Façade Poems | Examples

they pretend they are friends

they pretend they are friends
no one buys this weird façade
they were the worst married couple ever

they were not even close when they were dating
why they got married is unknown to any of us
they pretend they are friends

when they would be much better off
avoiding and ignoring each other
why the façade?

None of us can guess.

Seven Hundred Septembers

Musings on the façade of Seville Cathedral

How patiently they suffer, these old saints!
Their sandstone features, crumbled, vague,
some noses gone (some medieval ague,
or Time's cruel drip?) they offer no complaints.

Stranded seven centuries on this reef,
they bake, and wait resignedly, begowned,
for bell-tower shade slowly to inch around.
Do bas-reliefs experience relief?

This church was once a mosque. In point of fact,
the holy ancient venerable Gothic pile
(and here one struggles to suppress a smile)
has relatively recently been sacked,

and only lately put to Christian use.
These saintly faces, preternaturally mild -
do they still fret? Or are they reconciled
to slow decay, as hand or ear works loose?

And do they savour time as you or I,
observing how, below them in the street,
perukes give way to pony-tails and pleats?
Or do, for them, Septembers flicker by

like squandered seconds? Do they muse on Fate
and Destiny? What if my youth has gone?
What if this woman keeps me hanging on?
They also serve who only stand and wait.

GATSBY

GATSBY*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gatsby’s my name, character of Fitzgerald fame.
Nick saw through the façade and my game.
     I partied and danced through the night,
     Chasing dreams that weren’t quite right.
Then there was Daisy, jazz’s grande dame.

I lived in a mansion that sparkled at night,
I threw bashes hoping to be Daisy’s shining knight. 
     But the glitz and the glam,
     Were a mere flashy sham,
Alas, George kills me, a vengeful, murderous sight. 

*The Great Gatsby, a novel by F. Scott Fitzgerald, follows the story of Nick Carraway, who moves to Long Island in the summer of 1922 and becomes entangled in the lives of his wealthy neighbor, Jay Gatsby, and Gatsby's former lover, Daisy Buchanan. (Wikipedia Encyclopedia)

the train back home

The cold is leaving the air
And the smell of the grass is sneaking in.
The train is bringing me home,
The home where I was the reckoning.
My body shivers in the summer while remembering,
Remembering how the other me was acting.
The lowest part of my soul is gravitating
In the cafés, passages, and places,
Without fear, shame, nor guilt,
Screaming: here I am — have you thought of changing?
I respond with anger: I have, have you?
And she said: why change when you know what's coming?
The duality of my selves keep rhyming,
And the place where once was home is shifting.
Did I leave that façade in this city?
Did I come back new and with eyes of pity?
Trying to fit in the mold of desperation,
Knowing deep down my true consolation is just building a new foundation.

the life of an artist

Is my writing only good when I’m drowning?
When I’m down to my knees and my soul shouts heal
Is my happiness on only when I’m socializing?
When I cry of laughter only so my sad tears can be sealed
Is my depression the only motive of my paintings?
When I pour into a canvas only so my ideas can be cleared
Are those same ideas present with my happy self?
If not, who am I when I’m happy?
Is my tongue only flexible when I’m faking?
When I play with sweet words only so that my façade can be shielded?
Is this double sword personality of mine the only way to be acceptable?
If it is, is this fair to my heart? To my brain? To my body?
Is it fair to me? Or even to them?
Or is it the hidden rule played by the elite?

My Last Day in Ogalala

Road work had been finished
for the winter on an asphalt strip
north of town near a nature preserve.
I said good-bye to the hotel owner
and he invited me back
although the town was a lifetime away
from my home. We shook hands.
The town wore its history well
with a façade of an old west town
complete with a jail and post office
on its main street, as if it wanted
to live that life again.
Picture postcards were sold in a drug store
to be packed away and taken home.
Gates of fences aligning themselves
on either side of a highway
spoke of the last cattle drive.
I realized this was the west
where cowboys lived and died.
Reflections stirred of how we gave of our lives
for our dreams and for the ones we loved.
Hasn’t it always been this way?
Sandhills loomed to my side as I drove
on a two-lane east to another town
where I could see another historic site
then get onto the interstate and drive
to the next assignment.
The sky above the open land was an ocean
as I drove east toward the sun.

Hair Composition

Her hair dances like the cascading stream, 
murmuring in the silence of dormant dreams.
It’s more than an element of graceful façade,
the curls carry a crown of style adornment.

The onyx hair cataracts elegance untamed, 
swirls in the stream of longing squall 
on the ivory template of her forehead,
engraves the contours of her charisma.

As the melting clouds drizzle on her,
luster flows on the shining strands of ebony,
rave rapture drenches her with surreal hue,
pristine pearls glide with the rhythm of symphony.

A bun flows with fluid finesse and engrossing charm,
a bob helps handle the workplace hassles with ease,
a pixie cut boldly highlights the facial features,
a braded motif plaits the strands of beauty secrets. 

Whether worn long or short, curled or colored,
the hair composition isn’t just a fashion narrative.
It’s a powerful symbol of identity and self-expression,
a reflection of the persona statement of who she is.

