Long Odd man out Poems

Long Odd man out Poems. Below are the most popular long Odd man out by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Odd man out poems by poem length and keyword.


Premium Member Gemini Loves Playing

Well behaved women rarely make history, he said.
I wondered who had hit this guy bam in the head.
This is something women say, but we rarely hear it from a man.
I am an artist and a poet, he explained as only a creative being can.

So, you are urging women to live their truth, to dance and sing?
I urge them to jump around, whirl, twirl, and let their ideas fling.
I was more impressed with each word this guy utilized that day.
Glad to finally find out that he had daughters, all born in the month of May.

Gemini loves playing. She likes being the odd man out.
Gemini wants to toot a horn, to let her words out in a shout.
Gemini is not socialized and never wants to ever be.
Are your daughters Gemini? I asked. Don’t know, he said. Beats me!
Form: Rhyme


Premium Member The Dilemma of being

                                    Tired, worn out and sapped
                         The lonely man waiting for the day to end
                           The night is better, kind and comforting
                                           Sleep swallows all

                                      The life is good and bad
                               Changing colors like a chameleon
                                 At times, one fails to reconcile
                                   Becoming the odd man out

                                  No other option except to live
                                  Happy or sad, in the harmony
                                      All are in the same boat
                                      Only the responses vary

                                       Move, move and move
                                      You cannot sleep forever
                                      The waves are not silent
                                      They will wash you away

                                     The dilemma lies in being
                                    You are a part of the crowd 
                                 Sharing traits of collective souls
                                  You have to behave like others

                                    The body and mind is yours
                              Surroundings are not created by you.
                                       You get fixed into them
                                   Becoming a part of the same

Premium Member Fuzzy Socks and Crocs

Puppeteer was what some say of this style.
Yet, what's wrong if it's my style for a while?

Crocs for cracks; some say with sure mockery,
Can mockery knock modern hosiery?

Some wear fur-lined like squirrels protruding,
When gardening, other squirrels squeaking...

Under tens wear. Their moms go hysteric,
Red, green, yellow - fashions very mystique...

Some wear with wet socks and walk on a beach,
Some in jeans torn crocs worn out new style teach...

Some, when wearing these, wear Buddha silence,
That none dare to tease them or make comments.

Some walk carefree in these as though saying,
It's my comfort. You needn't keep worrying.
====
===
Crocs on, I'd been to a village rural,
The glance rustics threw on me was cruel.

So, a modern monkey - they might have thought,
Laughed, giggled dumping all my smiles to naught...

When the crocs got wet and started quacking,
Ducks inside they said; acted as catching...

I wore socks and they got wet and muddy,
They compared me to a joker buddy...

No one there wore slippers leave alone shoes,
The odd man out - subtly increased my woes.

I gave explanations to convince them,
None convinced. I was in the hem of shame.

When I removed and got set them aside,
A dog pissed on them and damaged my pride.

I came home thinking to teach them later,
With improved facts to convince them better.

I entered the village, my black shoes on,
‘Here's the joker’, they said, ‘turtle shell on’.




12 June 2021
fuzzy socks and crocs Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Francine Roberts
Form: Couplet

Stark Realization, I Harbor Sacrilegious Objection

Stark realization, I harbor sacrilegious objection...

Against merry christmas premature blowout,
(or otherwise) ejaculation galore burnout,
hence I feel like the odd man out
neither yours truly, nor the missus
spends money and/or
time at checkout

avoid madding crowds like the plague
elbowing, hustling, jostling,
pushing, racing, shoving...
seconds before blue
light special closeout,
though neither of us

reformed practicing Jews, nor devout
mass consumerism capitalistic fallout,
we steer clear taking refuge within
our underground (arched)
all in the family bunker hideout
remain hermetically sealed

courtesy NASA tested grout
hunkering inside spatially
roomy subterranean getaway
created viz 3d printing
immediately after rollout
ready to take nesty plunge

steeply, perpendicularly, giddily... south
to go down rabbit hole,
where we carouse, cavort,
thermally heated cavernous redoubt
reaping efforts after donning
(MAGA) hardhats constructing roustabout,

whereby protruding innocuous periscope
allows, enables, and provides
mean ways to scout,
since Marshall Mathers Law
declared, mandated trumpeted
courtesy special ops stakeout

regarding our subversive
passive actions hashtagged illegal
if perchance discovered vis a vis,
we Americans express timeout
before changing role as seekers
playing wargames no matter

suddenly Nor'easter creates whiteout
futile search until spring thaw
melting snow exhumes
mister and missus Santa Claus
thank you climate change 
regarding attributed drought.

The Foreigner Next Door

There's this nasty lady living right 
by ours
A cranky old mare holed up next to our house 
Her garden is minging and her blinds 
are a lot worse
She acts dead weird, I reckon she's proper mental 
Her knees are knobby and her walk is
a bit wonky
The foreign woman next door has no right to be here 
She doesn't fit in so she stays out of sight 
She has no mates, always mutters to herself 
We want her out, she's not one of us 
Let's egg her house for a laugh and scare the pants off her
So they pelted my door with rotten eggs then posted dog poo through the mail slot 
While I remained quiet as a dormouse 
and prayed they would just let me be
The natives glozed over their mean deeds
And claimed they meant no offense 
My hands were tied, what with being odd man out 
So I chose to feign indifference, and passed the baton to the Gods of karma
While I laid back to feast on a larger slice
Of this local brand of hospitality
Form:


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