Long Mismatched Poems
Long Mismatched Poems. Below are the most popular long Mismatched by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mismatched poems by poem length and keyword.
Will the stars ever align the way they did that day?
When all the heavens opened up to let you come my way.
Where magic spells are cast into the hearts of only two.
And shine a light of golden hue beyond all others view.
A world of lost and lonely space is all that there is left.
To wonder in alone again with my heart so bereft.
I don't know how to go on now that I am without you.
And find a reason to exist after the storm came through.
I look for answers from your friends that don't want me around.
Since you won't see me anymore, I'm in the lost and found.
But mismatched mittens, gloves and socks just end up in the street.
Where broken souls with worn out holes no longer ever meet.
I guess I'm back to where I was when I got on my knees.
And prayed that prayer to you dear Lord asking only please.
To be with me and see inside where I hide all my pains.
I give them back to you dear Jesus, I've let loose of these reins.
With hair ablaze
a jester unconfined.
I scoffed at the mundane
its life declined.
My wardrobe
a riot
a rhapsody bold.
Mismatched socks my standard
stories untold.
In classrooms of tedium
rules I'd defy
Grasping forbidden knowledge
'neath watchful sky.
Craving for wisdom in
esoteric wells.
Chased squirrels with saws
casting fanciful spells!
Detentions for antics
the school's icy stare
Derided in classrooms
a spirit too rare.
Math teacher's scorn
a job painting lines foretold.
I retorted, "How much does it pay?"
- detention took hold.
Mom asked me why I never brought my girls home?
I chuckled and said, "They're not the type to be shown!"
The wild ones
the rebels
the ones full of flame.
Not the kind for a dinner
not the ones with a name.
Misfits my comrades
a menagerie strange.
United in chaos
defying the change.
Years danced in a blur a pantomime bright
But a disquieting word a sense of not quite right.
A whirlwind of antics a panoply grand
Impromptu escapes with career-shifting sands.
Near-death encounters with fauna
a squirrel, perhaps?
But the thrill
oh the thrill
fueled my madcap laps!
The thrill of the unexpected
a fading strain
A gnawing suspicion
a predictable bane.
The mask I had crafted
of rebellion's grand guise.
Cracked and revealed
the truth in my eyes.
The jester unmasked with a lesson I gained.
That the extraordinary in the ordinary
can be just plain.
No longer I chase the fantastical dream...
But accept the real where
beauty can stream.
For the truest defiance lies not in the fight.
But accepting oneself in the ordinary light.
So here I stand
flaws and all
unashamed.
The laughter remains though the fantasy's tamed.
With lessons in tow I'll mend and I'll mend.
Explore the mundane and find joy till the end.
For the greatest adventure
in life's simple quest...
Is finding the magic
within one's own breast.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
morning light slants gold
through venetian blinds, slow as honey.
summer stretches its limbs,
yawns across the porch swing,
and time dissolves like sugar in iced tea.
hubby’s hand in mine—dry warmth,
the rustle of leaves underfoot,
a conspiracy of squirrels.
the woods don’t care about our plans,
and that’s the gift~
nowhere to be but here,
no clock but the sun filtering down.
December arrives wrapped in laughter,
a tangle of mismatched chairs,
too many forks, not enough plates.
someone always burns the rolls.
the carols rise anyway~
off-key, overlapping,
a chaos of joy sharp as pine needles.
blank pages are kinder
than mirrors.
They never judge~
only wait.
My pen bleeds
stories, coffee stains, and
ink smudges like bruises
I’m proud to carry.
the wind howls its complaints,
rattles the windowpanes.
I let it.
the mug warms my palms,
steam curling into the air
like a ghost of comfort.
The cocoa is too sweet.
I drink it anyway.
`
Love, to you
nothing more than washed away graffiti,
once dripping along the
mismatched bricks of this worn facade
where tattoos mean forever . . .
even when they fade
A clutched lamppost,
scarred and dented, a fake shade of green
meant only for leaning
and illuminating handbills advertising
high rent in the slums,
supports me
As I look beyond the littered gutters
needing a good rain to wash away the past
where you left me standing again,
uncovered, exposed . . .
winter called and thinking it was you,
(it had the same chill affect) I answered
I thought you were it, that thing that I needed,
not a leaking roof draped in a blue tarp,
but the east to my west
when my direction pointed north
until you ran south
taking it all with you
Beyond my control,
you laughed at love, (cackled)
thought you knew better,
cut holes in my umbrella
and then prayed for rain,
while my life was already drowning
You gave it and took it
and with my happiness in tow
on that one way street
where “No Vacancy” signs were misspelled,
drove away, drove away from me,
tail lamps and your heart . . . never braking
11/12/19
Written for the Pale Shelter Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton
THE STONE WALL
I was loitering lone aimless in pathless wood
making way through thorny bush and wild weeds
where creeper secretes peculiar fluids.
Feral flowers flowing fine fragrance fresh.
