"grimace" poems
The rain ticks on the curb
Like a chronometer
Held up to a short race
As a man entering the mall
Feels his pocket for his
Wallet,
A grimace cracks his face.
© LazharBouazzi
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 6:24 PM UTC
Good-by, proud world, I'm going home,
Thou'rt not my friend, and I'm not thine;
Long through thy weary crowds I roam;
A river-ark on the ocean brine,
Long I've been tossed like the driven foam,
But now, proud world, I'm going home.
Good-by to Flattery's fawning face,
To Grandeur, with his wise grimace,
To upstart Wealth's averted eye,
To supple Office low and high,
To crowded halls, to court, and street,
To frozen hearts, and hasting feet,
To those who go, and those who come,
Good-by, proud world, I'm going home.
I'm going to my own hearth-stone
Bosomed in yon green hills, alone,
A secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;
Where arches green the livelong day
Echo the blackbird's roundelay,
And ****** feet have never trod
A spot that is sacred to thought and God.
Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines
Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;
For what are they all in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet.
14.4k
Im a calm, cool collected cucumber underneath this fandangled, wiry, wrinkled visage.
Ive escaped the clutches of the tangled snare of my image.
Where and when I belong and to whom is no matter.
I pass by groups and clans and grimace inquisitively at thier chatter.
To my ears its an alien clamour of clashing egos and look at me's.
They'd all be happier in a lonesome cross legged position enjoying the breeze beneath the trees.
With ease I float through my day passionately.
Expanding and contracting with the waves of existence.
I sway indefinitely.
Yield to and renounce the question arisen from the back of the mind "what does it mean to be me"
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
Its all just words
No faces
No looks, no clothes, no smell
A simple connection
It could have been anybody
But it wasn’t
It started off as a hobby
Something to keep boredom at bay
By now you’re junior olympics... At least
It can be as flawless as beach glass
Or jagged
and farspread like the trees still dieing
I never know what to expect
Excitement
Misunderstanding
Seriousness
Interest
Laughter
Understanding
Awkwardness
Distracted
An idea
... Clearly I could continue
It’s like my little escape hole
A therapist that Actually understands and wants to
We just click
Alined by the sun
Some would say
But I dunno if that’s true
All I know is what I feel
Should I not feel what I feel?
Do I feel what I feel?
Is what I feel real?
Or is it fake
Is it a lie?
Or should I make it one
I don’t know what’s best
How can I
I’m new at this remember
All I know are the words of the known
Who are unknown to me in one world
And an empty chair in the next
I sit down and wait patiently
Until it’s finally my turn, here is where I’ll sit
There is no shame finding comfort in the little things the chair offers
Its smooth silky surface
The wine stain down the middle
the dots that resemble a smile in the corner
You don’t forget what you know so well
You open up your palm
A baby snake inside
He doesn't take it
He doesn't **** it on the spot
He doesn't grimace with disgust
He doesn't burst out in laughter
He picks it up
and cradles it in his hands
And sets it free
Back into the world where it belongs
And then he gives you a dalia
You take it and tuck it behind his ear as something to be admired
He blushes
He needs you too
Maybe
But its real
Almost too real
So you push it away
It’s impossible
It might not even be close to what you think it might be
Forget
And stay silent
Hey
We start again
A haha here
A smiley face too
Climbing up the uncertain mountain that has never been climbed before
The chance of falling high
But you like the chase
And for now
It’s enough
You don’t really care if you summit anyway
A possible “when”
always dangling
Inside the clouds
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 3:15 AM UTC
I don’t get feminism.
The term, that is.
When they ask, "Are you a feminist?"
I reply, “Sure.”
They nod in bobble-head approval.
“I’m also a childist and animalist”
A confounded grimace glazes over
“Huh?”
“Of course. Aren’t YOU a childist?
Aren’t YOU an animalist?”
“Uh. What do you mean?”
“Well, don’t you believe that children
and animals should be treated with love?”
“Well, naturally.”
“Well. There you go. You’re a childist
And animalist.”
"Besides, you would extend this love
To all sentient beings, I’m assuming?”
“Ummm. Yes...”
“Well, then, you’re a masculinist too,
Just like me!”
This is about the time their cell buzzes
Or their double soy frap is ready
They whisk away
“Oh, I’m also a worldist!” I belt out
Before they exit
As I resume reading
Remaining clever, and
Alone.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 1:31 AM UTC
Volunteers, PSGs, Staffs
Executive Directors
And higher task allocators.
People pass by
Mic's were off
Facade was the banner of hope.
Voices all over the provinces
All with the same goal
Rightly urged with own reasons.
