
hiding the grotesque
kingdom of fragmented gates.
But what if truth
never was a matter,
as it’s all but mere myth
floating along golden ripples
in a pool of sentimental stars.
What if truth was
once a maiden in distress?
What if truth was
once a shadow in search of light?
What if truth was a fool
hoping to be dressed
in dancing dandelions?
what if truth is what
has got this onyx heart on fire?
Perhaps, truth lays in
the arms of a clock,
waiting for it’s turn
to make time stop,
when lovers destined to meet,
rebuild chess of life in ruins,
as footsteps on
glistening glaciers
reveal the secrets
left by snow angels
leading us back to
an unbreakable moon affair.
On the wall standing
Amidst the danger encroaching
Mirrors the alligator’s razors
Securely entrenched in mud waiting
A boa slides into the deep...
The seconds tick amicably.
A table for two served yet again
Another tango about to be untangled
Periodic busts of water
Jet from the sighing sea...
A canoe capsizes
In this noonday medley
A suckling amidst the troubled current
Heads gaily for the sea’s bed...
Another scene, the serene sea
Running a sapid gold hue
Allows a fluttering dove above admiringly
To the nonchalant glare
In the distant horizon
Of the setting sun.
Afar the mongrels howl
At grotesque elements from hade...
Suddenly Andromeda hurtles through the sky
In search of her Medusa-defeated lover
Provoking Hercules into a riotous laughter
As its echoes furious might does Atlantis in...
She was an angel
Falling from the sky
She heal my heart when I was about to die
And in return
I paid her back with evil coins
Her heart was broken
And it could not be mended
Night mares and grotesque visions
Horrors extended
Now my mind is bended
When our time was good I would kiss her in the clear view of the sun
And to her
Our souls was one
She taught me the true meaning of living
Why I am here and what is important
What is not
Her hair fell over her shoulders like a cascade on a hill
And her breast was firm
Like petals which were unplucked
Her lips taste like honeyed wine
Her imagination sent chills down my spine
She had a mind of genius
My mind was minus
But I paid her pack with evil coins
When things got better
To suffer a life of misery and pain
Bended mind
I am like an oxen with no brain.
I can no longer live with shame
So I die again
When I was a child, outside of Christmas,
Halloween was my favorite time of year.
I loved crafting homemade costumes
from old rags to wear trick-or-treating in the neighborhood.
And yet, I got the most fun from carving
the scariest pumpkin my mind could conceive.
It was the only time I was allowed to wield a knife,
and I reveled in it—to me, carving pumpkins was an art.
Dad would drive me to a pumpkin patch,
where I'd pick out the perfect pumpkin:
worthy of my artistic talents.
And when I brought it home,
I'd start by slicing the top off my pumpkin
to gain access to its skull.
And with my hands, I'd scoop out its brains,
which felt mushy, gooey, slimy, and gross
while removing them to sculpt my Jack-o'-lantern.
Then, with an eye for the hideous, I'd prepare to carve.
Creating grotesque features—gouging out its eyes,
a deformed nose, and a toothy, grimacing smile.
When finished, I'd proudly present my monstrosity to Mom,
who'd light a candle and place it inside my gargoyle
then set it out on our stoop;
to guard against any evil demons
skulking in shadows on this All Hallows' Eve.