Unrehearsed, but Hopefully Strange

Strange, strange, stranger still,

In the gloom of bleakest night,

Whilst the whistling Whip-poor-will

Whisks away in frightened flight,

Through the mist and through the heather

Searching with mine eyes for thee,

Never knowing naught or whether

I will stumble across monstrosity,

As I creep, I place my hand

Upon my belt, a sheath to feel-

Protection wrought of fire brand-

A cold hard blade of tempered steel.

For if I find that monster here-

Unholy being-Satan spawn-

Which sounded shrill notes in my lover's ear

I will draw, and I will kill that swan!

"What in the world does your poem mean?"

Don't interrupt! It's kind of rude.

"Your connotations are obscene

And your line of thought is misconstrued!"

Well, let others here enjoy.

My words weren't meant for your ears only.

"The images that you employ

Make me believe that you're a lonely

Man who has nothing better to do

Than make up poems with their thoughts out of joint."

Well, let me explain myself to you.

You see, my friend, the only point

Of my poetry is to be strange.

If everyone here walks out of this place

Thinking "My that boy is quite deranged"

Then my poem has served its purpose with grace.

My poems must be strange.

by John Loghry : 1st place Potluck Poetry