Long Grimaces Poems
Long Grimaces Poems. Below are the most popular long Grimaces by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grimaces poems by poem length and keyword.
In the labyrinth of memory, shadows dance on the walls of recollection, whispering untold stories,
And I, an eternal child, wander through the corridors of time, seeking answers in the eyes of those who raised me.
They, the wellsprings of my being, unwittingly poured their turbid waters into my soul,
A broken mirror in which I see the reflection of their own wounds, amplified by the echo of my own fears.
But they too, once children, drank from the same bitter waters, poisoned by the shadows of the past,
Involuntary bearers of a heavy inheritance, passed down from generation to generation like a merciless disease.
I see in their eyes unshed tears, in their smiles, hidden grimaces of unspoken pain,
And in their deafening silences, I hear the muffled cries of the children they once were.
This chain of suffering stretches into the past like an infinite spider's web,
Each generation adding new threads, new knots, new traps for those who will follow.
I feel caught in this web of time, struggling to free myself from the weight of history,
Seeking an exit from this labyrinth of inherited pain, a way to break the endless cycle.
In every gesture of tenderness, I see the shadow of an unhealed wound, in every harsh word, the echo of a forgotten suffering,
And my heart becomes a vessel too small for the ocean of melancholy that overflows from the depths of my being.
I wonder, in the silence of the night, how I could break this chain, heal these ancestral wounds,
To transform pain into wisdom, to alchemize suffering into compassion and love.
Perhaps salvation lies in awareness, in the power to face the shadows of the past without letting them define us,
In the courage to love despite the wounds, to create beauty from the ashes of inherited pain.
And thus, in the uninterrupted flow of consciousness, I find myself both child and parent,
Bearer of a complicated history, but also creator of a future yet unwritten, where scars become stories of healing and hope.
Those who tell us to be NICE
aren’t
they shout their PC gospel
in your face
while admonishing you for
your rebuttal
They accost each other
like third graders
left alone in the
school yard
and
when cornered
by a simple inquiry
point wildly
SHOUTING
“He/She started it”
for
they cannot abide
the sound
of one hand clapping
insist on offering
validation
of the absurd
with their inanely
unrelated
talking points
they have not learned
that
“sound bites”
leave teeth marks
on the rational
of acquiescent
assemblages
that
wildly waving arms
and grimaces
only serve to remind us
of crazy
Uncle Charlie
and since
we cannot call
a duck - a duck
we nod
purse our lips
look at the list
of cloned clown
candidates
hesitantly pull
the lunacy lever
sadly place the
I VOTED
sticker
in our pocket
having exercised
our RIGHT
our PRIVILEGE
to vote
John G. Lawless
©9/4/2018
In the chamber of silence where souls converge,
Masks lie in wait, the nocturnal guardians of our being.
Adorned with grimaces and velvet smiles,
They are armors against the unknown arrows of the estranged world.
Oh, how they descend like curtains over our fragility,
Sitting so carefully upon the shoulders of pleasure, the cloth of outward beauty.
We learn to parade with them, in a masquerade where every step is watched,
Where each breath, heavier than the last, is veiled by studied nonchalance.
Few are those who dare shine without the borrowed mask,
To stand bare, in the harsh light of day, unafraid of the whirl of rejection.
Even rarer is the creature that, in the human garden, stands unwavering in its truth,
Unfettered by earthly fears of 'seeming' and 'not being enough'.
The mask, once a shelter, becomes the dungeon of the spirit, still in the shadow.
A surrogate of identity, which over time melts into the skin of existence,
Making it hard to discern where the persona ends and the self begins.
You see it, hanging there, lightly, on the hook prepared by the world,
A means by which anonymity weaves its web around our essence.
It is a game of appearances, where we are all unknown thespians on a vast stage.
To traverse beyond the false face and to see the raw core of your proclaimed existence,
Is the art that binds us, without unraveling the ties that keep that sliver of secret,
A silent call to acknowledge the soul, even beneath the daily makeup.
It is not just denial, but the desire to feel understood, even behind the shadows.
Power, the world says, lies in hardening the heart, but how deceitful is this thought!
For true stature arises from embracing vulnerability, a force that lifts us from the ashes of prejudice.
You, be that gentle murmur of your truth in every counterfeit day,
Be that fragment of sync with oneself, amidst a choir of disparate voices.
Do not fear to dance, even when the dance embraces the void, authentic and raw.
In the world of men, to be seen as you are is a gift you offer,
A brave smile in the face of a world that demands you to be unyielding, impenetrable.
