Long Idiosyncratic Poems
Long Idiosyncratic Poems. Below are the most popular long Idiosyncratic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Idiosyncratic poems by poem length and keyword.
Gamesomeness goads gawky, gingerly,
goofily graceful, grandiloquent gent, gallant,
genteel, geico, guppy gecko, gabbling gaffes,
gagging, gamboling, gestating, gesticulating,
garlic, gnashing, gobbling, gyrating,
gruesomely grinning, grappling, gnomadic
giggly, grubby, gastrointestinally grumpy
gewgaw gazing guy, geographically germane,
gungho, grave gremlin, grumbling, guiding,
guaranteeing, guerilla gripped gatling guns
ginning gumpshun.
Hello! Herewith halfway harmless hazmat,
haphazard haggard, hectored, hastily,
hurriedly, harriedly hammered, handsomely
hackneyed, heady, hellbent hillbilly, hirsute,
hidden hippie, huffy humanoid, hexed, heady,
Hellenistic, holistic, hermetic, hedonistic
heterosexual *****sapiens historical heirloom,
homeless, hopeful, holy, hee haw heretical hobo.
Indefatigable, iconographic, iconic, idealistic,
idyllic, inimitable, idiosyncratic, ineffable,
irreverently issuing idiotic, indifferent, inert,
ineffectual, ingeniously iniquitous, immaterial,
insignificant, indubitable, inexplicable, ignoble
itches, ineffectually illustriously illuminating
immovable infused ichthyosaurus implanted
inside igneous intrusions immensely
imperturbable improbable.
With your dad idling in a box stand for huge bucks.
Over time, you're fled with mates, proving plucks.
After all, swiftly, your kids start engaging in sport.
Over the eager mass, they may trap your caring snort.
The sensitive inner voice is voraciously unhappy.
A bird in an enclosure inside a parent's bravery!
It mused with sails when tackled with the ocean.
It stood back from the nest in awe for heaven.
It draped blaze in such a way to reach the moon.
And strayed the long-appreciated rules of the boon,
Also, hypothesize what our flawed eyes might follow.
From that ugly lofty position of vehement sorrow!
For the dirt's posterity, this is precisely madness.
To confide in ocean's furls their home excess.
We are thrust in the hardness of your wings.
Anyhow, the fore divided signs of airy plings.
If you're ripe to revere those who heaved you,
Besides, all other bodies sailing by your view,
And acclaim the person who conceives you from the void.
To arise as an idiosyncratic being, yet not decoyed.
Written: February 04, 2022
Encourage Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
She is tranquility enfolded in ambiguity,
symbolizing serenity before conception,
not idiosyncratic, but sympathetic stranger,
Mantis is the Celestial Madonna
as profound as a collapsing galaxy,
defining a figure of cosmic importance,
destined to create the celestial savior,
the most significant universal entity.
She is the selected medium of transformation,
where the new universe swirls,
weaving light and chlorophyll.
Born on the cradle of mother earth,
yet claimed by the emptiness of cosmos,
endowing her with the acumen of prophesy,
she walks on the footprints of silence,
steps following the shooting stars of the milky way
as her breath turns into a hymn of forgotten stars.
She is the epitome of spatial stillness
that stabilizes the existential storms,
for she knows the exact rhythm of sorrow,
and the precise cadence of delight,
steadying them on her palm.
The Avengers treat her as a teammate,
a martial artist, the green essence of change,
that feels the pulse of the extant universe,
spreads the inflection of prayers across the cosmos.
Mostly an oddball was Magritte
here however a portrait sweet
Usually & reputably so surreal
this 'cig girl' is so so real
Belgian Rene Magritte
whose paintings were so neat
Full of stilled enigmatic
in scenesso idiosyncratic
Rene Magritte so surrealiste
was also a moraliste
His art as a dream
never reveal what they dream
Renee Magritte,an enigma in a bowler hat
I wonder what we should make of that
perhaps they are his alter ego
he never said so we'll never know
so
banal
yet
deadpan
absurd
clashing
symbols
heard
in
the eye
where
imagery
is
all
Idiosyncratic Introspection
Fear turned inward can only eventually present outward in its expression
Tears are trepidatious when dealing with years of emotional repression
Lear as in the King was another vehicle for literary confession
Clear as water from a river bed that keeps your mind flowing in thoughtful procession
Culmination of such tension brings a terse clambering of sounds
Rumination on your own inventions can lead to both the unhinged and profound
Illumination in the name of prevention guilds a scientific crown
Communication is hardly mentioned as they debate with philosophical frowns
Conclusions directed toward the students whose goals are far beyond the struggling horizon
Confusion misdirected in the name of prudence like foals first footsteps that can’t be relied on
Protrusion like a mathematical equation that a rival department has its eye on
Collusion of a political statement that should be questioned with the skeptical lights on
Twighlight passing over brings reflection through the cascading brilliant light
The bright commanding future evolves into a sacred sight around midnight
I might stop remaining that I suture my own wounded soul to heal all of this fright
And take a moment to be refraining in the silence of the height of my delight
The End by Elizabeth Moroz Copyright
ars poetica: brother, 4.25.18
someday, he will sit stiff
on our piano bench
to which he has grown accustomed, and i,
home, will sit nearby
in our cozy armchair,
an old accomplice to my posture.
i can’t remember the last time i saw him relax
this boy, this impossibly-almost man.
he will play me what he is able
of the opus he meticulously composed
in the year since we last met,
in the year since he told me
he wished he knew who i was,
who i had become since moving away.
i can still feel his excitement in the message
i received last month once he had finished.
i will revel in each chord progression,
every stylized transition,
any idiosyncratic modulation,
all exemplifications of his desire to see G*d.
let Him be manified.
and i will congratulate my brother,
for i have grown to admire the passion
with which he worships the One Who Loves.
i will ask to read him this poem.
and during these moments, we will glean
a piece of each other that we usually cannot hold.
i think this is what love can look like:
distant hearts drawing near, speaking
a language without words, the language
that lets them feel they are not alone,
not so different after all.