Two faces were present
Painted with grimace
Or with broaden smiles.
*The screening was stern and severe
Camera rolls on with Level 2
"Next," "Give me another song"
The voice sounds no roughs of plead
A voice pushing rivals
To their very own frontiers
I was startled
So this is how they do it
Selection, great screenings
There're expectators
There're hope hurtles
Dreams will sooner be pulled of.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
With white frost gone
And all green dreams not worth much,
After a lean day's work
Time comes round for that foul ****
Mere bruit of her takes our street
Until every man,
Red, pale or dark,
Veers to her slouch.
Mark, I cry, that mouth
Made to do violence on,
That seamed face
Askew with blotch, dint, scar
Struck by each dour year.
Walks there not some such one man
As can spare breath
To patch with brand of love this rank grimace
Which out from black tarn, ditch and cup
Into my most chaste own eyes
Looks up.
8.2k
No one else, but a poet...can bring colors
to scenes...with verses, in crass or subtle
tones......gather words together in lines,
uncertain in their ebbing and flowing...
the results create surprise in many
hues that could make one cry,
grimace......frown......or smile
readers are led to far, or near
destinations...to the cool, sweet air
and peaceful atmosphere of paradise,
or, to unlit corners...uncharted waters,
or deep into an abyss...or, a black hole,
an unknown corner, where moribund souls
are biding their time, maybe, they could
now define by themselves, purgatory and hell,
understand those sunken souls who have lost
all...except their arms, and begging eyes...
then, through appropriate words,
a poet paints a laborious path, or
a stairway...so an enlightened reader
may climb back to safe, calm waters...
a poet makes the mind see a human heart,
beating in many rhythms...throbbing,
.......aflame with longing and desire,
bursting from ecstatic, sublime moments,
then, later on, shift to grayish thoughts
that cut deep....tormenting...crashing,
............gnashing the heart...
a poet paints a soul walking on cloud nine,
later, to dip feet in celebrative pools.
sometimes, a poet would rather not, yet,
an inner force prevails, thereby paints a
drooping soul...dying, in total surrender,
ready to fall..............but, again, with a
barrel of lively-colored words, a poet
takes this despondent soul to berth,
with soothing verses, bring it to a rebirth...
every human being is worth an effort
..............even those that have fallen
.........................are worth savin' .....
a poet's palette is uniquely
enriched with colorful experiences,
a poet paints life in its truest colors,
..........could be dark...or bright
.....nothing more......nothing less...
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
January 29, 2017
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 6:13 AM UTC
Sigma sigma on the wall, who's the skibidiest of them all?
Is it Baby Gronk?
Is it Grimace?
Is it Skibidi Toilet?
Perhaps it is I, who rizzed up a level 10 Gyatt, and fanum taxed her heart.
She is the Chick-fil-A sauce in my McDonalds.
Forever griddying in Ohio.
Oct 16, 2024
Oct 16, 2024 at 12:06 PM UTC
The cult moves in
circle. Stargazing
starts. You lie buried in
wet retreat. Eyes protruding
The veil sends a sweet death.
The death. Only you would
know, what was the conversation
between the repentant
and priest.
Superfluous. To beautify
the grimace. The lips―
always cheat.
A black cloud devours the moon.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 10:03 PM UTC
In the drawer were folded fine
batiste slips embroidered with scrolls
and posies, edged with handmade
lace too good for her to wear.
Daily she put on shmattehs
fit only to wash the car
or the windows, rags
that had never been pretty
even when new: somewhere
such dresses are sold only
to women without money to waste
on themselves, on pleasure,
to women who hate their bodies,
to women whose lives close on them.
Such dresses come bleached by tears,
packed in salt like herring.
Yet she put the good things away
for the good day that must surely
come, when promises would open
like tulips their satin cups
for her to drink the sweet
sacramental wine of fulfillment.
The story shone in her as through
tinted glass, how the mother
gave up and did without
and was in the end crowned
with what? scallions? crowned
queen of the dead place
in the heart where old dreams
whistle on bone flutes
where run-over pets are forgotten,
where lost stockings go?
In the coffin she was beautiful
not because of the undertaker's
garish cosmetics but because
that face at eighty was still
her face at eighteen peering
over the drab long dress
of poverty, clutching a book.
Where did you read your dreams, Mother?
Because her expression softened
from the pucker of disappointment,
the grimace of swallowed rage,
she looked a white-haired girl.
The anger turned inward, the anger
turned inward, where
could it go except to make pain?
It flowed into me with her milk.
Her anger annealed me.
I was dipped into the cauldron
of boiling rage and rose
a warrior and a witch
but still vulnerable
there where she held me.
She could always wound me
for she knew the secret places.
She could always touch me
for she knew the pressure
points of pleasure and pain.
Our minds were woven together.
I gave her presents and she hid
them away, wrapped in plastic.
Too good, she said, too good.
I'm saving them. So after her death
I sort them, the ugly things
that were sufficient for every
day and the pretty things for which
no day of hers was ever good enough.
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 6:24 PM UTC
there's ethical idealism:
where ethics is discussed...
there's ethical relativism:
where ethics is practised...
there's ethical realism...
where ethics is quantified
as an improbability;
and then there's ethical
absolutism,
where we supposedly
"progress" -
in this scenario are
the laws of physics actually
suspended:
whereby oculus qua oculus
is replaced -
a loss of an eye is "relative"
to 10 years in a cage...
really?!
ethics is
ideal, realistic, absolute or relative...
we're encouraged to live
in "realistic relativism"...
never in an absolute realism,
since realistic relativism
only compares itself
to ideal absolutism...
and nothing more...
ever watched that film
secrets in their eyes?
you ever wonder what
ethical idealism is to the ethnical
consequence that can absorb
a realistic libra?
i can only believe in
ethical absolutism,
ethical relativism is horrid to me...
relativism adorns idealism,
absolutism adorns realism...
a life sentence is worse than
a death sentence,
whether justified or not,
prison is sadism,
but at least ****** is simply ******
a space-time intact,
a ****** penalty is not
inhumane, nor a ouija board...
it's time for time,
space for space,
the actual punishment comes
with the missing adrenaline rush
of the unexpected reception of the wielded
weapon...
either send these jealous plonkers to
siberia, or sentence them to death,
for you are no more than they are,
nay, you are more...
you're akin to cats toying,
playing a sadistic games with half-mutilated
mice...
this is why i abhor
ethical relativism of the crucifix...
hence my belief in ethical
absolutism in the paragraph of realism,
which is perfected, by
being exacted, and never, ever,
being leisurely discussed,
on a farcical palette with a grimace
to boot: ******* a lemon;
compensating the horrors within
minutes, is never compensated
with ordeals that last years...
which is why i find the death penalty
an act of authentic humanity,
and not this quasi-humanitarian
act of pardon, ******* hypocrites -
i abhor the caged rat
more than the rat gladly nibbling
on a dead corpse...
at least there was passion
in the ******
waiting for death penalty is like killing
a vermin with poison,
disposing them with nonchalantly...
the wise maxim states:
ledo ferrum sicut id est calidi -
strike the iron while it's hot...
death is the dawn-broker -
a new tomorrow promise -
left intact, the fermenting process
of ethical dynamism takes over...
then again,
the supposedly "evolved"
preferred moral relativism to moral
absolutism,
because there was no
moral realism to speak of,
since morality could only
be talked about in ideal terms of
the supposedly so, supposedly
fashioned via: it ought to never happen to
me...
and then it might, and then:
oops... argument sinks like a wet fatty ****
into shambles of keeping up with
the presupposed pillar of argument
being "impenetrable";
hey, genius, back to the blackboard!
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 8:50 PM UTC
479
She dealt her pretty words like Blades—
How glittering they shone—
And every One unbared a Nerve
Or wantoned with a Bone—
She never deemed—she hurt—
That—is not Steel’s Affair—
A ****** grimace in the Flesh—
How ill the Creatures bear—
To Ache is human—not polite—
The Film upon the eye
Mortality’s old Custom—
Just locking up—to Die.
5.5k
**** brown grass
covers my yard,
saddled
by dead gray skies
that **** rain
on my holiday.
Where is Christmas?
Will it come this year?
I fervently remember
swirls of snow
everywhere, a silent,
peaceful, white world
in which I could think.
There’s less now, each year.
My mother no longer bakes
those delicious peanut butter
cookies with the Hershey kiss
in the middle.
I can’t even remember
their smell,
nor the heat of the oven
to be my blanket
after I walk inside.
Is Christmas coming this year?
I don’t see the smiles
of holiday cheer,
just the grimace
of old men,
tired of buying presents
and putting up decorations.
Maybe it’s my eyes,
but I'm not sure Christmas
will come this year.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
My eyes are sunken a dark gray aura surrounding their gaze,
My blue irides surrounded by a web of crimson veins.
My ***** blonde hair a tangled mess of greasy strains,
3 am and I realize I haven't slept in days.
3 am and student loan debt is still clawing at my mind,
3 am and over this unemployment **** I've yet to climb.
3 am and a solution I've yet to find,
Where is my family when i'm in a bind?
Where is mom, still drinking with her friend?
Where is dad, did he leave me for them?