Love and be loved, as once said by a sage long asleep,
For in this recognition lies a whole universe of love, before it even begins to be infinite.
life had written an etude in D minor and barely gave him a pass
D for defeat denial disintegration dour reprise of the inevitable
bottom of the class for society sang to its dominant song book
while he was tone deaf and kept quiet hiding a coarse inner voice
his internal melodies sounded like a rusty cheese grinder on arrest
detained him after school hours to punish his apparent shortcomings
but it is difficult to make fine parmesan from blue veined fromage
and the blues of his childhood suffered under cruel constant assault
´the boy has got no sense´ and the child was never spared the rod
when all he wanted was a bit of cane sugar yet he did not suck up
to their blows which knocked out a few teeth in the long process
that laid the cruel basis for his trademark cheeky and sardonic smile
´when you have grown you will show gratitude for our kind efforts
to change your attitude and give thanks to our shaping your mould´
as it came to writing music-sheets he scripted them in lemon juice
secret messages because when life gives acidity you have a choice
one teacher was gentle with him and gifted him sour boiled sweets
for every time he hit a note from his own repertoire of aspirations
he almost chocked on such a gesture of compassion and novelty
breathed out slowly and poured out his heart in cacophonic sorrow
‘I might never become a tambourine major or master of ceremonies
no choral conductor or symphonic regent in other's marching bands
my choir will be a small ensemble and quality strikes vocal-chords
right where they need caressing and cradling but not false elocution’
‘if I can wipe the cheesy grimaces off the face of my crude tormentors
so be it then´ but this is in truth not about a vicious viscous fondue
gratitude has to be earned and thanksgiving follows genuine kindness
attitudes meanwhile may change or strengthen ´for this is my music´
A composition in Roquefort major with walnut crumble and cherries
on my cake and some can see clearly the grinder has its own purpose
when pungent milk turns into custard and some have egg on their faces
‘Its not about perfection but progress is built on effort and appreciation´
26th August 2020
Look deep in the mirror
Do you see color?
What do you see?
Can you see the sins of the humanity,
And the hypocrisy creeping at the doorsteps?
Blinded by the murky and muddy
Glaucoma of jealousy,
You can neither see the footsteps
Of your consciousness,
Nor the smears of your unconsciousness.
Look deep, way beyond the third heaven.
Tell the world candidly about your exploration
And your obvious observation.
Look deep, dig beyond the grimaces of the pen.
Come clean and you shall see that no one is perfect.
There is an ever-present secret skeleton in the closet.
You simply have to cross the deck,
Take a few steps beyond and let
The reality blows whistle and ring bells.
Never forget to look beyond the dirt under your nails.
Copyright© December 12,2011, Hébert Logerie, All Rights Reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several poetry books.
A re-post of poem 939895 that mysteriously disappeared from PS...
The early morning darkness oozes melancholy whispers
as enraged storm clouds enfold me in a final deathly embrace.
She has come for me.
I can feel her breathy torment
breathe cold upon my beleaguered brow.
A cautious glimpse through my bedroom window
reveals the rage in her nictating blue eyes.
Frozen to my pillow I watch in terror.
Her minacious exhalations mesmerizing me.
Like a beautiful child giddily watching weightless seeds
float gently from blown Dandelions,
I watch transfixed,
as blinding fury strips leaves from trees,
breaking limbs like snapping bones.
The canopy twists in distorted grimaces
her demented smile mirrored in each pained contortion,
her wail echoed in the screams of trees.
They bend and turn and pull their roots from the soil
in vain attempts to escape her wrath.
She has come for me!
There is no escape.
A swirling dance of death and destruction,
bleeding droplets assail the glass.
A thousand tiny fingers tapping, scratching,
try to gain entrance into my final safe haven.
I can feel her drawing ever closer,
hovering above me,
sniggering,
her passion tempting me,
seducing me,
exulting in her conquest for she knows I can’t resist,
draining from me my heart,
my love,
my life.
Her cold dead fingers reach for me in my dream,
stealing my essences, draining my soul,
leaving nothing,
a dying husk of what once was an ebullient life, a caring man.
Then through the night a ray of brilliant light beams hope against darkness.
The angel appears.
Her words beckon me to fight against the demon,
the seductress, the succubus.
encouraging me,
caressing me,
With her agile wit and calm caring mind
she soothes me.
She comes for me,
and I await her eagerly.
Her laughter like the tinkle of sweet bells
vanquishes my night terror, waking me from my dream.
