Long Weirdly Poems
Long Weirdly Poems. Below are the most popular long Weirdly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Weirdly poems by poem length and keyword.
October: I'm eighteen, shortcutting home
through an autumn-burnished churchyard -
copper-lustred leaves, moss-skinned stone -
a jaunty swing of skater skirt and arm,
college folder square-sturdy in my hand.
In the moment. In the last pale pulse of sun.
Hey, can you tell me...?
I halt. I turn...
Cold earth. Colder blade dimpling my skin.
My coral cameo earrings scatter,
daisy-dotting the green.
My back is spiked by needles of yews.
Sun skews, sky side-slides
until his face is the firmament.
I'm staring into the tumid blank-bloat of blue;
the ground hardening beneath me,
the death-spike trees stiffening.
Heavy Special Brew breaths.
Grubby, moist fingers
like grubs crawling over my breasts,
and, weirdly, I'm smelling pepper -
horror-spice of pungent lust,
its acrid nose-thrust -
and woodsmoke is drifting from somewhere...
lung-flame, tongue-flames
of searing words - his words -
blazing like the umber tumbling leaves.
Please...Please...I'll...
Fear-forced bargaining, but I'm beyond care.
And I'm aware
of the church steeple rising,
its phallus penetrating sky.
The tilting church could topple
as tears crystal-crush in my eyes.
Fear-faint, already half gone
in a soundless scream, my muted mouth
mouths silent goodbyes
to Sarah, to Mum.
Time slows to a crawl.
I try to call. Nobody comes
but the man who has me ground-pinned.
Bleachy stink of semen
whitening my ripped skater skirt,
but some things don't fade
and there is no clean in this, just dirt,
wet leaf-mulch, shame.
Ineradicable hurt.
Sacred soil is soiled, sullied.
Stunned, I stumble
shoeless, knickerless,
into the trees and heave
into the mud, into the leaves
strings of spittle-sick,
my thoughts strung out,
reality spun out.
From stinking, pulped leaves I retrieve
crushed coral earrings,
ground-grimy knickers,
my white court shoes
that whitely scream the 90s,
the scattered tatters of essays -
white, like fallen feathers, sunk in the sludge,
muddied, the red-inked words bloodied.
I gather them together.
Gather myself.
I go
forward into my future, stained from pain
and tainted touch, the smears of fear, self-disgust.
And oozing slime-soft into my ears
the mire of incongruous apology: I'm sorry
don't tell anyone - I won't.
I don't.
I was walking down the neighbourhood,
reminiscing how it all
used to be where we made believe
that we were nymphs in a wood,
except the once moist earth was parched,
and the once white air was brown...
and footpaths and landmass
were suddenly under a filter of grey...
Here I stop by this grandfather tree,
one in my eyes would be older than me.
But when I touched the bark
and the lowest leaf,
it whispered, "Speak, child of Eve,
now that I'm awake from my sleep."
I walked backwards,
scratching and tilting my head,
wondering what was messed with my senses;
had climate change really gotten into my head?
Now although I am shocked,
and my mind can't think so fast,
my tongue does the work for me:
"How have you lived this long?" it asks.
A wind blows, and my eyes take up,
imagining him stretching the rusty spine of a trunk.
He then speaks, in the gruff and cranky voice:
"You humans do whatever you want,
kill what you see with your eyes,
and spare what they think would fit their design best."
My eyes wander, to the settlements gray,
and remembered, the green kingdom where we'd played.
"Do you ever miss them?" I wish I hadn't asked,
but there is no way of turning time, and I continue to ask:
"The others of your kind, the ones that fell,
were they family, or friends at best?"
The grandfather shuddered, cold and angry,
I could feel his thoughts, how he wished
that I'd not reminded of what sored him.
"But what good would it do to think of the dead all day?"
He adds, "Isn't that what your mother always says?
Best ask her yourself, I'm sure my answer would be same;
for though you'd branched out early, we share one ancient family name.
But for now leave me be, your kind has hurt me enough,
to be sworn enemies, still, I'd rather sleep it through."
I turn around annoyed, wandering what tricks my fancies play,
then I stop so suddenly, with one last question to say:
"How do you know me?" I ask, not expecting replies,
but he says in return: "I used to watch you as a child,
"And in your early days I'd hold you when your limbs weren't so ripe,
I'd watched you walk, then I was worried,
when my own limbs tripped yours.
I'd thought since that misplaced root, that you'd never come back.