Where is love, on money does it depend?
I'm tired but where do my problems stem?
I'm tired its been 58 hours and 51 minutes,
I'm tired I think I've reached my limits.
I'm tired I just can't win it.
My reflection in the mirror a sad beaten grimace.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 3:58 AM UTC
The manifest has been written
And she will be sought
But when I meet her face to face
How will she react?
With a simple embrace?
She's so beautiful
Smooth skin and a sweet grimace
She's always fresh and sharply dressed
It's been so long that I've dreamed her
Yet her image is so vivid in my mind
So many times I thought I could just reach out and grab her
Only to awaken to a disappearing mirage
But alas dreams become reality
And I feel like a groupie around her celebrity
Unsure if she's aware of my quiet insecurity
Even though I've dreamed
Do I deserve to be here?
But she merely smiles
As she beckons me closer
With each step I pinch myself
To make sure I truly exist
Just as soon as I reach her
I close my eyes and enjoy the ride
Her embrace is like a sweet kiss to my pride
Humbling me effectively
Causing my soul to smile and shine
Radiating like new armor
I open my eyes to drink in my newfound skin
And like magic she is gone once again
And then I realize
She is finally part of me
And no longer is reality only in my dreams
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 11:34 AM UTC
15 to love, still able to win,
gotta tough it out,
winning is everything. Losing's a sin.
I'll keep trying. I'm still in with a shout.
My backhand slices
the ball to my foe
(Joe's my friend but in a crisis,
I shift where the winds blow)
He parries, sends the ball to the line,
his touch is immaculate,
cleaner than mine.
I leap like a cat
return it with ease
he flicks it back over the net
intending to tease.
I grimace. We made a bet
and now I engage
into higher gear,
my brain fills with rage,
my heart fills with fear.
Advantage to me,
the crowd stands to cheer,
Joe falls to one knee,
buckled, losing a tear.
I volley. It whizzers
past his frozen form
he tries, but misses,
defeated, forelorn.
At last I have won,
the gold cup is mine,
another dream spun,
back to the factory line.
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 7:47 AM UTC
The elegance of her ardor
Captures you and lures you into her clean hands
But living in this cynical world, with overflowing grimace
Many souls lack to understand
Why her stride is full and incandescent
She posses a sweet force were every murmur she whispers pushes you to listen
A voice fully soft spoken
It's a gentle breeze through your ears
In the absence others' may make you feel
In her presence, you are here.
The quantum she share is as petite as her frame
Longing for more, she makes it impossible to maintain
Straight forward.
Her ratherness for avoiding the curves and steeps that one can provide
Would leave you at a daze with desire
A fire inferno
Burning inside of your eyes
Seconds and affection she hardly gives
Made her a tenacious woman in twenty-one years
But the love that she gives.
Oh.
The love that she gives
Is more sweeter than honey in a tomb of one thousand years
Seeing men fall into her deep dark abyss
From their own creation and temptation they couldn't resist
Attempting to crawl back into reality, after losing themselves
You would think she's a Black Mamba
A hunter
Looking for a prey to lead astray
But she's only a sweet soul that God humbly perfectly made
A gift that many fail to contain
That makes every Man yearn and kneel to pray
There is No woman like her
Her ineffable felicity you will not find
Her Respect, you'll give
Or you will not live
Unintentionally,
She posses the power to take over your mind
With every thought you feel
Her time isn't wasted on pleasures and life's immorality
She's the meaning of a blessing
She fails to degrade her self down to worlds level
You'll fall in love with her originality
Some would go far as calling her stuck up
A *****
But a deficient mind wouldn't comprehend
She's a woman of God
Of wisdom
And your respect she demands
Perfectly sane
To me she's a courageous lady
Some men call her dangerous
But Me,
I call her Shady
Copy Right 2013
©Patty Ann
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 2:28 PM UTC
pale dead moon
them the words heard, cloud covered, make the few streaks visible
look like mocking smiles saying see we got your numbers,
play pale and dead you’re sure to win and add an over/under
and a trifecta guaranteed
everyone is willing to take and give you thanks
with a nice tap on the head which buys them
a grimace smile of 2 seconds recognition and
further confirms the crumbling internals
and unless you walk away,
into solitude and recall from
high school language class
répète après moi "c'est la vie,” repeat after me, that’s life
no, now,
pale dead moon,
that’s life
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 11:01 AM UTC
This house has been far out at sea all night,
The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills,
Winds stampeding the fields under the window
Floundering black astride and blinding wet
Till day rose; then under an orange sky
The hills had new places, and wind wielded
Blade-light, luminous black and emerald,
Flexing like the lens of a mad eye.
