Long Façade Poems
Long Façade Poems. Below are the most popular long Façade by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Façade poems by poem length and keyword.
There are doors but you can’t knock upon them
And if they were opened
There is nothing to see if they did
Just a hollowed out space
Large enough for the width of a door
And no more
Some temples are like this
A dry sandstone and façade and fascia
Not the delving warrens of the tombs of Kings
There is nothing deep to them
The architecture is all outwards
A structure chiseled only far enough
Into the rock to suggest mighty halls within
All inwardness is written upon the outside
Depth only suggested
Rooms for these ancient vaults of time
Would be mere adornments
Their purpose is confusing
Perhaps they point to an interior
That is on the outside
An edifice that attempts to mirror
soul
Should I disregard
what other people think or,
balanced on the brink, maintain
a thin-veneered façade?
Where shall I store,
how shall I keep,
the poetry I must write
but cannot show--
that which smolders deep
and threatens to erupt?
Must I lock it all
securely in a box,
store it high upon a shelf
where none are wont to go?
Would it be likely to corrupt
the innocently unaware?
Should I, at least,
pretend to care?
Might not I plunge into the mob,
joining others of this ilk...
should it be my job
to preach, now the day
has finally been reached --
to walk alone in open air,
free from fear of full disclosure?
Would my revelations stir
those who taunt, who hate?
Might not their spate of hurtful words,
and worse, prompt my avoidance of
the fate they threaten,
encourage my reluctance to unmask?
And may I be moved, instead,
in surly tones, to ask
who made them my judge and jury?
A family affair
A big hotel was built in our rather shy town
the hotel's façade faced the town's lake that
had many birds that visitors thought charming
the hotel needed many casual workers, such
as cleaning rooms, corridors, and plates, and
cups after guests, we thought was posh and
with a southerly accent, which was regarded
as more posh than the way we spoke.
for the working-class young, there was not
to offer, between going to sea or working
at a canning factory, many took to the sea
but lacked the discipline needed to continue
a lifestyle that is essentially a lonely one
although for those with the will to seek to
to maritime school, it could be a fine career
when my father was coming home from
from the sea for good, he was not a seaman
I was in bed, lung sick as often as a child
they had told me he was coming and thought
he might look heroic, like a Viking
the door opened, and a smallish man entered
he pointed at me and in gest said, whose son
is this and forever planted in me a feeling
of being inferior with problems this entails
but I digress years later when taking
the bus into town, I ignored his halloo for
which I suffered sleepless nights
I should have been more polite.
My brother was friendly with my dad
my brother was a forgiven sort of person
they even worked together at the hotel
cleaning dishes
"Teach me to feel another's woes,
To hide the fault I see;
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me."
Alexander Pope, 1688 - 1744
____________________
I began life pure and guiltless,
A girl innocent and faultless;
As I grew my soul became flawed,
Teach me to heal fault I see, God.
My young soul began to have cracks,
It is full of fractures and gaps;
From pits of sorrow I have clawed,
Teach me to heal fault I see, God.
This life gone awry and amiss,
oh could you please, please press a kiss;
I am weary of this façade,
Teach me to heal fault I see, God.
Each day, moment I am falling,
I am damaged, broken, weeping;
From chains of the past I have crawled,
Teach me to heal fault I see, God.
But deep inside there is a strength,
In this faulty soul's depth and length;
I am weakness and strength. How odd!
Teach me to heal fault I see, God
____________________________________________
November 21, 2016
Poetry/Kyrielle/This Faulty Soul
Copyright Protected, ID 16-851-854-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, The Fault Line,
sponsor, Anthony Slausen
Fourth Place
The listlessly marooned trace of the last mile
fades away fast into nothingness of obscurity
beyond the unfurled tapestry of twilight zone,
the ambiguous path getting lost in anonymity
seeks definition in configured mystique metaphor,
engraved within the penumbra of panorama
patterned in my psychic kaleidoscopic display.
The mirror of drifting mirage shining deceptively
on the window of the world of fervent framework
constructs the innate instrument of my thoughts.
