Long Bold faced Poems
Long Bold faced Poems. Below are the most popular long Bold faced by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bold faced poems by poem length and keyword.
Santos fooled the folks as he spoke
George thinks mashing facts is a joke
This N.Y. House dope
Needs his mouth rinsed with soap
His diaper-rash words make me choke
Author's note: Why did voters in NY district #3 elect a bold-faced liar to Congress? Mr. Santos may have some kind of illness. Be that as it may, if a candidate freely lies, fools the voters, and receives no condemnation from his party's cohorts, it suggests the following:
It's not about where the ship of state sails, but rather who resides on the top deck. If the hull leaks, we can all go down, so even top-deck denizens ought to be careful about who does what.
A new victim,
cast your eyes on your prey,
A lesson to learn,
tomorrow is a new day.
I'm taking back,
the things you stole,
My life, my mind,
my heart of gold.
My heart is broken,
my head won't let this be,
The demons of love,
call out and torture me.
As I lie awake,
in this empty bed,
My mind plays over,
the wickedness of your web.
I have heard that love,
should be easy, a simple thing,
Instead, it bites, cries,
bleeds and stings.
My whole being,
all twisted up in pain,
I can feel your betrayal,
pumping in my veins.
You fed me with lies,
and some affection,
Every move,
you set me up for the rejection.
I had to rise up,
from the ashes and fire,
Another heart broken,
by a bold-faced liar.
You made love,
look so damn easy,
I had no idea,
you were at work being sleazy.
I know the wheel,
continues to turn,
Another life lesson,
you live and you learn.
TURBO1904
A lock of sweat-matted hair over one eye,
she shakes a red knuckled fist at a naked child,
wailing upon a cold floor.
Mary drying feet with her hair.
Mary at the temple calling.
A street corner Mary full of sperm,
full of a grace,
She is invisible to rabid dogs and drunks.
Old or young,
fat Mary on roller skates,
sweet Mary sucking candy,
badly handled, nameless Mary's.
Sweet Mother,
the sweet lure of jail baiters winking.
The bold-faced laughter
of the -you, free-thinking.
Today the sky is a Robin egg blue,
robed in virginal light.
In a Chick-fil-a, a family is praying
over their sandwiches.
I make the sign of the cross.
I mean, why not?
my grandmother’s name is Verna
some look at her and see section 8, welfare checks, abuse and neglect
they see insufficiency, ignorant independency, a trench-condemned wreck
no collegiate education, no high-school diploma, they see a lack of dedication
they look in my grandmother’s eyes and with the snap of their fingers subject her to poverty, they banish her to being a pawn in their monopoly
they gratuitously perpetuate their hate and generously project their mental state
and to this? my grandmother smiles, she says Ladybug, don’t worry about me, they don’t know
They don’t know that my grandmother has built diamonds of men in the rough
she has made roses of women out of concrete
mountains move at the sound of her step
she makes even what is long lost feel kept
her smile could make a fish breathe out of water
i could posses no humanly title more noble than her granddaughter
there is no greater honor that I am allowed
no duer justice of mine than to make her proud
my grandmother sculpted my spirit with calloused hands and a heart overflowing, imbuing me with a strength born not of privilege, but of fiercely earned knowing
they don’t know about the lullabies she’s sung through thin walls, how many time she’s picked me up from my falls, and more importantly how she doesn’t keep count
her motherhood, a tapestry woven with threads of sacrifice and strands of grace, a masterpiece unseen by eyes that only value pedigree and place
my grandmother has raised generations of excellence. don’t believe me? just open your eyes-you never met a woman so sagacious-so wise-so gracious-even with my words you couldn’t surmise
I’m talking about a charisma you wouldn’t believe, a resilience you couldn’t conceive, a wit you could never deceive, a love you wouldn’t know how to receive,
if i died and said I never knew unconditional love, I would be a bold-faced lie
i think my grandma would raise up out her grave and set the record straight with a fire burning in her eye
hell, call it blasphemy but I think my grandmother’s touch could make a blind man see
her soul breaking chains and setting lives free
my grandmother’s name is Verna
and if God was a woman on earth, then I’ve been a disciple since birth
Fifteen years in the same apartment,
before that twenty-five years in a bungalow.
