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 1     

Chirpin Tom

Chirpin Tom was quite a feller
He was always straight and true
He could sing a song and make the cowboys moo.
No, he wasn't much for fightin'
And his gun was seized with rust
But when crossed there had been bodies in the dust.

No, old Chirpin wasn't perfect
But he'd sing the cows to sleep
He could sing so good the flies would up and weep.
Chirpin's horse was Double Thunder
He was truly quite a ride
He would even stand beside a post untied.

So when Tom had finished singin'
He would mount and ride away
Down the trail until he found a place to stay;
Then he'd do some cowboy singin'
And he'd pray a cowboy prayer
And he'd sleep with all the cattle round him there.

Then when Tom would stay no longer
He would turn his horse's tail
And he'd travel down the hot and dusty trail,
Till he found a bunch of cowboys
Cookin' up some cowboy stew
Then he'd say, "Hey boys, how 'bout a song or two?"

My Favorite Things as a Middle Aged Chick

Night sweats and crazy
Hot flashes and lazy
Mood swings and a body (?)
That looks pretty shoddy

Eating and bleeding and wanting to scream
These are a few of my Favorite Things

When your doctor
Says a shocker
that your
Uterus is a lobster

I simply remember to pretend I'm filled with glee
and then
I forget that my uterus is in atrophy

Time's Finish

The time that came to us before
Lurks in our past in disarray.
It is never far from quick recall
Should we opt to review someday?

The time that waits for us to expend
Who knows what number it portrays.
Our future appears as a silhouette
A shadow with no hint of lingering days.

Which leaves for each the present time
Which is all we've left to spend.
Lets take no thought of these future days
But be ready for time's flow to end.


Written for  my wife Ernestine

The Branches Bare

The wind is cold and the flowers dying The leaves are drifting and the rain is falling Thunder is booming and rivers are tumbling Grass is faded and birds are flying away The forests and woods have a sad sombre hue Autumn's storms are sweeping and yet . . . And yet, there is a glittering beauty of delight With brittle colorful leaves and crisp morning walks O, the splendor of burnt orange fall scenes O, the tinkle of those falling leaves . . .
Written by Constance La France August 27, 2012 For the contest Autumn Splendor Sponsored by Russell Sivey First Place

Driving Through the Writer's Block

My mind has gone blank, now what do I do?
Had an idea to share, but lost the thought that I knew.

I could write about animals, flowers, or trees.
But what I wanted has left me, help me please.

Searching my mind for what I had thought,
I can't seem to grasp it, I fear it's been lost.

Nothing comes to mind at this specific time,
So I choose to write whatever comes to my mind.

Focus my mind I find what's good and what's not.
I will write something about this writer's block.

So you see, what I've come up with for you to read.
We all have this problem sometimes indeed.

You must push through the emptiness and you must write.
What you know, what you feel, or what it is that's right.

Geometry of love

Two lines intersect
an inherently 
unstable situation.

Parallel lines
are better
each proceeding
separately in 
the same direction
balanced by forces 
of attraction/repulsion.
But if these change
the lines diverge 
or intersect (see above).

Sometimes two
intersecting lines
may align 
with a third
forming a 
triangle.
Which is stable
but generally 
disapproved of.

Very occasionally
two lines may meet
end to end
and curve
to form
a circle
which is
One.

My First Love

The stars were twinkling in the sky
The moon sat on his throne on high
The breeze was whispering to the palms
That night I first held you
In my arms

Resilience

Transforming spirituality is resilience in nature. 

Listen, observe, and absolute the moment. 

Absorption can be everlasting.

Defining resilience is the ability to adapt as trees do to wintery woods and as jet streams run through mountains.

Consider the fence, once bent, it yields and survives. 

Once change is monumental, I must adapt and therefore, I will grow. 

A ball hangs from high captured by the thorny branch of a tree. 

Resilient to the wind, it swings until recovery – until it is let free.

The unexpected mandates handling. 

I embrace the thought. 

Realization is Jehovah’s provision of “creative adjustment” within us. 

Strength, wisdom, grace, and courage manifest resilience.

Safety is a nest, which can break. 

Implications are that the world is individually viewed and an individual’s identity. 

Today is built around moments, which we are unable to see in which an individual’s future lies. 

Clinging to what is known is how an individual frequently possesses his or her dreams. 

Freedom lies in one’s ability to let go of what is cherished and customary to his or her existence with realization being that this is no longer obtainable; hence, constructing greater availability for more in depth dreams and privileges.  

Through the woods!

Cupid Wanted



I thought to give his description
and tell why I want him alive.
He often causes adventure,
my life took a certain nosedive.

Standing, he’s five to six inches,
a bent toothpick he calls his bow.
He shoots tiny pins like arrows
and he chants garbled words for show.

His claims make love everlasting,
‘specially on Valentine’s day,
‘twas last year I called on his name
so right now... it’s better he pay.

