Best Long Faced Poems
Another haunted night, I watch
raindrops fall from consolatory words,
track each plane flying south, and
I think of you.
My lungs empty a lonely sigh…
I bullet a dark, heaving sky
with my angry words as I curse you
for walking away again. I remember
the starlings that came earlier; they
circled low, then perched along
the eaves while the sun held me in
afternoon glow, as if to say goodbye,
friend. We will meet again.
I should have known.
Night after night, shadows march
a solemn procession across a long-faced
moon. I know he is mourning, too.
Weeds tangle my thoughts until I dream
in a web of mismatched memories
and neglected clues - so many questions,
left in a heap at the foot of our bed,
no answers said out loud. Solitude plays
games with my heart; mocking me tonight,
the house wins again. Why do I gamble
after I lost you before? How many times
have you walked out that door?
I try to mend cracks exposed when
darkness fades into golden dawn.
I try to color my crumpled world
like a child. I paint smiles on your face
in our albums to tell myself lies.
I replay the moment you walked away;
I envision every detail down to one lace
that dangled from your new shoes,
new shoes bought to step into our new
life together. I remember when we wrapped
ourselves in our dreams to keep warm.
One day, your face will dissolve
like a rain puddle on a summer day.
One day, I’ll say goodbye and start again.
Maybe today will be that day.
At least today, I’ll try.
A lone starling in a dark, glossy suit
lands on my window sill at break
of dawn. It wakes me with its sweet,
warbled song and waits long enough for me
to rise from bed so I might feel the promise
of a new day shine into my soul. Then,
as my tears fall soft like spun silk,
he spreads his wings and flies away.
In light of dawn’s blessings, I am
the starling, singing a goodbye song. I pray,
tonight, I dream of anyone but you.
written April, 2014
Oh father of mine - who long has withstood
trials to which I can’t even relate -
how sad you must feel – how misunderstood.
On your deathbed you lie, filled not with hate.
Unable am I to communicate
with you very well, for thus is our fate.
Oh father of mine, long-faced much like me,
with eyes like mine too, but more tinged with blue,
any words you might say – a rarity-
I try so hard to elicit from you.
Words that would show me what I never knew -
the “you” that my mother knew. . . but years flew.
Oh father of mine, years flew to this time
where I sit by your bed, watching you die -
all questions unanswered - as I write this rhyme.
Mental illness estranged you from me. Now I
am here- but lacking emotion to cry
as mortality I’m seeing fly by.
I hope in the next life, oh, father of mine,
our feelings and thoughts at last can entwine.
For The Urban Sonnet Poetry Contest of Emile Pinet
My father is at last at peace. He passed away June of 2019.
Questions arise as I walk with them -
finding contradictions of formality and intimacy,
darkness and light, the tangible and ethereal -
where a sunset meets moon rising, black meets white.
Chill of evening leaps from the canvas
sending shivers through bone and thoughts.
Strange, how the long-faced couple steps
from winter’s ominous night, eyes upon them,
not disturbing the sleeping forest of naked trees,
searching for home or the inside joke of clowns and jesters.
Their soulful glow, one light with arms entwined, penetrates my heart,
shaping the beauty and mystery of Rousseau’s masterpiece.*
*Carnival Evening by Henri Rousseau
Vertically they have gone to see the horizon
dividing into two parallel paths of iron and stone
nor to return or to encounter
sometimes, only crease cross
to pass trains and trams with passengers and goods
ever absurd they are;
On both the sides
modern civilization exists
mills, factories, industries, markets and localities are
in high rising skyscrapers, fashionable, colorful buildings
lines after lines vertically, horizontally
and underwardly growers they are;
Here and there wide and long hollow down bridges
over ponds, lakes, channels, rivers even seas
where ply boats, launches all the times,
sometimes through long tunnel
goes through hills, desert and channel
challenging explorers they are;
I have walked for long and long, faced long quarry
only iron and stone all through the journey
no pearls, diamond or ivory,
i have heard fierce, painful crying
but seen no tiger or lion roaring
absurd history makers they are;
I have seen cutting, burning, clearing forests
filling lakes, dishes, rivers,
leveling hills, killing wilds
for paving the paths of iron and stone,
for ever growing silver civilization
innumerable stations setters they are.
IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE : Part XVIII
IF you pull a long dopey face
The least one can in this case say
You don't belong to the eskimo race
Who lament the sun sunk in iced bay
Now if you pull that long limp face
Hoping someone will notice your dismay
Best not to peek through burka-nikah lace
Take the next flight out of tent on any airway
Yet if you keep pulling that long hangdog face
Ev'ry chance you'd be called upon to act in a play
For who knows how to imitate Droopy's face
Who has heard of a cartoon dog star on Broadway
If you pulled hard at that long hangdog face
Through wearisome rehearsals day after day
Fat chance you'll be nominated to play Scarface
No long-faced dogs allowed on stage in Broadway
So if you must pull that long hangdog face
Make certain the collar the leash does not betray
The long-buried wolf in the dog might surface
And actors feast on wolf sans ShutDown back pay
© T. Wignesan - Paris, January 9, 2019
By Laura D
August 26, 2016
Give me the strength to carry through
The times you knew the audience was out of view
When you're alone and crying out to nothing
No one can hear the ugly side of forgotten diamond rings
I won't stick to a rhythm that anybody knows
It's just for me to breathe a little bit of brand new lows
I look away in pity at the long-faced souls aboard
The train has left but no one found a smile they could afford
The buildings soar around me in a melody of shadows
Forget the birds that fly above; they found a peace we cannot know
Insatiable, the way the ground exhales under the masses weight
We feed machines of our design, the ones that seem to feed the hate
I drink the Venti corporate poison cause we all seem to pay the price
We act real nice in spite of our vices that we lay on ice
Preserve the form; reduce the swelling; fit within our prison dwellings
Hypocracy is what I'm selling; deep within stories I'm telling
It's my advice to you guys: before you venture out shopping,
fill your wallet with enough cash, or check the balance
on your credit or debit card, never carry checks...
it's another way of being smart! And besides being admired instantly,
down that not-so-busy isle you may also find romance!
Look sharp, flash lots of money and really get lucky!
If you fellas follow all of these steps, girls will flock to you immediately,
and your long-faced buddies will envy you for your luck!
Just because love came around one day
It was pleasing to the eye and touch
Did not ask much
Gave what was needed
Without the study dust
Mesmerized
Gave feel goods inside
Invite to the sky
Leaving long faced cares behind
Possessing tools for the change of a century
Creature of habit altered
On a platter
Remedies of long ago standards
Keeping upbeat claims that mattered
Plastic for garment hopeful Mc Guyver
Privileged upbringing Mum funded Uni
Drooping arms self described Survivor
Sends selfies working store security
Each week forgot which time we'd set to meet
Busy cuddling cat in his hoarders house
Box obstructed rooms, pet fur pile retreat
Expensive half hour at strip club aroused
Deep thought Duncan sombre long faced hellos
Told off at new job for being morose
Six year psychiatrist compiled his woes
Used a lot of glue trying to make clothes!
Fifty eight, next door mother truest friend
Asserts he's recognised among top ten
31st January
Duncan in denial
A stony gut mi come from
Long march through the bruising night
Vex in mi soul without rum
Me in dis Morant Bay bright
Deh yah since broad day mek it lights
To seh me is man fe mi rights
A stony gut mi come from
Dry dust and parched pass of bush
Hungry gut and idle thumb
Custos and Governor crush
Big dream of freedom from wi doubt
Nobody nuh hear so-so mouth
A stony gut mi come from
God boned and God hearted mad
Load wi up like Abraham
Nah tun back long faced nor sad
Every man must tek him place
In de fight dest'ny cum face.
A stony gut mi come from
Mi only want de queen know
No more thicket full wid ram
Nuh suffice de wicked blow
De colony a deal wi
De colony a steal wi
Heng mi good and heng mi high
Dis country gwine bruk weh sah
Independent like the sky
Stony gut blood nah guh dry
Till crown and colony gone
Bring Jamaica betta dawn
-The King's Dead-
Suddenly, I see. Chicken pox, is full of bandwagons.
