Long Uncannily Poems
Long Uncannily Poems. Below are the most popular long Uncannily by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Uncannily poems by poem length and keyword.
It’s something we do and something we don’t.
It’s in the sound of the stars and the rustle of the boat.
It’s dramatically ambiguous and frivolously bright.
It’s the beat of the shore streaming across the night.
How vague could I be?
How dark and discreet?
How painfully pitiful?
How serendipitously incomplete?
How familiar, it may seem, the fragrance of the flower,
Yet uncannily forgotten, beneath the yellow star.
Have pity on thy master, Have pity on thy slave,
Because the righteous, that I know, shall never behave.
Behold this beauty, in all her rage,
Behold this tempest, behold the sage.
Beaten by misery, torment and pain,
Beckoned to rule over and over, forever, once again.
BY
Amanda.M.Miller
Form:
Her poetic mind is uncannily artistic,
She can make a long grocery list
Sound like an art of Shakespeare
and still forget the humble Pear!
With her talent she writes poems
She can express the emotions
We didn’t even know we had …
Like crying over a sock losing its pair.
Her goals are so lofty
Even the moon gets FOMO
When you talk about them...
I finally came to know how she
Writes the prize winning poems
With profound artistic acumen,
She probably interviews her pen
Before letting it touch the paper!
Keep on writing my beloved poet
Sure, one day you will be the greatest !
Summit Times Ja Just Gotta Walk Away...
Excusing yourself as if...
going to the bidet,
an immense water closet
(perhaps the size of
Mar A Lago type getup),
sans human waste
(after flushing hearing
heavenly suctioned whoosh)
empties into prez Donald's bay,
where one bum wrapped aforementioned
toilet finely (and finally) enthrones
derriere exquisitely, and, delicately
intricately, chiseled wrought with cloisonné
ah...enjoying simple pleasure a$$ I say
sipping one after another Red Bull, whence
with one final trumpet of the rump -
(as acknowledgment to angry 1%),
though quite reluctantly did pay -
hitting the custom built in combination
handsome replica Taj Mahal fountainhead golf
course made from clay
baked Adobe bathroom links
(whew...long Atlas) shrugging off
responsibilities, escorted
by migrant compadre
Russian Putin lookalike uncannily
also resembles plucked Kernel Sanders
advocating consuming buttered Thomas
English muffins with oreos can delay,
tending to government, who successfully
playfully, melodiously preaches, sermonizes
and absolute zero values benefits burning
off calories, where couples sashay,
asper square and/or contra dancing,
where the caller hollers hip hip hooray
barely audible above
noisy fracas and fray
of crowded house,
avast throng of village people stomp
louder than a quiet
riot global military foray
anathema to dogma,
karma, persona... of
Jacques Cousteau, or green like
minded millennials and/or gray
bearded whelk homed by elasmobranchii.
Bounds
Over and entercircled, grasping tighter and tighter
Penetrating the lines of my eternity
Orbiting to seize all that I have left
Desirous for more
Neverending infliction
No slumber shall I ever have
Until the bounds are pacified
How can I claim what I can not see?
The preference of bounds has no favor
Engulfs the crease of all
Seeping in uncannily
Until it devours it feast
Few can sustain the bounds to a hault
So I, I shall embrace the bounds and and create a solemn place
Cultivating what story I have been given
Turning destraut into purpose
And purpose into distinction
By:
Tammy R. Flanagan
À propos preponderent passion penning poems...
posited puzzling apt aperçu...