The momentary montage of esoteric exuberance,
laced with lattice of euphoria weaved engagingly
by the momentous strands of cadenced zephyr,
the swirling sagacity of mesmeric menagerie
on an en echelon flight, the design of delight
choreographed by the cloud clumps on flight
in the exaltation sky within scarlet sunset frame,
the spectrum serenading the song of silence
synced to the tranquil melody of stimulant spirit,
for the formless façade of indolent life unlived,
languishing tuneless in the cascading crescendo
of the symphony of emotion, as ecstatic fervor
flows entranced with the stream of sonata,
reverberating through ether of the mindscape
as the perennial pageant of immutable images
of the timeless motifs transfixed anonymously,
while the faceless people turn to crafted pretense,
their silhouettes shrouding the beauty of life.
The ephemeral essence morphs into a maestro,
conducts the concerto of the resonant memory.
Form:
I'm aware of everyone's faults and downside.
They will tear me since my life is now a façade.
I was fully immersed in this level of self-love.
Philanthropy is tied to being aware and sensitive.
Everything was flawed, but I was "in the zone."
Many people grasped my illusion and shone.
We have hit obstacles in vast areas of quietness.
Forlorn begets both activeness and idleness.
My broken and weak lines have torn asunder.
I was overwhelmed with blazing, imperfect anger.
My final aim in ecstasy is to leap off something.
The white mask implies that I wore it for nothing.
My commitment was prompted by optimism.
Dreams of virtue drove me to strive for idealism.
You will be cracked no matter how firm you try.
Even on brink of anguish, hope thrives and lullaby.
Written: June 17, 2021
Writing Prompt - Flawed - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Poetry unlike the rest
Poetry I like best
Best as non-fiction
Best as one’s conviction
Conviction of the heart
Conviction comes apart
Apart from others views
Apart from your issues
Issues we must address
Issues woven to express
Express it in loose term then
Express even if you squirm friend
Friend I listen
Friend you glisten
Glisten with valor
Glisten with color
Color our world with screams
Color unfurled dreams
Dreams you make come alive
Dreams of a swan dive
Dive deep to your goal
Dive into your soul
Soul mates on paper birch
Soul search
Search within
Search for words to pen
Pen despite limits and critics
Pen as it permits not for cynics
Cynics blind to a poetic jewel
Cynics bitter and cruel
Cruel and hollow
Cruel spirited not to follow
Follow your words
Follow the songbirds
Songbirds protocol
Songbirds call
Call out the façade
Call upon God
God knows your floetry
God gifted your poetry
Poetry forever lives
Poetry gives and gives
Gives tremendously
Gives us plenty
Plenty will agree
Plenty will see tour de force
Tour de force with symmetry
Tour de force so passionate
Passionate
Symmetry
“self harm is often used as a form of control”
the first time i heard that it all seemed to click. all of the days in school hearing the taunts of other children and the mistakes that never seem to end. all of the nights that i felt the world spinning and the thoughts became too loud.
it was a trap disguised as a release. dragged you down deeper into the ocean while convincing you you were going to finally reach the shore.
but the ocean is only so deep. there are a finite number of miles downward that you can be dragged before you inevitably reach the bottom. and oxygen will only stay down low for so long before the pressure lifts you right back up. bumps along the way are inevitable, you were miles into darkness after all. eventually, though, you will reach the shore. and this time it won’t be a rouse or a façade.
the strength always returns. the shore will always be there for you to walk along, to feel the slight sinking of your toes in the sand like the comfort of a soft pillow. the sun always comes out again, the whisper of the wind in your ear like a long lost friend.
there is always an ocean of love around you, whether or not you’re able to see it.
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©
I'm dying inside, a silent scream,
Masked by mirth, a façade's deceitful dream.
I laugh to conceal the anguish that gnaws,
A desperate attempt to shield my crumbling laws.
No pain, no gain, they say, but oh, the toll,
A heavy heart, a weight that makes me old.
I wear a cloak of calm, a disguise so fine,
A refuge from the prying eyes that mine.
I walk this tightrope, fragile and thin,
A balancing act, lest I succumb to the spin.
Pride's a shield, a flaky armor I don,
A temporary reprieve, till the storm is gone.
But oh, the ache, the desolate night,
When shadows whisper truths, and I'm forced to confront the fight.
No one sees the cracks, the fissures deep,
Just a façade, a pretence, a soul asleep.
I'm dying inside, a slow, suffocating demise,
A prisoner of pride, afraid to vocalize.
The pain is a tempest, wild and untamed,
But who can I tell, and ask, "Am I to blame?"
In this desolate landscape, I search for a spark,
A glimmer of hope, a reason to embark.
For in the darkness, I'll find my strength,
A phoenix rising, reborn, with a new length.