Whatever so far, I have been
Makes me a has been
To think of all this has happened
Not as I wish today
Neither I wished long ago.
The past should have been
What I wish today could have been
It might have been much different from
Whatever has been
It ought to have been
What I dreamed must have been
It would also have been
Not what others thought
As I could not have been
Now I feel whatever has so far been
Is not merely a has been.
It would be for years to come
Still, I am given to think
‘Had it been little different
It would have been wholly better’
So, I plead
Had I had the chance to relive
To relive the past
I could shape myself for a perfect life
I believe I could have achieved better
Had I been born rich
Had I been much fairer than what I am.
Had I been named different
Had I had less number of siblings
Had I not been ill tempered
Had I had the mind not to lust much
Had I been a winner all through
Had I had somebody to tell hit my wrongdoing
I could have been an superior achiever.
I wish I were born again
To live a life of an uncorrupted Ideal Being
I could see and do only good.
I know I cannot be
What I wish should have been
Is idiosyncratic from what I have been
Because I am the son of Destiny.
"Dead Star Compass"
When you’ve lost
your entire world
and there’s no return,
you either fold your cards
or join the Legion.
we fought
on the front lines.
the Normals said
we were on a suicide mission;
not so, more like we joined
to feel something,
Human.
even
if it was
through
the fire of
others' pain.
those who thought
they weren’t lost,
had just lost their world,
without warning -
or so they thought,
in the blinding pitch
of those ignoble
and damaged
war torn dark night
dire days.
crying tears
of blood
for the loss
of their abducted
innocent children
let's not forget,
the petrified childhoods
they’d lost themselves,
without mercy,
to the unjustified unjust.
there was a place for
displaced perspective.
how shall I put it?
there came to those,
who were
poetically
disassociating,
in that terrible time,
the chronicles
of those long strung out
lost wasted days -
a unique
frame of reference
some might say,
an intuitive inner voice
commanding ghosts,
those surviving discards
covered in visible
and invisible bruises,
a strange need
to put on the armour of
an oddly solitary,
idiosyncratic, and
quite unexpected -
spiritual union?
Inside what remained
of the human heart,
the magnetised poles
like a compass spinning
revolutionary,
unexplained and fast -
hypnotised us,
the tainted discards,
supernaturally North,
towards that which
was long considered
a lost,
dead star.
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
Last night I saw you, In my dream,
You were standing there
Looking at me, with a smile so serene.
The impression of you was vague,
Darker was your hair
Wider was your smile
In your eyes, there was so much of glare.
By your image, I was mesmerized
I walked towards you,
I ran to catch you
But from the grip of the dark, I couldn't get through,
I was being occupied by the darkness all around,
Noo one was in that dark snow
But you, me and the dark scary background,
It never dawned upon me, to let that idea of you go.
I was feeding myself with idiosyncratic ideas of you,
Even though your impression faded a while ago
Perhaps, I got used to running after you
Sometimes loosing my patience,
Sometimes going slow.
There is no way this spell could be broken,
I was in a trap.
Then on my shoulder, I felt a pat.
And from this beautifully dark dream, I got out.
With my blurred vision, I looked around
But you were nowhere to be found.
With a sigh, not sure I was disappointed
Or in a relief, your idea was now far behind,
Even so abstract images of you are on my mind.
Written: January 20, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
Quote: “There is no sickness worse for me than words that to be kind must lie.” Aeschylus,
Line of inquiry:
truth imbibed
awaits assimilation
we feel it in our bones
in time dissolved meditation
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It lies so wisely in silence—a truth as vast as the sky,
Heart bonds are loud, and time is where secrets fly.
Another guidance from the soul is to meditate,
The benthic abyss of existence—may not captivate.
In the timeless Prometheus, ketamine never ends,
Words assail when sacrilegious with a weight of trends.
Wrapped by laceration, shadows murmur the truth,
We weave hedonistic worlds, crafted with airy youth.
No signs or manuals molded on musty scrolls,
But a heartbeat harmonious hum—echoing halls.
It mutters in muted times louder than any voice,
A celestial cadence that connects us in cool poise.
Meditation serves as a serenata for truth gems,
Sorting through shadows—to watch which hems.
In silence, we design stories woven from threads,
Into our depths, where gossamer rule treads.
In the mirror of prayer, truth makes its colors clear,
Every stroke is an enlightenment that destroys fear.
It's deemed with every heart, gavotte, and breath,
Until skills emerge from life's mellifluous wreath.
We do not grasp truth, but we acquire it with grace,
A rhapsody careens that falls into place.
It is a layer of us, shaped by the hand of time,
An idiosyncratic memorial in this changing grime.