While pondering particular
theme to address
amidst tangled webbed mental skein
today November third
two thousand nineteen,
unexpected Möbius strip
tease conundrum unforeseen,
yet as avid aspiring scrivener
only now I became keen,
which theoretical, rhetorical,
philosophical... predicament
may not suddenly find me
flush with green
i.e. profuse legal tender,
but merely thought provoking
puzzlement addresses following quandary
stuck within gray matter of pate
impossible mission to differentiate
jagged fine line between
passion and obsession
case in point strong
affinity to write of late,
cuz yours truly susceptible
toward compulsion that doth not abate,
and mind boggling to wed healthy
love of language analogous as mate
nsync with psychological trait,
viz excessive compulsion
diagnosed years gone
by courtesy professional
mental health specialists, did annotate,
and I admit behavior impossible to satiate,
thus generating aforementioned query
how does one (me) segregate
productive interest versus excessive,
née fanatical all consuming - I narrate
oft times burning midnight oil
(albeit figurative alluded
to mister Arson Wells) witness
as logophile doth painstakingly toil
bajillion cerebral threads to uncoil,
whereby utilizing figurative tweezers
uprooting, untangling rhyme I embroil
(even using Scooby Doo conditioner)
metaphorically beneath mine royal
hirsute (Scottish) matted topsoil
ultimately bringing in top gun
uncannily resembling gargoyle
shape shifting between pop eye
at lightspeed as if
greased with olive oyl
so watch out Bluto,
get ready for turmoil!
Adam of Earth
The curvature of his smile
A quiet strength of gentleness within the eyes
When I glance upon his face
The waves of his arms flowing to his majestic hands
A profound peace that enraptures our souls
As my hands endure the strength
When he retains me close to him
Never have I been so captivated
By someone before
My surroundings have been opened up to a new light
A different maginitude of life
He has unleashed the insecurities of my path
That I so securely hid within my locked chest
Behind this clown mask
Allowing him to invade the privacy
Of the crevasses in my closed doors
To which no creature has entered before
Still he welcomes me uncannily
Knowing the outlines and graphing of my past
One could never concept an existing life as this
That love not judgement intercedes their eyes
Visually looking at what lies beyond the skeleton
Not halting by faults found
Being blessed with this adam of earth
Is more than I emotionally deserve
Not knowing the extent of my actions
Which generated this unimaginable gift
Humble I am, to have a soul of virtue
For us to be chosen together at this moment and space in time
When true love is sought to be a treasure
A fading quality of life
I will wrap myself around this presence
Embracing the fragility of its worth
Guarding it safely to my heart
And never withdrawing this Adam of Earth
I wrote this poem for my husband...he is my soul mate and best friend.
Summit Times Ja Just Gotta Walk Away...
Excusing yourself as if...
going to the bidet,
an immense water closet
(perhaps the size of
Mar A Lago type getup),
sans human waste
(after flushing)
empties into prez Donald's bay,
where one bum wrapped aforementioned
toilet finely (and finally) enthrones
derriere exquisitely, and, delicately
intricately, chiseled wrought with cloisonne
ah...enjoying simple pleasure ass I say
sipping one after another Red Bull, whence
with one final trumpet of the rump -
(as acknowledgment to angry 1%),
though quite reluctantly did pay -
hitting the custom built in combination
handsome replica Taj Mahal fountainhead golf
course made from clay
baked Adobe bathroom links
(whew...long Atlas) shrugging off
responsibilities, escorted
by migrant compadre
Russian Putin lookalike uncannily
also resembles plucked Kernel Sanders
advocating consuming buttered Thomas
English muffins with oreos can delay,
tending to government, who successfully
playfully, melodiously preaches, sermonizes
and absolute zero values benefits burning
off calories, where couples sashay,
asper square and/or contra dancing,
where the caller hollers hip hip hooray
barely audible above
noisy fracas and fray
of crowded house,
avast throng of village people stomp
louder than a quiet
riot global military foray
anathema to dogma,
karma, persona... of
Jacques Cousteau, or like
minded millennials and/or gray
bearded whelk homed by elasmobranchii.
À propos preponderant passion penning poems...
posited puzzling apt aperçu...
While pondering particular
theme to address
amidst tangled wide, whirled
webbed mental skein
today November third
two thousand twenty two,
unexpected Möbius strip
tease conundrum unforeseen,
yet as avid aspiring wordsmith
only now I became keen,
which unflagging vexillological,
theoretical, rhetorical, philosophical...
