Long Mustaches Poems
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The world’s leading psychiatrist
sat beneath fluorescent light
with a legal pad full of storms
and said:
There are people
who notice too much.
Not intelligence alone—
no, intelligence is cheap now,
diploma mills
sold by universities and politicians
like cigarettes once were.
I mean the curse
of seeing the machine move
behind the curtain.
A twitch before betrayal.
A smile with murder hiding in its gums.
The way a woman says “fine”
while sharpening emotional knives in silence.
The way a cop touches his belt
before deciding who is guilty.
The way crowds repeat lies
until lies grow bones and begin voting.
Super pattern recognition.
The brain becomes a prison guard
watching every shadow for fingerprints.
You notice repetitions.
Abusers with different faces
but identical appetites.
Friends who become enemies
using the exact same sentences
as the last ones.
History wearing fake mustaches
pretending it has changed.
Soon sleep becomes impossible.
Because once a man sees the pattern
he cannot return
to ordinary blindness.
The psychiatrist lit a cigarette
he was not allowed to smoke
and stared through the hospital window
at the city twitching below.
“Most people survive,” he said,
“by ignoring connections.”
But some people—
the wounded ones,
the hypervigilant,
the ones forged in chaos—
their minds become radar.
They can hear tension
before voices rise.
Can smell manipulation
like rain before thunder.
Can predict abandonment
three conversations early.
It is more useful in war.
Terrible for love.
Because eventually
they stop asking
whether danger is present
and begin assuming
it always is.
That is when pattern recognition
becomes prophecy.
And prophecy
becomes loneliness.
What child is this?
Stepping down to a semi dark tavern
with an empty bottle at the age of five
to be filled with ruby red wine,
fascinated by farmers sitting
at a rustic table, darkened by time
laughing and eating through
thick mustaches, perfect teeth,
smelling of garlic and wine?
Sitting in a bus and being startled
by a woman gone berserk
on hearing little traveler was alone
on her way to visit grandma
on the Trevico mountain.
Little did she know smarty was a regular!
And the locked farm gate, little spider climbed
and opened from inside?
What child is this? A much loved child
by a lioness mother and a father who,
when teacher said she couldn’t handle English,
he answered: “She can do anything!”
First Place: L Milton Hankins-Story From Your Childhood-12/10/20
Second Place: Craig Cornish-What child Is This-10/18/17
Somewhere in the general melee
we lost our imaginary horses,
their ghostly neighing
adds pathos to this momentous moment.
It was decided, we boys, and one sister
of a boy we hardly knew,
that Custer must die, the Indians win,
there could be no sudden victories
plucked from certain disaster.
We have no Indians,
one bow with a rubber-tipped arrow
does not make a gathering of the tribes.
We have no Custer,
three fair haired kids, no long flowing hair
no mustaches. Undaunted
we march on to meet an anonymous death,
lip-bugles tooting, makeshift flags flying.
At the site of our coming glory,
it was disheartening to discover,
bull dozers,
tractors, and iron-toothed diggers
tearing up the hallowed ground.
Jim (my best pal), loudly proclaimed: " it,"
to no one in particular, then sloped away,
hands in pockets.
We had heard of this common oath of course,
but none of us were old enough
to pull that salty phrase out of nowhere
with such aplomb.
Now in my elder days, I like to envision,
Custer and Chief Sitting Bull,
smoking a little weed
agreeably together,
jointly deciding
to call the whole thing off.
I met a lanky ol' feller th' other day,
An' I want ter tell ya'll about 'im if'n I may.
An' ol' slouch hat was pulled down on his pate,
An' he ambled along at a leisurely gait.
Slightly bowed legs says he'd spent years in th' saddle.
His steely-eyed glare would make a rattlesnake skedaddle!
His flowin' mustaches drooped down b'low his jaw.
In his cheeks wuz a huge wad uv terbaccy chaw!
He wuz leadin' a handsome cattle cuttin' cayuse.
Let me tell ya'll uv his skill with a stream of terbaccy juice.
Why, its been told 'round these parts fer years,
That frum fifty paces he kin pin back a jack rabbit's ears!
"Well, it's time to go ter work", rails the boss,
An' he climbs aboard his good and faithful hoss.
Ridin' all day long, th' fences to mend, and,
Gittin' ready to round up the dogies to brand!
Pete tol' me he'll never herd cows in a pick-up truck,
Nor eat grub frum no fancy eatery fer chuck.
He'll keep ridin' th' range on his devoted ol' horse,
Cowboyin' th' ol' ways with absolutely no remorse!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
With weapons in his room he cannot much stay
Alone with his decision to blow up an Embassy:
He was desperate for a last blues of the new day;
Recently known on net, a girl from Tennessee
Wrote him how politicians body floats dead in the river:
Obsessive thought and hate was ready for risky tomorrow,
Love and Tennessee whisky were ready to be delivered;
Drawing mustaches and glasses, Pravda News might grow:
Come from Damascus, they don`t know the text better than us;
Her smile and his last cigar could start the new world war:
Under stars, they move in the night of their own choice, thus
The last Czar would meet a Tennessee girl somewhere, far:
Suddenly, tenderly she entered that Embassy: I am Miss Hope…
Her peaceful eyes would keep him like tied with a magical rope.
