Long Fronted Poems
Long Fronted Poems. Below are the most popular long Fronted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fronted poems by poem length and keyword.
Out for the night, on the outskirts of London, we chanced
On a tavern, it was more or less random we few got our
Drinks and listened to some songs there was a musican
And when he took a break, a modern juke played along I
Was wearing my fancy shirt white with black edgings and
A run of gold type bars fronted over its button line pert.'
There was there a guy younger than I a rock and roll fan
With two toned shoes and wide eyes, i'd say he had some
Challenges.? Its really all i noticed' yet one of the ladies with us, waved me closer, clear and low she spoke, have
You seen how the young mans eyes, are fixated upon that
Shirt? they are almost scintillating.' I'll bet dancing and music are his whole world.' Why don't give it to him? I said
What my shirt.? She answered oh don't be such a churl.' So what
Could be done at this?? I called him over got my jacket then
Shirt off..Handed it over.' I heard someone exclaim from
Across the bar, i've often heard the saying.' Now its happening in this very bar ' they there are some who'd give
You the shirt from their back.' Then he pushed his way over
To shake my hand, and that was that, the night went on
The rock and roller in his new shirt.' And me just in my Jacket.' A little self conscious yet quite unhurt.'
It is time to get fresh America,
to be plucked wriggling out of that shining sea,
a fresh baked humanity, moon-beam buckled.
Pass no more pay-day-loans
into the purses of the pawn-shopping poor,
give no witness nor evidence
of city shame, and house crud.
America, you can do this.
I am a being from across the world
I am from the ***-end of times,
my transformation, a promise of our mutual destiny,
rampant & manifest, our fate falters
let us be unbridled from
both the prideful and the lackluster,
un-arrested and unmolested
by the land grubbing snipes
or the false-fronted back slappers.
We are better than this blare of ourselves,
and if not
we can make a wooden wagon wheel
from all our legendary days,
It’s not too late, wipe your ass America,
wipe your dirty face. the dusty empire is crumbling
yet our first day is not yet done.
I am ready, ready to soar out of a hundred landfills,
a prismatic dodo embossed upon a tarnished coin
my downy head newly scrubbed of old-time blood.
We did live on a long street street
in small houses each the same
fronted with lawns green and square
and sidewalks of cold hard concrete
all young families just starting out
moms and dads and children each
all brought together by circumstance
friendships to form and grow sweet
young girls and boys to run and play
some of each of every age
to form friendships of shared likes
and common bonds that might be
and he was years older than me
tall and gangly across the street
and my friend he was not
but every day I did see him
we did grow both older and tall
and with our friends we all did play
young and old had different games
and together we did not play
from childhood changed into our teens
and as we grew we both did dream
of all the things that we might do
and of all the things we might be
till the day the country did call
and the day that he went away
to a land most far away
and never again did we meet
and at home I watch the news
of the war so far away
and I did not really understand
of where he went and what he did
somehow empty I did feel
somehow had lost a part of me
a piece of youth not to be reclaimed
a empty longing left inside
in our hometown now stands a wall
and many names it does contain
and one of them is for him
and see you in it I do cry
I do not truly understand
for we were never truly friends
and together we never did play
he just lived across the street
I came awake a few moments ago..Feeling
Distorted feelings, and a nagging unease.' Then i recalled the dream..Or a series of scenes i had been visited by.' Sepia snapshots of thir heads and shoulders, wirh sepia blood soaked stainining on them over a large part of the photos, some were leaning upright in glass
Fronted cheap display cabinents, the kind we used to show off cut glass ware and fine bone china dinner services..? Back when we thought order in life and respect were important.' I rrmember I saw other pootos in open fronted boxes on metal poles the
Type that you'd see housing a round fire alarm, that never seemed it was going to be used.? They were there..Because people might need to know' about the fate of con-vid era participents..I seem to remember me putting some photos in these boxes.'