narratological, linguistical, judgmatical
historical, fantastical, didactical,
and bibliographical predicament
may not suddenly find me
flush with green
i.e. profuse legal tender,
but merely thought provoking
puzzlement addresses following quandary
stuck within gray matter of pate
impossible mission to differentiate
jagged fine line between
passion and obsession
case in point strong
affinity to write of late,
cuz yours truly susceptible
toward compulsion that doth not abate,
and mind boggling to wed healthy
love of language analogous as mate
nsync with psychological trait,
viz excessive compulsion
diagnosed years gone
by courtesy professional
mental health specialists, did annotate,
and I admit behavior impossible to satiate,
thus generating aforementioned query
how does one (me) segregate
productive interest versus excessive,
née fanatical all consuming -
affinity towards English language
I loopily, quirkily verily narrate
oft times burning midnight oil
(albeit figuratively alluded
to wicked mister Arson Wells) witness
as logophile doth painstakingly toil
bajillion cerebral threads to uncoil,
whereby utilizing figurative tweezers
uprooting, untangling rhyme I embroil
(even using Scooby Doo conditioner)
metaphorically beneath mine royal
hirsute (Scottish) matted topsoil
ultimately bringing in top gun
uncannily resembling gargoyle
shape shifting between
comical characters such as
Popeye and Beetle Bailey
at lightspeed as if
greased with Olive Oyl
so watch out Bluto,
get ready for turmoil!
"A Perfect Murder Scene"
underneath the gun metal clouds
two bodies imprinted
splayed bookmarked at the waterline
uncannily close
distance would never separate that twin set
the ocean of tears washing over them lachrymose
the day was extraordinarily ordinary
yet the unanticipated came rushing in surprising
two lives captured, seemingly drowned
carried away on the rip, ripped apart, far from shore
thrown for the risk of running
away from it all
eventually like double dice
the Ocean like a roiling bitter life
spits them both back out, not wanting them,
they are the gamble
rolled back in on the wake, washed clean
like a scene wound backwards
scratched and mottled, 8mm frame
slow motion the prostrate dead they rise like ghosts
wound up, holding hands walking backwards
up the sand dunes
not a care in the world
the guns in the clouds all gone
the sun now shining
reversing down the path, hand in hand,
an old movie to who knows where
smiles wide and laughing, hand in hand
the woman and child
out of frame, in the margin unseen,
the murderer plays his shot
all over again, he loves his bad dream
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“Because it was regular film, it was Light sensitive. You had to be very careful when loading and unloading the cartridge.”
scene.
seen.
Johnny MacAlister was six-years-old, young enough still for wishes,
Baby sister, Rosie, was all of three, all giggling and adorable kisses.
With fond, indulgent parents, the family was content in their home,
In a town, sleepy in sunlit day, where a scarlet cock used his comb.
Johnny played with Rosie every day. He loved to get her laughing;
As if a gaudy parade of jesters and clowns, chanced to be passing!
Forget-me-not days brought fast friends, in fruitful times of flowers,
Fuchsia and filled with fragrance, highlighting fun, burgundy hours.
Fair days bloomed where fall had faded, and fortune brought family;
Like festive fireworks of celebration, illuming sunset skies, uncannily.
Johnny lived in the house of joy, and tiny feet, ever pitter pattering;
And of playing, mauve dawn to dusk, like bluebirds, ever chattering.
Sapphire, dusk skies twinkled smartly, beyond their street of scents;
When scanty, pink sun fled, scorching, while night waited in suspense.
With naive, newborn day, came neighbors, for hot coffee and nougat,
In green, noisy days of nearby birdsong, and violet butterfly contact.
'Fairy magnolias' created such magic, and 'hummingbird' blooms knew;'
And hibiscus 'imperial dragon' roared, as eyelash plants, lovelier grew.
Cape primrose 'wow,' awed, while syngonium ‘milk confetti,’ glittered;
And begonia 'ring of fire,' was smoking, while purple martins tittered.
Johnny's birthday wish had come true, he saw when he unwrapped it;
And found a pair of blue, roller skates, like a rainbow, shining for a bit.
But, before he could finish eating, the dreaded rain had begun to pour;
And his childish impatience grew as, instead of less, it showered more!
Yet, Johnny made another wish, magically granted, as skies brightened;
When the rain slowed, midst sunshine, its silvery-gold drops, so vibrant!
Johnny had such fun that day, for all the days of childhood, allow magic;
And never forgot the day silver fell like coins, like an old, golden classic.
'Rain, rain go away,
Come again another day.
Rain, rain go away,
Little Johnny wants to play.'