At noon I scaled along the house-side as far as
The coal-house door. Once I looked up -
Through the brunt wind that dented the ***** of my eyes
The tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope,
The fields quivering, the skyline a grimace,
At any second to bang and vanish with a flap;
The wind flung a magpie away and a black-
Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly. The house
Rang like some fine green goblet in the note
That any second would shatter it. Now deep
In chairs, in front of the great fire, we grip
Our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought,
Or each other. We watch the fire blazing,
And feel the roots of the house move, but sit on,
Seeing the window tremble to come in,
Hearing the stones cry out under the horizons.
3.8k
I’ll take the left side, you take the right
cause I’d rather not be the one who broke your parents’
“genuinely antique” bed
I heard the wood give way just now
when we sat on the edge
and I know, tonight, it’s coming down.
I should probably be more of your gentleman,
but I think that’s what put us into this mess
when we got to the cabin I complimented your ma,
“Natasha is such a unique name in this age”
Her reply, flat through the grimace
“its an old and ugly Russian name, call me Nat.”
Your dad invited me to walk in the woods,
where I tripped over a root, ten feet in
and threw your father head first into poison oak.
It’s hard to tell through the swelling,
but I’m pretty sure he’s still scowling.
Then trying to help after dinner I knocked their
“two-hundred-dollar, honest-to-jesus, Napa Valley’s Best”
bottle a’ wine
onto their “ten-thousand-dollar, straight from Andkhoy.”
Afghani carpet.
So, I’m sorry
but I can imagine you’d forgive me
your boyfriend,
who loves and adores you,
for sleeping this day off
and letting the night drop out from under you.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 7:48 PM UTC
i am afraid we have begun to dissociate,
unable to dissolve, I dissipate
we lavish emotion, laugh laudably
and cry with our larynx ripped out of our throats
i just need a little attention
'cause it's midday
and the midwife has a migraine,
with spoiled milk and clogged drains,
laundry a mile-long with tenuous children
tense with grimace and gray
we believe uncertainty for the hopeless and expectations for the great
the subtle hum
followed by slithering smirks
followed by snarls and sneers and weird sober
social experiments,
followed by small town dramas
and big time hypocrites.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
The two brothers wait for me arrive home,
They call themselves Anxiety and Fear,
Fear with his grimace smile,
Welcomes me in with his rigid glare,
He takes one look at me,
Reminds me I am vulnerable and fragile,
Anxiety plays along,
With his insolent tone,
Tells me I am an ignorant fool,
Mocking me of my wisdom,
Fear reminds me I am blind,
I know deep down they are right,
Fear is talking with a big smile to Anxiety,
The two brothers begin to laugh as I sit and calculate,
My heart begins to ache,
Anxiety points out the truth,
I can’t deny how I went wrong,
Fear places his hands on my shoulders,
I start to cry as I am unable to conceal these thoughts,
He whispers in my ear he will always be there,
Anxiety places his hands in mine
He always said one day I will suffer
No one to save you,
Like vultures they begin to circulate,
I must stay calm,
I rise firm to my feet,
So you want to mess with me?
Fear retreats to the corner and hisses,
It doesn’t matter what you have to say,
How long you keep these thoughts at bay,
Anxiety continues to linger around,
Analysing every inch and sound,
I was naïve and innocent to follow to your dark psyche,
Fear attempts to shut me up,
Yelling nonsense in my ear,
Anxiety joins in playfully,
Twisting and turning my stomach,
I take a deep breathe,
I will not follow blindly to the devil in disguise,
I will not tolerate these fears and let them ride me,
I will not let anxiety take over my strive,
My devotion will be dedicated to creativity and insanity,
You are just made believed.
The two brothers wince at my capability to be brave,
Anxiety recoils and hallows a piercing shriek,
Fear grimaces and spits venom at me,
I catch the venom and throw it back at Fear,
I owe you nothing
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 8:19 AM UTC
If you’re in an accident,
and it's compensation, you wish to gain-
Look no further than the law firm
Of “Grimace, Limpe, and Paine.”
If you’ve been arrested-
With a bag of stolen stuff-
Call the criminal defense firm
Of “Shackles, Chains, and Cuffs.”
But, if you want to hire a lawyer-
That’s known from “coast to coast”
Pick up the phone, and call the firm,
of “Bluster, Bluffe, and Boaste.”
Choosing an attorney
is not an easy task-
For every question answered
there's another to be asked.
So, I will make it simple,
amidst your sighs and moans-
Just pick up your telephone-
and call the firm of "Smith and Jones."
copyright: r. riddle November 27, 2013
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 12:43 PM UTC