Stunned to discover a stone wall covered in moss
and climber coiled getting wall as strong support.
An awkward structure, mismatched in verdant scenerio.
Surely the wall is the remains of some construction.
Might be a portion of boundary wall of a garden.
Might be a part of demolished building.
Whatever however once it stood rigid bold
watching noisy lively habitation.
Once well maintained, now in wreck and ruination
standing as sentinel in solitary wood.
Only witness of past habitats
presently adored and adorned
by moss and thorny climbers,
arousing curiosity of passer-by.
Stone wall standing shy embarrassed
finding itself misfit contrasting
rhythm and harmony of woody panorama.
10/10/20
' A Wall in The Woods ' Contest by craig cornish
Fresh in mind
A lightening bolt in me
But safer, kinder
We slipped off conformity
In triggers of encrypted chemicals
No slap-on labels
No pull to sticky corrections
No show of egos unveiling
Our mismatched skills did not get in the way
We wooed like outfielders catching
Off balance when separated
Ignoring sweet word stumbles
Joyful together,
sharing each other's detours
Our shadows weaved to one another
leaning, like twin towers
till issues snapped at our heels
a re-evaluation
unfortunate contusion
apply another bandaid
de-stabilizing
pressure points
a catered
drift
to others.
Brazen memories -
for the love that precedes the end of love
still stirs.
Poem revised: September 15th. 2020
She has a heart of gold.
No I think. She was a witch to me.
I want to get as many golden things in this bathroom as I can.
I shudder; hating all the mismatched gold that is already there.
This gold coin came from my grandmother’s.
Is it worth anything? Maybe. But it is too late to ask grandma.
She probably kept it for some reason.
Too bad you did not talk to her when she was alive.
A solid gold Christmas tree. You should see it!
I have no desire, but I do want to see the gold butter cow.
She is molded out of pure butter
Living at the Iowa State Fair every single year.
Misers all of you. Wanting more and more gold.
Collecting it from the N.R.A.
At the expense of lots of innocent people
Who will die thanks to your AK’s and your lack of concern.
Gold – more important than lives.
We would have never guessed this in the 60’s.
Or the 70’s, or the 80’s.
What has happened? Gold over lives. Sadly.
There's a story, I would like to sing,
Listen kids, if you've a moment free,
Concerning how I found myself
On the white sands of Waikiki.
One night, I got so roaring drunk,
I was sloshed for more than one year -
A wild party, I got lit like a skunk,
And met a lovely woman there.
Someone must have spiked the punch
With a hallucinogenic drug -
But she was truly beautiful,
So, we cut a crazy rug.
Her long hair was a raven black -
Black as leagues below the sea.
Her skin was soft and white -
Is there a thing called silken ivory?
Her lips were of a cherry red
And sometimes they were raspberry -
Whichever on a given day,
They tasted like heaven to me.
With her cat's flashing, laughing eyes,
I don't know what she saw in me.
I was not really seeing her, but
An image of my fantasy.
For the first time, I looked close at her,
And she looked so close at me -
And that is when we sobered up
On the white sands of Waikiki.
And so, finding we were mismatched,
Two of God's precious creatures, we -
Each went on our separate ways,
Leaving the sands of Waikiki.
Your mother will probably warn you
To avoid such parties, so wild.
She might even go on to say,
"It can cost you dearly, child."
But I will fondly remember
This lass who, my heart, did beguile.
The very reason for that is -
She taught me how to smile.
I was born an old soul and always a
step out of time. It seems old things just
come to me, like vintage jewelry
interesting found in antique shops
and second hand stores. I found a fancy
cup with a small chip yesterday and
it is pretty on my window ledge. Dust,
and cobwebs in depths will
not bother me when I am on a hunt. Even
tattered books find a forever home,
and just ask my friends, I set my table with
mismatched dishes beautiful . . .
______________________________
October 19, 2016
Poetry/Narrative/Born Old
Copyright Protected, ID 16-840-572-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
There's more rust in my joints than ever.
My bones sound like an old screen door,
and my knees predict the weather
better than any app.
Give me elastic waistbands, soft slippers,
and the creak of a recliner
that groans every time I sit.
Bring on the grandkids with sticky fingers
leaving fingerprints on the walls,
and loud toys that play the same song
again and again.
Pile on the mismatched furniture,
the frayed edges, the cracked plates,
and the joy of holding on to anything
that brings back a memory.
Let my friends swap stories about their ailments,
sit on the porch with their cardigans,
and say, "Remember when?"
Let mornings be slow, with aching backs,
glasses misplaced, and coffee that’s gone cold.
Remind me of the fortune of old photos,
the wealth of crumpled coupons,
and the art of navigating
the labyrinth of nostalgia.
Forget the resolutions,
just give me the constant hum of a well-lived life.
I’ll take the bottom of the cookie jar,
the forgotten, the outgrown,
the simple things that bring comfort,
one gentle turn
on the slow-spinning wheel of age.