She comes for me,
and I melt longingly into her comforting willowy embrace
as the ravaging misery fights its final battle,
destroying all that it can.
With one last desperate breathe it screams curses into the night,
while my sweet angel strokes me with her words
and her beautiful blue eyes flash a brummagem smile.
09/15/2017
Midwinter - means
transparent ice walls
pressed against shrinking skin.
Dead-eyed horses are revived
only by the steam of their nostrils.
No one predicts a beginning or an end,
'mid' is a frozen idea
in an ice-locked fountain pen,
it will not write even in warm hands.
Killer clowns' shelter behind
their fixed, blood flaked grimaces,
the whites of their eyes
reflect pinpoints
of a dawning apprehension.
Roads decelerate,
creaking through knuckled hands.
Chilled mounds toboggan off rooftops,
dump malformed snowmen
through unmeasured backyard graves.
At the hazy horizon of each grinding day.
midwinter blurs perspective.
This is the middling 'Mid'
a middle where the mind stops flowing
up or down.
The world is bleeding
We stand at the edge of a precipice,
Looking in fear on our Earth,
Boiling, bubbling, and steaming,
With pools of blood flowing.
Warplanes blanket the sky.
Volcanic sounds pierce the ear.
Booms of gun shots rent the air
Lightning passes blinding the eye
The skies let down a deluge of tears
The old world is strangled to death
Toxic waste muddles up every head
The world once dressed in green
Now wears a mantle of pollution
Green- not a colour any more.
The earth wriggles in pain,
But its silent whimper
Falls in deaf unheeding ears!
A sword dangles on a thread
Ready to fall anytime over our heads.
Might dissipates men’s eye sight
From everywhere rises the bleak cry for help
Pale faced grimaces of death as bombs explode
Groans of pain as bullets whizz past
Once warm blood spilled over the streets of Paris
Twin towers were raced down in the U.S
School children massacred in many parts of the world
Now the animosity between Russia and Ukraine,
Iran and Israel keep the world on tenterhooks.
All through the globe, seismic waves of terror
Sweep across… effacing life, love and dreams.
With modest tools, if the Neanderthal men fought,
Modern men are powered with lethal weapons
Any of which can annihilate the whole world in seconds
Men themselves turn as weapons,
And explode like bombs killing thousands.
Where shall we find a bastion
From this rabid pack of wolves?
From the quagmire of terror, we need an escape
Let it be writ on every wall and billboard
‘Down with War, Down with Terrorism’
I use a walker to get around
A device I need in order
To maintain my balance
So I walk slowly.
People rush by
Not seeing me
Making me feel that I am in their way
Some are impatient
I feel their warm breath on my neck
As I try to pass through the subway turnstile
On my way to work
Just like everyone else.
A few say their sorry
Over time I’ve learned
That people say things they don’t mean.
I tire easily
Occasionally stopping to catch my breathe
When that happens
Gestures are all I have
Since my hands are busy
Sometimes my face becomes like putty
Primed to be explicit in nature
Grimaces
Winks
Smiles
A nod
Laughter
Mouthing the words thank you for a door held open.
If forced,
By a unexpected blocked exit
Or a person suddenly veering in front of me
I do something
That crosses the line
Melodramatic
Emotional
Or angry
I do this because it’s the only thing I can do.
She yawns as she takes out each dart sharpens the tip and adds them back to pile.
This game has been going on for quite awhile.
She stretches as still she refuses to play.
Come what may.
Again he steps up and snatches the darts.
Posed he stands there a fine work of art.
Young still vibrant chest puffed in defiance.
Having gained so much except the ability to feel pride in self reliance.
His eyes bright as the day time skies.
She shakes her head still not understanding why.
She braces for the inevitable as sharp points fly.
Her hide tough from battling through lies.
Each dart hitting its mark
For although he lacks in self pride he doesnt lack in smarts.
She grimaces and takes each one not allowing eyes to meet.
He takes his seat.
She again gathers the sarcastic off handed remarks
The shots taken in the dark
Each black purple blue and red spotted dart.
She yawns and sharpens each one with care and returns them doing her part.
Taking her place solemn hurt filled rejection weighing down
Slumped shoulders and broken frown.
She remains on solid strength grown ground
Determined to love through it all til self pride through self reliance is found.
Again tonight she took in the bad and turned it around.
Giving of her feelings her heart giving her all without a sound.
Teaching through suffering that she will remain.
She has not left as each battle came.
She lived through lonely and breathed through pain.
Staying as close as she can.
Trying to help build pride within this man.