Earlier still; digs, dumps and bedsits.
Peripatetic ambulation's
traveling in circles.
Left that world, travelled
met myself coming and going.
Saw the reaper
he had the eyes of a child.
Fell in with the dangerous kind,
loved many a bold faced liar,
misused the tender-hearted
spat at the devil; he wore a mask
behind that mask was a loving God
dancing on skulls.
Took a train up to the highest mountain
that a train can reach
and no further,
but it got me here into a recliner
musing over a cold beer
and a string of dwellings
pulled now like empty carriages
behind some derailed thoughts.
January 24th, 2023 Hair washing heralds huge happening
Hark….the herald angels sing, and twitter
for mass communication
mediums stop the presses
when I, a regular schlemiel
take shampoo to mine matted mass mop
(no less than once a week)
of straggly follicles, and commence
to dispense with the heady eco system
viz rare crop of flora and fauna
(some rank as endangered species)
rub and band together
to scratch envy of
flaky key neigh bring ponytails
and create quite an niche,
and where also can be found
lousy knit wit vendors ready to scalp
and give shaft to razor sharp purveyors,
who mane lee scout out available
head and shoulder room to nap
without a stir, tub bed down
(praying Holy Scott no wash out
nor Harris mint occurs),
or burrow vis a vis,
where subcutaneous porous droplet size
watership down pieces
of prime residence found
counting one mister comb lee
bald bold faced realtor
amidst competing rival
bulb buss Edward scissorhands
(with knot to heavy a price toupee)
affianced to rapunzel,
whom he sheared split ends
as her barber of civil,
one dapper dander ruff dude to offer
lice cent shuss insects a tonsured
cut above other stylish habitués
preferring to fraternize,
glad-hand, and hobnob
amidst a cluster of big wigs
housed by yours truly - Samson
in gleaming puffy pompadour
pads tightly secured
with the best dreadlocks,
which harum-scarum
green barrettes serve
as first line of rinse able defense
IdentityGuard (with franchisee
Bob O Link averse to split hairs, but fierce
as a Mohawk and ring leader
to protect any curl of mine)
waving away intruders,
who if insist tubby persistent
and tangle with fate
cannot expect camaraderie
from buzz cutting crew i.e. the fuzz
to give expletive filled lathering,
severe shame poo wing subjugation
plus an up braiding experience),
and teach stragglers
they will suffer
a real perm in hint bang up job
if they brazenly brush
against brylcreem of the crop
rooted as rightful heirs
(hairs) of tousled doo mane,
thus concludes my tail.
Postscript: Yours truly
an aging long haired
seventh generation pencil neck geek
finds ultra joy when
volunteering for kitchen duty,
hence imagine the hypothetical picture
portraying Geico caveman
mimicking pseudo dawn of humanity.
The dust of eons has not named me,
why would dust name dust?
I who have entered the world
through so many women,
and exited its bold-faced deceits
as sexless as a worm or an apple,
how then can I claim any name?
I recall being five-years old,
or maybe six.
a fever took me,
I lay in a white hospital sepulcher for days
until a mother whispered into my mind:
"Not yet."
I knew not which mother,
for all my mothers have been named
by passing dust storms.
My parents, who had previously entered
the flesh of the worm and apple,
also exited my whirlwind life,
though after they had named me
John,
and I am the one
who names Jesus now.
Today I hear his laughter,
I hear his merry laughter.
A bold faced cad of human form
Flesh and blood but not the norm
Retraced his steps through the wood
Careless fashion unparalleled as good
Yet the cliff came ending his trail
Of scattered footprints to no avail
Some were cloven others not
Armed with a net as I was taught
Climbed a tree of scruffy pine
Darkness ensued where sun did shine
A scream came from out of the blue
Chills ran up my spine as if held by glue
Creepy crawler my escaped human quest
Smelled so foul I do not jest
Of sweat and blood and maybe pee
Sweltering in the moonlight he saw me
Escape uncertain no wings had I
A sacrificial lamb in his ungodly eye
Of flesh and blood and simply bones
He devoured me except my clothes