Mustaches Poems | Examples

Lost Ground

Somewhere in the general melee
we lost our imaginary horses,
                                  their ghostly neighing
added 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 had no Indians,
one bow with a rubber-tipped arrow
does not make a gathering of the tribes.
We had no Custer,
six dark haired kids, no long flowing hair,
no mustaches.                        Undaunted
we marched on to meet our heroic death,
lip-bugles tooting, makeshift flags flying.

A fertile field of battle was selected.

At the site of our coming glory,
it was disheartening to discover,
a growling construction site,
giant bull dozers,
tractors, and iron-toothed diggers
busily tearing up
our hallowed ground.

Jim (my best pal),
loudly proclaimed: " fork it,"
to no one in particular,
then sloped away,
                  hands in pockets -

an event which I now consider sadly ironic,
for ever since,
we have lost all sorts of battles
                                  over many a fertile field.

What

Chasing down chocolate bacon sandwiches;
Accompany yellow and green quash;
Grapefruit flavored pinto beans taco flav' mustaches;
Cauliflower lips succulent nose bash;
Smells abundant of burnt ash sugatash

Villains Off Stage

The villain on a theatrical stage is easy to spot
He is wearing the black cape and black fedora
Melodramatic music accompanies him.
He has a fake mustache, and he looks slimy and creepy

Villains off stage are not easy to spot
Many are handsome; they dress in nice clothes.
Their smile seems genuine, they seem like nice guys.
They wear no mustaches, unfortunately for us.

We Try To Get the One Who Tips

we trim their hair, necks, noses, and mustaches too
They come on Saturday morning, when the mail is due
we hear their stories, they gossip about their farms and such
we like our regulars, and we hear so much!
only one gives us a tip we try to get him

Moscow 1993

powdery snow-drenched
coldest in seventy years
eyes frostbitten from hot tears

frozen mustaches
stalactites dripping with chill
million ruble lunch to thaw

Antique Loggers

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…

Consciousness

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

The Snug

The taproom is a crush. 
You slide between heaving shoulders, 
squeeze between pockets
of overheated laughter 
to a small room set aside, 
a place closeted in smoky isolation.
Here the barmaid appears on the half hour or sooner. 
Mostly she’ll let the ‘snug’ be,
while a clot of patrons nurse their dark brews.

Grey mustaches puff in the stuffy fumes, noses drip. 
In a cast-iron frame, a sooty anthracite smolders. 
A fat creamy dog stretches on the scuffed linoleum; 
as you step over it, it bares yellow teeth and farts
garnishing a long lingering funk.

There’s a rain-coated woman sipping in a corner. 
You consider a few pick-up lines. 

The plump barmaid arrives. 
Calling for another you scurry to the counter. 
Behind your back, the woman leaves. 
When, with your foaming ale, you turn back to the room, 
the locals are smirking,
as if they’d known all along 
you would be leaving the snug - alone.

Vogon Festival-

VAma jiust processed this mezz captivated humanity crest.
Mancan mushnot vogon can't quiklik vogon takes!
Verishan verrigan orderly vquoop melancholy menzzxox 
Humanity crest captivated vroomer past vhe finish grind
Plutoians eating intergalactic cloves of vogonian mustaches

6/6/20
Vogon Poetry (Really Bad Poetry) Quoopisk Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Team PoetrySoup

The Powers That Be Kryptonite- -

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)

Imagine This That Higher Water Rises Hand Holds Hat On Fire--

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©

Times Like These

Early Morning Times Like These

As I reposed one early morning
Upon my yellow lawn chair on
My freshly cut grass in warmth of
Summer’s blazing sun at eight am,
By my wrist watch,
I found myself half dozing off again
To sounds of music, country soul,
From someone’s radio,
Drifting in from somewhere close by
Other than here, where I reposed.

Yon ocean seemed to have no end,
Just falling of an edge unseen,
Warming my early morning toes
Midst screeching sounds of sea gulls
And shrills of other seashore wingies
High in my deep blue sky.

Ocean waters sent wavelets
Lapping golden sands 
And waves washing 
Already smooth stones,
Some wearing white mustaches, 
Once in a while.

It was early morning bacon, 
Toast and eggs time
And scents of it all
Filled my morning air.

I love morning times like these, don’t you?

W.C.Hull © 2018-28-7-1036

Haiku

***
warm breath... wispy clouds 
freezing... cold... minus twenty
white mustaches grow

****

Once and Never Again

He who shines as bright as day,
takes my heart
my superhero
your manly glory of beard and mustaches.
Under the broad shoulders of my man
there is a sensitive heart
across the land,
Walking along one day
beside you is my dream,
Time Once Again For My Heart To
My Happiness Seems To Come like rain
my heart aches
he said i will take you once and never again
you're fading away?
if i would know that be the last time
i would tuck you more tightly
oh my beloved
i wish i could fly high in the sky
take me away far away forever
never say goodbye
i know no truth of yours
and wondering why i want to know the answers
no more lies
i want to close the door
lock you inside my heart forever

What Child Is This

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

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