No physcally..And not right in front of rear doors. ' just to one side' in case their families when they came
In or out.' Might glance? and see them.? These represrntations of normal people who so many of..' have been denied a pathology report.' And were cremated or labelled sudden death and buried quickly.' Some had, no familiy only me
trying to raise an awerness' and God
who knows them all..And the false
prophet also was in my dream..? Or
nightmare.? Not in the drainstream guise.
This time.! Maybe its a diffetent demon? i saw an emaciated female with a withered most frail hand it repeatedly placed it over its mouth the dropped it only to put it back again i beleive it was a sighting of my opponent or one of them.' A false prophet that smothered the truth of mouths that could have spoken.' Maybe i saw part of its eternity.? Its validity once it enters hell.' I
am feeling subdued this early morning, having started this poem at 3, 07 am i will attempt to
Go back to sleep for a while.' May God be with you.'
Persona
She lived her life’ wayward ways as she trusted the cover
all in one jagged place dangerously designed from mascara
made up dressed down frozen from illegitimate shadows
Did not foresee what stretched behind sagging veiled wails
mirrored complexed complexion walled from nowhere and
never a curtain to fall for applauding broken shards’ charts
Which could have lightened the drama yet expressed in grimace
upon mediocre moth bitten twisted scowled crushed decrescendo
onto silent speakers screaming inner hushed unexpressed tones
It was not to be and the rouge never paled into significance
while injected lips angled in motionless smiles dangled upon
tucked skin where a necklace of beauty and honesty needed to
Rest in peace and one unadulterated piece skin upon skin no
strings attached attacked just discounted stones’ clarity twinkling
in contrasts in rapid descent to lifted nipples un-nibbled alone
Augmented onto booming bosoms of restless denial’s defence
when straight night called and no knight in weapon-less armour
arrived in her disguised and deflected thorny crowned heart
When straight-spoken honesty genuine serenity embarked onto
un-cherished appraisal and plain spoken truth the frank forthright
blinkered chinks stretched stagnation and coffined nails in vain
When the mask and the pennies had finally dropped the vizard
in tatters her persona exposed the fronted façade dismantled
withdrawn and stark naked she owned not a face other than none
02nd September 2016
Anti-Poem — “Snaking It To Venice”
(Poet’s Instruction: Play “The End” by the Doors loudly, while reading this anti-poem)
it’s you and me baby inside this gliding duster
this ’74 green plymouth cruising machine blasting
spit fire and gasoline grenades into the LA sun
snaking it to venice on the santa monica freeway
passing pillsbury billboards and green verdigris
doors music playing loudly on the duster radio dial
taking us past the santa monica civic auditorium
our rock pleasure palace under the ocean stars
fronted by the six high dudes straight as spears—
pylons of steel drum solos and marijuana memories
standing upward like skinny giants waiting to eat
hippie dudes and the bongo kings stand out front
polka-dotted chicks smile and pass running joints
we’re riding the snake babe riding on main street
looking for the rock gods behind beaming glass walls
looking to hear boogie music with the mind jive girls
the van chicks craving a bong hit of columbian gold
looking to groove on organ sonics that weaken you
kidnap you with handcuffs for a ransom of lost time
now jim morrison shimmies into view with a beer
the boys play the end again in 1967 with amps blaring
the vox organ humming out electric mind lacerations
as Ray Manzarek sits upright again on the melting stage
dig it baby, dig it there are no tomorrows no endings
it’s just you and me baby snaking it to venice beach
passing the dream palaces lit up with phosphorescence
the sun pole-dancing there doing the cosmic bend-over
the ’74 duster blasting spitfire and gasoline grenades
Rodin’s thinker felt deeply misrepresented in his pose
he had been simply doing his business in privacy but
paparazzis had caught him seemingly sitting on a rock
nothing on his mind but having a pee after a night out
too much beer with his mates in the pub and all that
was on his mind was whether there were painkillers
in the vanity unit to soothe his nauseating hangover
twitter went mad and the tabloids fronted his image
raised him onto the dubious pedestal of iconic status
attested him with clarity of thought and contemplation
he had only been looking at the bathroom mirror and
counting tiles and toothpaste stains in the marble sink
did not mind so much that he was nude in portraits
they painted because the truth must be stark naked
and he was not one to falsify events and their cause
but taking his ablutions out of context made him
feel shame rather than reason for he was abused
in nature’s call and his wife might object but he would
never again sit down on the loo when having a tinkle
10th March 2021
A tiny little surgery garden so charming and attractive
with its shrubs rooted by garments, gold, timber and fish.