IMAGINE THIS THAT HIGHER WATER RISES HAND HOLDS HAT ON FIRE--
Hurry, hurry before the lake rises, higher and higher;
It gets much getting much higher and higher;
I am in such denial, denial;
Wouldn’t place my hat in the fire, fire;
IMAGINE THIS THAT HIGHER WATER RISES HAND HOLDS HAT ON FIRE
Because my hand holding on to the hat;
What’s wrong with that, with that is..
Higher my denial in the fire holding on to all that’s wrong;
Keep minding the hat that’s burning and dissolving;
IMAGINE THIS THAT HIGHER WATER RISES HAND HOLDS HAT ON FIRE
Evolving into ashes to ashes beware of men with mustaches, mustaches;
Wearing polyester, polyesters bell bottom pants;
Those men with three hands, hands holding flaming hats;
Imagine, imagine this, imagine that…
IMAGINE THIS THAT HIGHER WATER RISES HAND HOLDS HAT ON FIRE
Imagine, imagine this, imagine that…
2/6/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
I long for a time
When skinned knees were
my biggest problem
When my most debilitating fear
was an imaginary monster under my bed
I long for a time when daddy
was my hero, knew everything,
and could protect me from anything
I long for a time when
being sad was dramatic and
bittersweet...
as if playing a character in a book.
I long for a time
when friendship took precedence
over almost anything else...
When, in innocent delight,
we played at romance and relationships,
school yard crushes so full of emotion
And angst.
I long for a time
When summer meant freedom
and lasted an eternity.
Politics were out of our realm
of understanding and responsibility.
Debt and bills were grown up words,
Adults spoke in code about
death, disease, and other distressing
truths, which were not for our
sensitive ears.
Coolaide mustaches, play grounds,
Saturday morning cartoons (we had
to blast to hear over the lawn mower
sounds all over the neighborhood)
Penny candy, captain crunch,
Ronald Mcdonald and the Hamburgler,
sore muscles from bike riding all weekend,
sleep overs and frozen training bras,
Judy Bloom, The karate kid , and Marty Mcfly,
the Never ending Story and ET, Madonna,
The New Kids on the Block,
(Danny,Donnie, Joe, John, Jordan)
and Dirty Dancing, Just Say No!
I long for those simple days and for youth.
It’s a romanticized picture
hanging on my dining room wall,
1907 lumberjacks,
one perched atop lumber stacked tall.
It’s winter, and they have a sled
pulled by two horses, looking bored,
twelve-foot pile of logs they pull,
one teamster with long reigns aboard.
It’s somewhere in the wilderness,
the nothing of northern New York,
four men on foot stand alongside,
dressed in wool for cold winter work.
One holds an axe, that one looks young,
all wear bootpacks over their pants,
with hats and mustaches of old,
looks like a job for a real man.
The trees are dyed in sepia,
the colors are gradings of gray,
it’s the type of nostalgia that
just takes a worried mind away.
Compared to typing on a screen
it seems quite appealing to me,
then I stop and remind myself
most of them never reached sixty…
I AM A HERO
BLACK
Are you my kryptonite
To battle the powers that be
Discrimination, political
Spirituals warfare
Sadly my powers that be ruled over me
I AM A HERO
WHITE Are you my kryptonite
White supremacy, skinned heads
Wounded knees
Shaved cold stoned hearts
Sadly my powers that be ruled over me
I AM A HERO
NATIVE AMERICAN what tribe am I
And where am I, Are you my kryptonite
Rich men never poor again fighting rising TAXES
What a shame
This disclaimer
Black Panthers in the jungles
Just getting stronger;
Poverty clashes
Fake rented mustaches
Seasoned hick
Country kicks
All run away, no where to stay to each his own way
Just ain’t right to be individual heroes see none are right…
Sadly my powers that be ruled over me
HERO AM I
Lo, I be creeping in the night…
I KRYPTONITE
1/30/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
January 28, 2020 Assignment
Written for class assignment (WIPS) North Omaha Writers Group (NOW)
All this global speech that once lauded your greatness has vanished.
My lips are crying today because of my misdeeds.
The harvest was completely washed away in the high winds.
Diseases and sicknesses, with fire, threaten scavengers.
Because I am shy, I cry slowly and sloppily.
If someone's feelings are bruised, a wipe may be beneficial.
Companions with crooked mustaches.
Backstabbing and spying are both kinds of treachery.
Who grasps what happened to the planet Earth.
Shame no longer benefits them, so why would they desire it?
An anxious atmosphere pervaded the air.
I'm here to assist you, and I'm grateful to God for this gift.
A natural area has been cordoned off.
The headbands must be reconnected.
Probe the misanthrope and share the etch news.
The sand on the road will cease if they reach their home.
If I yield barefoot, my final inference is consciousness.
Written: July 03, 2021
1st place contest win
A Brian Strand July 4 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand