Long Oddly Poems
Long Oddly Poems. Below are the most popular long Oddly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Oddly poems by poem length and keyword.
Coyotes are not seen often
By humans
For they sense us and skedaddle
But after our mother passed
I saw a coyote in my yard
Bigger than I had ever imagined one
She had wandered almost up to my house
Which was unusual but spiritually telling
For my father had been known as the coyote man
I took this as a sign that Mom had arrived in heaven okay
A reassurance, which oddly comforted me in some way.
I called my sister
Have you ever seen a coyote? I asked
She said that she had only seen one in her life, the day before.
It ran out in front of her as she was driving to our parents home town.
Enough said
A very strange man moved into ...
my apartment building ... he was very oddly put together
though he was quite sophisticated and polite
but, oh my he was tall
and huge
but I liked his voice
~ it was baritone like one would expect in an opera
and I had heard him singing
through his apartment door ~
I met him in the elevator one day
having just come home from grocery shopping
my arms were full and I struggled
and he offered to help me carry my groceries
I did not hesitate
~ at my door I had a closer look at him
it looked like he had been in a terrible accident
don't pity me Miss, I have had these scars
all my life ~
Not long after I received and invite
to a tea party hosted by him
I thought it strange that a man would have a tea party
but I thought why not (the note said must wear mask)
so on the day noted I made my way ...
to his apartment ... and knocked
he opened the door with a flouish (do come in) ...
~ it seemed I was the first to arrive for the party
I looked around his apartment and his gruesome mask
oh that was his face
the room was filled with antiques... it suited him
.... he brought out the tea and cups ~
Oh, Mr. Frankenstein should we not wait ...
for the others to arrive .... to begin the tea party
oh, there will be no others, he replied
this is a tea party for two
and he smiled strangely at me
~ no others I gulped, no others he repeated
I was never heard of again though the police looked
you see, Mr. Frankenstein was making himself
a wife ~
when the police knocked on his door
... the apartment was empty
except for a teapot and two cups (and a mask) ...
___________________
July 31, 2021
Poetry/Narrative/A Strange Invitation
Copyright Protected, ID 07-1376-764-31
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Frankenstein's Tea Party
sponsor, Joe Maverick, Judged 09/26/2021
Listen my older children
and you shall again hear
a nasty story
frightening and *****.
There once were Trumpian Cathars,
a conflicted plutocratic sect
who would revive America
from all her EarthMother cooperativist
ecofeminist
unorthodox sins.
These Cathars taught their children,
and monoculturing RightWing students,
Great Trumpian Patriarchal Spirit
must competitively reject worshiping
great transitional Matriarchal Souls.
The best followers of FullSun Truth
grow fundamentally hostile
to natural feminists
turned cooperatively evangelical.
Transcendental FatherSpirits
reject denatured sexless Earth
Paradise must remain far removed
from natural corruption
of ecofeminist plumbing.
Secular EarthMother
is evil
wicked
created by a seductive Matriarchal DemiUrge
Win/Lose malevolent
violently seductive
threats against One ViralGod.
We each must choose,
said Spirit good against soiled evil Cathers,
between Creators
Patriarchal good Trumpian God
and Matriarchal WinWin CoOperative Evil,
Satanic EarthMother's sin seduction
or RadiantLight Fathers
for LeftBrain secular reductions
MotherWitch
created Earth
wantonly seduced by nature's Evil
Wicked ZeroZen Goddess
reproducing patriarchs against matriarchs
by doing
and dancing
and singing
and left-winging the Nasty.
Such scorching tales of EarthMothers
are better saved for adolescence,
and even and oddly non-redeeming then,
not so great Creation Stories
RightWing sedation told
just and unjust and anti-just and readjust
truth and trust and untrust and anti-trust
before Trumpian nightmares
about doing and
telling and
spanking the RightWing Nasty.
Hectic, the day has been;
Birds are flying back home;
Back home, on the head of the hill, the sun sets.
Sets of exhausted people, home they rush;
Rushing to families to meet faces infuriated;
Infuriated, in the bed I jump inside the sheets.
Sheets and blankets spread oddly in the cradle;
In the cradle, I stretch desperately to see her imminence;
Her imminence smells no chance, except the cold kiss of chills.
Chills have dissipated the marital heat to sow coldness;
Coldness slain communication to inherit hatred;
Hatred in bed, I crooned the last words in a deaf ear.
Causing one to turn left, and right the other moved;
Moved in discrepancy, a boulevard traced between carcasses;
Carcasses shed tears to replace conversation beneath the sheets.
Sheets covering cadavers that died in silence;
Silence of humoristic demise on a lifeless cot;
A lifeless cot that communication can resurrect.
Poem by Mugisho N Theophile
People and horses
The Newmarket was the oldest market in town
farmers came here selling potatoes and other greenery
Their women-folk sold thick, long underwear
winter can be cold when the North-west blows.
Horse manure was quickly scooped up the town’s housewives
good for the rosebushes.
Horse piss gave off a fragrance of time gone by.
Time changed, first slowly farmers had trucks
sold orange, tomatoes and exotic fruits never heard of before
and one day the horses to had gone.