My overrated Facade

These scars on my wrists that you just don’t see
This noose around my neck means nothing to me
It’s just the way my life is entrapped by your charm
Your centerpiece of loveliness, you see no harm

No fears, no care,s don’t worry about me
My overrated façade is all you’ll see.
Live your life- Live mine too
Damn! I hate being just like you

You talked of trust when you have none
You spoke love, I’ll “always be the one”
Where is your love now, as I drown in pain
Tears fall like rivers in this never-ending rain

No fears, no care,s don’t worry about me
My overrated façade is all you’ll see.
Live your life- Live mine too
Damn! I hate being just like you

As I waste away, you don’t hear my cry
Watch out, Boy- Soon I’ll just die
But I’ll be replaced by a new little trophy
And you won’t be sad,  you’ll just forget me

Earth

as waterfalls tear* down my sheer cliffs – 
sculpted by time’s relentless tide 
defying the laws of nature
my age undefined; hidden
towering over my world – 
a beacon for lost souls
enduring …

an impressive beauty 
unapologetic
every angle precise
the lack of erosion 
an enigma
as defiant as youth 

the island suspended above the clouds 
where rare species flourish
unattended by the hand of mankind 
ageless banquettes of emotions
served on the tabletop
while impertinent shadows are teased out by 
soft slanting sunlight

waterfalls of tears
wouldn’t erode
my façade 

the command for respect reticent—
     an enduring beauty 
         in suspension …

The Last Free Place

The remnant of dismantled world war history,
the concrete slabs frame the unleashed society’s canvas,
captures the contours of the off-the-grid lifestyle
where bohemian spirit thrives in the last lawless place.

A secluded haven with no borders and no rules to confine
the eccentrics and impoverished who want to get lost
as wanton wonderers like the migrating snowbirds,
weaving the fabric of life with new meaning in the desert.

The creative tenets of the free life force of the slab city,
vibrant on the façade of the avant-garde harsh beauty,
with resilience etched by the wild winds of desolation
for the secluded slabbers in the last free place.

The Man Beneath

The mask I wear, a crafted porcelain guise, 
Hides uncharted depths behind these shadowed eyes. 
 
You glimpse the surface—an actor’s polished play— 
But the soul beneath? He walks a world astray. 
 
These laughter lines, etched scripts of light and cheer, 
Conceal the wars I've waged, the silent fear. 
 
My casual stride, a dance of practiced ease, 
Cloaks ancient burdens, whispered on the breeze. 
 
The tales I weave—a tapestry ornate— 
Thread vivid joys, yet darker truths await. 
 
Each word I speak, wrapped firm in bold disguise, 
Veils restless doubts, unvoiced beneath the skies. 
 
I long to strip this mask and let you peer 
Into the fractured core, the flaws sincere. 
 
Yet fear of scorn—a binding, spectral chain— 
Keeps truths submerged in quiet, unseen rain. 
 
Perhaps one day, in courage, I’ll reveal 
The man unmasked—the wounds that time won’t heal. 
 
Expose the jagged pieces—light and night— 
And hope you’ll see a soul, both fierce and slight. 
 
Until that hour, this visage I’ll sustain, 
A nameless shadow, hiding depth and pain. 
 
But know, beyond this painted, bright façade, 
Dwells more than meets the eye—a soul unflawed.

Augury

The earth got suddenly bereft of all life,
With a morose dullness so palpable and rife.
A tint of greyness crept over heaven’s vault. 
All movements came to a freezing halt.

The wall clock didn’t toll the midday hour.
The babies no more blabbered but did glower.
The hen didn’t cackle after laying the egg.
The earth for some benevolent mercy seemed to beg.

The birds on trees at noon didn’t twitter,
And the foliage of leaves didn’t flutter.
No music came out from the well strung fiddle.
The telephone sat silent on its cradle.
       
Nature seemed to have lost half its mirth. 
A mournful silence overpowered the earth.
Suddenly shattering the ominous silence,
Gun shots were heard from a distance.

The siren screamed many times, long and loud,
Announcing curfew on unsuspecting ears wild.
Behind the façade of a deceptive calm,
No one suspected the threat of a fierce storm.

The dumb presages of Nature, who can read?
A language mysterious, that only augurs heard.
What horrors in cosmic layers are concealed!
Through augur’s lens, future incidents are revealed.

YOU WHOM I SURELY LOVE -

YOU WHOM I SURELY LOVE 

Colors are the parade
Different shades, of gray
Coal silken blacken wool
Hair that glistens in the moon
Such is as does
You whom I surely love

Moisten eyes tears you shed
Lofty pearls shines in crimson dark
Such a melody salvage lark
My heart and soul bled
Such is as does
You whom I surely love

Purposeful the façade
Music that’s made
I sing to you
Jubilee, I swoon
Can’t hear for the shouts
Bleeding of mine ears
All is abundantly now clear

Colors are the parade
Different shades, of gray
Coal silken blacken wool
Hair that glistens in the moon
Such is as does
It’s you whom I surely love

2/19/25
Written words & arranged music  by James Edward Lee Sr. 2025©

Lost in Fantasy

dreams
conjures
fantasy ~ 
A gilded cage
or Icarus' wings?
the amethyst sky sings
serenading us, who sleeps
ephemeral though we may be
through this effervescent escapade
we who dream drifts along eternity

Eternity abides in those who dream
unwinding hopes too often congealed 
painting the night with faith yet found
who can see illusions speak?
This unfeeling façade
beguiling the eyes
wipes our essence
redressing
them with
haze

The Final Push

Only a few days are left,
But no seriousness is felt.
I don’t want to cry, I don’t want to regret,
Need to study each chapter, each alphabet.

I need to work hard,
With determination, not just a façade.
I want to score better,
That’s what truly matters.

Managing my time,
Is harder to define.
Working with a strict schedule,
Feels far from cool.

How foolish I am, though I know,
Boards won't be easy, still, I let it go.
I need to work hard,
That’s the key to the reward.

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