But now that I've talked to you, I feel
weirdly warm and comforted to sleep."
although a group of people sustain their lives beautifying
everything surrounding them
insisting that everything is good
because they are God’s creation
while another group of people
though they also are humans
swallow and spit out loathsome language
go tottering intoxicated from a foul-smelling-contaminated-air
fuming from the languages they spat out
after there came an erect postured bipedal primate
which was a trifle creature fed by dust wiggling on the earth
for thousands of thousands of long years
eventually they started to share their thoughts
looking in each others’ eyes
cultivating, refining words and phrases for better communication
among those words
were beautifully polished and preserved phrases
thru generation after generations of studies and development
they were exclusively used by a specific class of people who enjoy showing off
and thereby wanted to separate themselves from ordinary people, however, now, the beautiful words and phrases became coarse;
is it because the words were abused by them or
their sleazy tongues stiffened the phrases?
they lost interest in finding the reasonable reasons
because there was no yard-stick to establish a standard;
zombies stalk on the street in bright daylight
the fake brand-name luxurious articles overrun the street
DNA twisted weirdly
all children are born mutated and therefore have evolved
to an overly obdurate species, strange world
there are no family features of daughters like their mother
or sons who resemble their fathers anymore
but only a line of families
like a poorly shaped mosaic landscape made with puzzle pieces
picked-up from alleys and forcefully placed to make a picture
they are never satisfied with what they have
and that’s why if you applaud them they demand more,
if their request is rejected they yell and scream at you
with newly invented swear words
rather, like a dead person
no matter how much you extolled him, doesn’t ask more;
even stamped on to humiliate him, won’t cry or say a word
that’s why God may have kept
everything beautiful beyond men’s reach
that’s why men who live on this side of the world
shout and scream
making everything uglier than it should-be
hanging on to the things they can easily put their hands on
Beyond an overgrowth of weeds, I see
a house with faded paint. It beckons me.
Victorian, its windows are like eyes
that hypnotize, and soon I find myself
there at its door. I tentatively knock.
Though knowing nobody will come to it,
to my surprise, I turn the door knob and
just walk into this strange but lovely house.
I look around at antique furniture
grown dingy. Cobwebs decorate the walls.
A sudden slam! I run back to the door.
It won’t come open. Panic floods my soul.
I go to every window. They won’t budge.
It’s like they’ve been sealed shut from standing still
through many years of never being used.
I shiver; from the corner of my eye,
I see a figure. Shadowy, it flits
across the dining room. I follow it
while swallowing my terror, and I go
into a small room, where the shadow crept.
Surrounding me are paintings on the wall.
I can’t take them all in, for there is one
that seems to call to me! How can that be?
It’s quiet there, and yet my mind is filled
with someone’s voice. It pleads to be released.
The voice is in the painting! I am led
so weirdly to its spot upon the wall.
I get right up to it and feel a chill.
An evil presence has me in its clutch.
I know this when I see the painting’s scene. . .
Fresh horror like I’ve never known before
now grips my throat and I can’t even scream.
Inside the painting is a woman who
looks eerily like me! She stands inside
a room with many paintings, and behind
her is a hooded being. Is she me?
I dare not look behind me. . . yet I do.
The hooded figure stands behind me too!
A scream at last escapes my lips, and I’m
inside the painting now and looking out!
I’m looking out onto the tiny room
with all its paintings. I am caught inside
the confines of a frame; I’m miniature!
I know the hooded beast has captured me.
I see his shadow leave the room and know
the door to this big house he has unlocked!
Another fool will enter as did I.
They’ll get locked in and then led to this room
to that one picture where I will await
to cry out plaintively to be released. . .
(Sorry this is so long; I had to do it this way to tell the story how it formed in my mind.)
Aug. 22, 2018
Sponsor- Dear Heart
Contest- The Haunted House
In Blank verse, which is unrhymed Iambic pentameter
Hold your breath
Not a touch of death
Go above the atmosphere…
Embrace the rainclouds that sponge in fear
Tell them that there’s a hopeful Utopia that lies ahead
Wipe away their tears of dread
Put all of your doubts to bed
Walk into the orchards of thousands of trees
Scan the rocky paths gingerly…
We’re grazing about like buzzing bees
Unveil the beautiful scene to everyone cheerfully
We can pass as psychopaths….sorry that I said that weirdly
Outlandish owls flutter about
In the current of the aqua-blue sky…we’re soaring so high, making me almost wanna cry! Never wave goodbye to surreal moments like these!
They’re all going the same route
I can’t help, but ask myself why…why we don’t have the ability to fly like bountiful, pleased bees! God will hear our pleas and guide us with gentle breeze!