Everybody was busy not time for a wee dram and a chat.
It was the horses that made the market pretty
oddly enough the iron ring on the railing is still here
Waiting for the warm breath of the workhorses.
He took a whiff...
Though he promised never again;
For he knew,
Even if he was set on the brink of a cliff-
He'd still fall time and again.
He stood on the verge of internal collapse,
From the very thing he performed.
Yet unable to abandon the oddly normed,
Be it the rite of self delapse.
Is it sin to try and fail?
Or is it right to have tried-
but have it met failure?
For to have fought with no avail,
Or for it to simply become leisure?
"Certainly not", He thought,
For he had tried time and again
Though to see what became of it,
Certainly wasn't what he sought;
For his candle had been long lit,
And his slate of existence already been lain.
"Grief is the price we pay for love."
_Queen Elizabeth II
there is a dagger in my heart ever twisting, twisting
and storms shake the ocean of my sleep
and old memories bring me weeping
each time I think of the memories and the beauty
of the love lost to death for eternity
I saw them all last night when dreaming
and in my dream I was grieving, grieving, grieving
life has lost a lot of sweetness and harmony
because of that twisting, twisting dagger
beloved that have gone above always come creeping
I can hear mom's sweet laughter like music
and dad is watching me so sadly
I feel grandma's gentle touch upon my cheek
and see my sisters hair a dark flowing river
and recall my brothers grand dreams
my baby is crying, crying, crying mournfully
and my husband is waving goodbye
oh, twisting, twisting dagger
leaving scars on my soul
and the clouds sail across the dawn sky
and I wake up as threads of my dream begin to fade
and petals of a wilted rose on my beside table
. . . fall
__________________
August 09, 2022
Poetry/Free Verse/threads of my dream
Copyright Protected, ID 08-1478-727-09
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Facebook Share, Copyright and All Rights Reserved, 09/26/2022.
"I love this poem that I have penned so much, although quite sad
with grief, it is my soul; I carry my grief with me, I am never
without it: and oddly it has made me the poet I am. " _Constance
Written for the Premiere contest, A Brian Strand Premiere Choice
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 08/12/2022, (NA)
Submitted to the Standard contest, Your Second Chance 1ST Poetry Contest
sponsor, Sotto Poet, Judged 09/14/2022
First Place
Safe, at long last,
behind closed, locked doors and windows,
behind heavy, hanging, purple drapery:
plush, pellucid, subterranean refuge.
Far from the proverbial maddening crowd,
out of sight: a dimly lit room, bathed in
soft, golden reflections. In the centre of
the room: a single, solitary candle burning,
its flame rising, dancing, serpentine;
all around, panoramic, rustic mosaics
quiver and leap across the walls:
towering stags, drunken centaurs, gladiators, spiteful, leering gods;
the ghost of sound echoes,
bouncing through ceramic, glass, and stone hills:
Motion in Rest,
the eye of the hurricane,
the calm before the storm.
At the end of the day,
people still holy,
w/ rites still sacred,
secret, hidden eyes.
Ones "deep-dark", to be sure,
but decidedly not "dreamless".
All around: reassuring, but oddly unending smiles,
ones perpetual, fixed, but only seemingly uninhabited,
ones laid among polished scales and in tough, gleaming skin.
In a room filled with playful, reeling, ecstatic confusion and revelation
reigning supreme, the supplicants' legs fail on what seems to be a
swaying, rocking floor. Mesmerizingly bright sedan chairs invitingly blaze by the walls. Draped in luxurious purple, the divans are infinite, are more desirable, more coveted than any treasure trove, any silver gold.
A bottomless, almost overwhelming calm descends.
Outside itself, and if only for "a brief shining moment",
the Mind, in all Its glory, seems infinitely deeper, farther
reaching, more focused, but free.
The axe can no longer fall.
Thy mouth dripping with drool.
North blisses and quick-witted doth unfool.
Thou shalt seclude from middling teenth.
Plummeted into a hornet tool.
Wailed as eerie as a panicked fetus.
Didst thou stay fed in the crumbs of mool?
Times beest tough about shimmering graves.
Grumbled, tucked, hadst a mischievous lol.
Thy lure hath evil jagged, full of witch writhes.
Thou began to shake, shrieking by the bleeding pool.
Squirm bosom disheveled and screeched with fear.
Whispered oddly and burst the sweet aroma of bool.
Unison of hoof drank fluffy white icing scream.
Scraggly faith and toothed heart not cool.
Haunted and rhyming a couplet kills.
Sirrah and the mistress prayed to the zirrahed hazrat tool.
You rescued me from loneliness
in late autumn of my life.
You taught me how to laugh again
and bid adieu to strife.
The emptiness that trapped my heart
during many loveless years
transformed to joy when you found me
and wiped away my tears.
It’s almost time, my Valentine,
for our sweet, romantic night.
Our plan to go out, dine, and dance
fills me with pure delight.
I feel so young again and~~
I see you coming through the door.
You’re looking at me oddly,
as you never have before.
Behind your back, you have, I’ll bet,
red roses, candy, lover mine?
I feel the knife and hear, “Good-bye,
my bloody Valentine.”