Lush tropical Islands, stretched by
lengthy, sweeping fluffy white sand beaches,
with densely but well spread pillars of palms’ radiance
and fronted by crystal clear acquamarine waters;
wet beauty in beach seduction, mobile cocktails, balmy evenings,
vibrant coral reefs and an irresistible breath of calm
at a gradual gorgeous sunset.
One out of every three of its over three hundred boundaries
making up its map
is embraced by Life and blessed with living activities.
It’s the sole owner of the red and white
so familiar to the hibiscus
and an annex to the dwelling of Indians.
Ruled by simplicity and affordability in lifestyle,
yet twas amazingly once a jungle of warfare and cannibalism,
all thanks to the re-modeling from Christianity
to bring out this light once hidden
in the stinking jacket of barbarism.
Fascination rodeoed on Jacob's face
When Grandad related battle tales
from his years fighting Vietnam War
Distant fathoming is fantasy implored
Rough ideas imagine a glorious place
With regal intention, Grandad faithfully gifted
his jungle enduring life saving switch knife
Italian stiletto, retained in top condition
Jacob thanks Grandad with astonishment
The fine strong blade with honour he polishes
Keeps it safely stowed at back of drawer
Its service integrity seemingly assured
Responsibility entrusted, Jacob acknowledges
Two years pass, horrid puberty hovers
Revealing sections with strange offers
Teenager by curious cruelty besotted
Living overseas after parents divorce
His Father, Jacob's blame directs towards
Though Mother and sister sympathise
Depth of his heart's injury not realised
Concept of vengeance dangles reward
Rejected by fast forging peers, villified
He arrives at midnight to party uninvited
Logic abondons him, seething survives
Beer drinking back yard teens, Jacob's target
Blade illuminates license available in pocket
Adrenalin aids the yank of sitting enemy by the shirt
Veins driven to violence feed voice strewn with hurt
Frenzied Jacob in chaos grabs weapon, then drops it
"What the Hell, man!" shirt fronted spits, appalled
Reality oozes in Jacob's ears, vengeance withdrawn
Quick onlooker obscures blade, blind inside handle
17th June 2020
Just down the road a piece from my home
A few steps away from Antler Lane
In a narrow street set back a bit
Where some old rickity old buildings still remain
There is an old Pawnbrokers shop with a sign above the front door
Hidden away quietly from the main part of Town
Behind the old Plaza Picture House now in disrepair
Which, is in very serious danger of falling down
It has a big bay fronted window
Which, is full of all sorts of things he has to sell
Which he has received from clients like Mrs O’Connell
Where she may have got them from no one can tell
Then there old Bert Blenkinsopp a Burglar of note
Who Pawns his swag as fast as he can
Old Percy does not ask too many questions
As Bert drives off in a hurry in his old battered van
He has a various assortment of people
Who call in from time to time with various things to pawn
Some are rich and famous names, to many to mention
Who have fallen on hard times and look forlorn
But Old Percy may be a bit of a rogue
But he has a heart of gold
He helps as many of the poor local souls
Who are living on hard times as they grow old
He gets various visits from the local Police
Who want to check if he has any stolen Property in his domain
But Percy is too smart for them, anything of a dubious nature
Is long gone down to the old flea market held in Powderhall Lane
The clientele know they can Pawn their wares safely
And always get decent price, a pound or two
With not too many awkward questions
But Percy always has a clue
As to where the items have come from
So he always stays one step ahead
Of the old local beat bobby
Well known a big fat Fred
Everyone goes about their daily lives
Just trying to survive
They all just hope and pray
That Old Percy will remain alive.