Reach to the baby blue sky in childlike innocence
Don’t be fenced in by sad reminiscence…
It will soon turn to the process of evanescence
Someday, we all must turn to repentance…
I’m sorry – I’m trying to help you in this circumstance
He’ll help us out in advance and enhance our joyous appeal – we’re dancing merrily in harmony…in unity, we twinkle with elegance like stars, brightening with brilliance!
Drifting, white clouds pass us by,
Blending and floating in the sundrenched sky
Leave the past behind us – there’s a bright future
With many bright opportunities…that will nurture
Broken-hearted souls like ours…
God has incredible, genius powers
Rely on Him and He’ll take us beyond the distance and fulfill our heart’s desires
He’ll put out the hindrance…the quarrels that spread like wildfires
Know that God is far greater than men
He bestows us with miracles and gives us hope in mind again and again
So, when in doubt, look up to Him
And our hearts will flourish with far-fetched faith and He suits our fancy; our hearts are pumping with plenty of passionate pleasure – our lights will not dim!
Instead, He'll fill our cups to the rim
If I were you, I would thank Him!
Thank you, Lord, for giving me the ability to fly!
I'm crawling out of my shell; I'm bold as a lion, not shy like a sheep, grazing for who knows how long - I get on my knees and sigh...
Fine. I'll repent of my sins that I've committed in the past - it's the truth I cannot cover or deny!
it
fast in
scary cat
quite huge scary
big, prompt, fat
ever so hungry
ever so hungry
big, gray, dull
big, empty, true
extremely hungry
big, gray, dull
big, dull, large
alarming, resurgent, fat
scary flips stalk, weirdly
scary foliage stalk, weirdly
scary leaves stalking, weirdly
shivery flips stalking, weirdly
alarming, esurient, prompt, dull
its shivery riffs stalk, weirdly
its shivery flicks stalk, weirdly
ravenous, intermediate, shuddery
alarming, ravenous, intermediate
alarming, resurgent, prompt, dull
scary foliage stalking, weirdly
famished beard eating, insanely
scary foliage following, weirdly
shudders foliage stalk, weirdly
scary flicks following, weirdly
scary folios following, weirdly
alarming, big, esurient, prompt
shivery leaves, resurgent whiskers, alarming dog
shuddery foliage, athirst face fungus, alarming seat
quite scary scary flips, peckish whiskers, alarming tag
hungry! scary leaves, famished whiskers, creepy can
scary so scary
so creepy so very much
cat eats the mouse
Soon I will be traveling
To the valley of the stars
And the shoreline of the Milky Way
Where near connects to far.
My senses fading rapidly
As darkness closes in
Like a fog bank over mountain tops
Void of sound or wind.
Bow and arrow-headed past Polaris
Beyond Orion’s belt –
Galaxies beyond galaxies
Or anything yet seen or felt.
Star-dust bound to that forever now
Eternally timeless life and death –
To the Maker of matter and anti-matter
And giver of life and breath.
Minstrel of music, Painter of skies
One for All and All in One –
Where old is new as morning dew
And darkness and light come from.
Where departures are deceptive and death reflective
Of times and places we’ve known –
Where déjà vu’ is nothing new
And oceans turn to snow.
Where once upon a mystery
In those early Christian miles –
I heard Jesus laughing and Buddha clapping
The day I learned to smile.
With Shiva dancing and Lipizzons prancing
In a wave-like, particle spin –
Where uncertainty turns to reality
And disappears like a by-gone wind.
Where stretching the bounds of life itself
Is a weirdly – wonderful ride –
Like falling from a roller coaster down below
And the bottom is nothing
but sky.
I’m going back there and everywhere
In the eye of the hurricane storm –
Into the realm of the looking glass
Where memories and dreams are born.
Where truth is a lie and fiction real
And proof is a playful thing –
Where telekinesis is more than a thesis
And the universe sparkles and sings.
And the warm Light of Transcendence and others in attendance
Wait where the river runs deep –
For another soul’s travel to try and unravel
How far we can go when we sleep.
Where yesterday lives with tomorrow today
And heaven is real as green grass –
For you, me and they and all who obey
In the laws of good nature that lasts.
Where consciousness resides love never dies
And home’s not a place but a thought –
Separation ended, hatred suspended
And nothing more needs to be sought.
While walking I saw
something move in the corner of my eye.
When I gazed straight at it,
it was gone.
But, on second glance, askance,
there it was, again.
To and fro, direct and peripheral,
it appeared and disappeared on cue.
Head down, focused, tunnel-eyed:
I missed the cherry blossom burst.
I missed the fledgling bird's first flight.
I missed seeing clouds both sides now.
I missed the birth of mirth in common in crowds.
I missed the context of milieu's view wide-angled
With eyes binocular.