Not the biggest reach for a climb to mount Everest.
It’s a bold statement with eternal boundaries.
Headshot, then I freaked it.
Mess my life up fam.
Don’t appreciate the sound of silence when the wind pipes down.
Working on a clustertruck. Throbs meltin.
Throw that pillow down, suffocate mainstream media.
Wreak havoc on Teddy’s carpet.
Shoo Mr. Voices. Raincheck. Payment up front or no clear conscious.
Jokes on you. I don’t know which ones mine.
Slide on in. He’ll be with you shortly.
Intercom’s static, interference from demons on the widescreen.
We want you home. Nadda.
Cross circuit grand prix, slow marathon.
Horses carrying on their long-faced façade.
They can’t avoid their carrot on the stick. Nor can We.
You looked but didn’t three. Line up the BBQ. It’s going to get steamy.
I’m at the center of war
I’m afraid of my life in fear
I’ve engaged in a battle fist
Oh, how I so much desire a relief
Soldiers come, soldiers go, barrack remains
I won’t let in to this defeat
I’ll never accept to be called unfit
This war I face, I’ll get over it
Not with a defeat rumbling in a fit
Life has a multi-phase, not unidirectional
Last time I tried, I almost lost
After a thousand trials that failed
Now on a new roll call of challenge
Just pray I won’t end up drenched
A light to my feet, to illuminate my ways
What do I have but a hurdle ?
What do I do but a hustle?
I fiddled my way through, they yelled
Only to be called a bunch of inexperienced fellow
The odds they see, the even I try hard to imagine
To live a challenge, to want to die, a duel
Fill my grips with torrent flow of words
So I’ll describe all trials I’ve for long faced
Maybe a sigh or a relief will be welcome with smile
To the writer on the wall of my heart, the experience of life
Eroding names
on long-faced headstones.
Graves marooned
in a patch of the past
while 2019 blares unseeing
around the forgotten lot.
An old-fangled America
tucked between gas station and strip mall,
a small deposit
of once horse-drawn bones.
A haze of traffic emissions
half-hides the secreted,
the tucked away, the half seen,
yet,
there are whispers on mossy mounds,
mouth-lost echoes
of forked-over farmers,
matrons of dispersed parishes,
tanners still reeking of
raw mule skins
An olden daze leans toward us,
tilts into our future,
slides discreetly sideways 'round
a ‘Wendy's’ car-park.
A biker filling his tank;
beneath his dew rag.
voices sweat into his skin,
he shudders in the warm sunlight,
thinks about a cold soda long defunct.
A cloudy memory follows a teenager,
toward a newly opened store,
but it won’t live long.
Nothing around here survives
longer than the bygones.
Eroding names on long-faced headstones,
a small graveyard marooned on a patch of past;
long rooted and confined while beside it
2022 blares unseeing past the forgotten lot.
An old-fangled America right there
forgotten crypts
tucked between gas station and strip mall,
a small deposit of once horse-drawn bones
amid a modern thoroughfare.
A haze of traffic emissions half-hides the secreted,
the tucked away,
yet, there are whispers on mossy mounds,
mouthless echoes of forked-over farmers,
matrons of dispersed parishes,
tanners wrapped in musty mule skins.
An olden daze leans toward us,
tilts into the present, slides sideways into
a ‘Wendy's’ car-park.
Voices sweat into the skin of a biker filling his tank;
beneath his dew rag they wetly whisper.
He shudders in the warm sunlight,
thinks about a lime phosphate soda
long defunct.
A cloudy memory follows a teenager
toward a newly opened store,
but the new won’t thrive long.
Nothing around here survives
longer than the bygones.
Are gay jockeys fruit of the loom,
when riding a race on the course,
and would they need a leg-up,
to get on their high horse?
Bucking the system in a one-horse town,
or in the middle of a stream,
to look for gifts in a horse's mouth,
is not the smartest scheme.
Would a long-faced horse, a sourpuss,
not wanting to be a player,
bolt the barn door
and be a neigh-sayer?
If a broke cowboy, saddled with a nag,
a dark horse of a different colour that's *****,
were bent, a crooked rustler,
would he sell you a bum steer?