Head down, glued to the viewfinder, set to myopic focus,
I had no inkling of what I missed
as I walked.
Night fell.
I back-tracked the path in the dark,
under the gaze of the crescent moon.
But, the path was vague in darkness.
The harder I looked,
the more I focused straight-ahead,
the less I could see the path.
It disappeared from view.
I stumbled into side-walk bushes.
I tripped over a log.
Weirdly, the path loomed up clear,
outta the gloom, in every sideways glace I made,
Clearly spelled-out in peripheral.
Whenever I picked myself up from a fall.
or glanced back askew from the side-walk,
the path was clear as a bell,
in sideways view peripheral.
But, if I looked back directly dead-ahead,
to see the path clearly defined, in twenty-twenty,
it was gone.
The only way to track the path
was to flick the eyes
to and fro in glances,
into and out of the corners.
Like a boxer in three minute rounds.
I struggled ahead along the path dark and gloomy.
Weaving like a wayward drunkard
pledged to be sober as a judge.
Plying the wobbly peripheral path
with view finder
set to landscape,
lens set to fish-eye.
-----------------------------
21 July 2021
Central vision is weak in the dark. Peripheral vision can detect faint light sources at night hidden from central focused gaze. Peripheral vision is better for detecting motion, especially flickers. Perchance ponder the implications if you will.
----------------------------
So we have a house that stays here.
And parents that always were here.
So we tell them hello,
and might use the toilet there don't we?
See, the question that asks your mind who is there,
is getting blinded by the trees,
and the mountains are holding the pain strong.
To make us last a little.
When the last beats a heart beat,
In every gives us a breathe,
In every lets our blood flow.
When it beats faster our blood boils and leaves us mad.
When it beats faster it makes us turn away and hide our face, we know something is weirdly feeling good and exciting.
Just now with the person walking down the street,
didn't you hate it before?
Then when the hearts leave, mind holding on still, someone got sooner away (my soul plays I am not sure),
you always loved eating ice cream in the car and shared it with them,
is it now something you hate?
I feel myself that I could do so many things wrong,
that you would Lose to count.
There is so much to waste, lose and hurt.
We do not see the heart slowly cloloring in Black,
but you feel the emptiness by,
screaming at everyone you know,
being lazy and sleep all day.
We do not see the heart slowly coloring in Black,
but you feel it getting heavier by,
acting silly and live by music,
as it has give you the life.
The Alkohol, you drink to thrive.
The drugs you try to lie.
Have you learned making more excuses?
You are more often leaving the window by one foot,
and sleeping in his bed.
Does your mother know?
When you leave them do,
you feel fresh, the pink has tightened,
then you try doing to much and feel exhausted.
Just when you alone,
you don't want to be interrupted.
Is there a healthy way?
Before there have been everyone and been asked about if they want to be here in life.
What do you think, why have we sais yes?
And why did he make us forget walking here barefoot?
Thinking we are barefoot?
YEW TREE LODGE - Story poem
When I was young we had a local witch, or so they said.
Meg Reid at Yew Tree Lodge. That’s the legend we were fed
The lodge was dark and forbidding, away from the street light’s glare.
Surrounded by gnarled old yew trees, weirdly shaped and bare.
They’d been there for two hundred years, tree experts all agreed.
And, if you believed the stories, they’d been planted by Meg Reid.
She dressed in black from head-to-toe, the way that witches do,
And, just to complete the picture, her cat was jet black too
They said she had a cauldron, like the witches in Macbeth.
And, if you took a sip from it, you’d suffer a painful death.
Children were warned to keep away. Their parents would explain
That if they ventured in there, they’d never be seen again.
She’d boil them in her cauldron, then cut off all the fat,
Chop them into pieces and feed them to her cat
But I didn’t take any notice, in spite of the stories I’d heard.
Whatever the other children said, I didn’t believe a word
I went to see her twice a week, welcomed with open arms.
I didn’t end up in her cauldron or come to any harm
She didn’t have a magic wand or wear a pointed hat.
She didn’t cackle when she laughed or anything like that.
She didn’t ride a broomstick. That was not the way to define her.
If she had to get from A to B, she drove a Morris Minor
Her ‘cauldron’ was a stew pot, not containing witch’s brew
But full of her delicious Beef and dumpling stew.
We played Ludo and Monopoly, and card games by the score.
If I won she gave me ice cream; if I lost she gave me more.
I asked her why she wore black and never something gay.
She said she’d thrown her gay clothes out when her loved one passed away.
No, Meg Reid was not a witch; just grieving for her man.
Oh, and I forgot to say that Meg Reid was my Nan