No man came my way as promised.
His pin shot some pig in the ass.
Chanting with alcohol bubbles
started fireworks across the grass.

So please, help me find this Cupid.
The smoked ham and bacon is gone.
Insurance covered fire losses.
I’m ready for love to come on…


Book of Memories

When I'm weary, tired, when life is
rough and rocky - I look through
the book of my memories. Hidden
among the masses, one shines above
them all. All my troubles fade
into small pebbles bore down from
solid stone. From this one memory -
I rise above my own self-doubt and
travel into the realm of the 
future. Into a bridge built of
stepping stones. As I reach the
center, I fall to my knees,
trembling from it's greatness and
divine hope. Here, I gain the
strength of loves I have known.
As I reach the end of the bridge - 
I am forced to look back and see
the presence that walked with me.
From this shadow of a memory, I
shall always know the comfort of
goodness and hope. Giving me the
strength of a love more solid than
stone. Yes, I often turn the pages
in the book of my memories.

Husbands are in heaven whose wives scold not

‘t was on a rainy day in Camelot
A knight saw a maid he liked a lot
Before he paid heed
He remembered, indeed
Husbands are in heaven whose wives scold not

The maid, it seemed, had almost forgot
The words of her mother, whose name was Dot
For marital bliss
Remember just this 
Husbands are in heaven whose wives scold not

The knight with the maid was quite besot
And after a time they tied the knot
She never did scold
He did not grow old
Husbands are in heaven whose wives scold not

The end of this tale may surprise a lot
Because heaven is not the place he got
 Words one day you may recall
Some, but certainly not all
Husbands are in heaven whose wives scold not

Boomerang - 5 Stages of Poetry

as my pen positions itself between my fingers and pillows itself on my hand… …I know not why I write and still I’ve got to take this poem for a ride…. Thoughts spew inside my head – too fast to articulate. Too deep to defend. Ticking like a badly timed bomb infused with a faulty timer – I reach for the pen… words align themselves as I walk Through the clutches of Pre-validation. My mind is appeased – my will is at ease…until the stumbler opens his mouth: “Poetry” he whispers and I’m thrown Into the vapors of Validation wondering, perhaps, maybe? Could it be that without will I have created that which could be termed as poetry? The jury is out: the naysayers and the critics; the conservatives and realists; friends and foes – torturing my mind, stroking my ego, making my blood boil, soothing my heart… tears I cannot cry…smiles they can not see… anger spills out; indifference sets in; I wring my mind and pack my poem slowly I embark on the Wrought past Post-validation. Baby steps in forming words I love. Twisting the poem in forms I’ve learnt. Dressing it in different styles, shortening it, elongating it; Snip, snap, cut, bandage – Rhythm no rhythm. Basking in formless form. Counting and discounting syllables But still it’s not enough. What’s the use of words if they don’t effect? Diving into The plunge I reign in the words – the leader of my chariot- My poem succumbs to my will. Wielding, exposing, slicing, dicing, building, destroying, encouraging, condemning the poem breathes – a life of its own. And I think to myself Oh please who am I to be the wielder of such potency? I call it back. Taking a stroll along the beach, I reminisce of things past; The things I’ve done; the things I’ve not done; The rot in the world; the love that begs to be heard… The thoughts start swirling in my mind. …. My steps take me back to the beginning… as my pen positions itself between my fingers and pillows itself on my hand… …I know not why I write and still I’ve got to take this poem for a ride….
For: Boomerrang Contest sponsor: Michael J. Falotico

A Horror

i lay searching  
the night-grain nothingness. 
discharged from the world.
still, It comes.

oozing through undefined space
in fire-grinning simplicity.
humming like steel .
It beckons.
and i am ready.

but It has long been in place --
this....dying
as all men die --
slowly,
by suffocation.

yet,
the black streaks 
violet and orange.
you stir.
your untainted eyes open.

hold me 
precious wife
in the world 
a while longer.

I Am

Taste the wind and rain. 
Feel it touch upon your tongue. 
Hear it speak to you. 
Smell the dampness of the earth. 
Yell into the wind "I am". 

I am with the storm, 
Rejuvenated again. 
It's strength and fury 
can bring about life and death. 
I stand and watch in awe. 

I am, through nature, 
brought out of my somber pall. 
It's power to heal 
a soul and mind that cries out. 
Nature beckons me to come. 

I am made humble 
by the infinite heavens 
that are offered me. 
A moon full of mystery. 
Stars that guide and inspire. 

Fall Opens the Door

Fall Opens the Door  (Haiku)

morning sun dapples
trees in a  polka-dot dress
shines soft green and light

chill hint of autumn
smells of summer, loam, and pause
visions of winter

sap returns from leaves
to store deep in the tree heart
yellow, red, orange, burnt

Trisha Sugarek from
The World of Haiku

Unfathomable Grace

If Grace is an ocean
And we're all sinking
How unfathomable
Is that amazing grace.

Reading Headstones - 2011

I've walked up and down the rows; skipped a few, then went back to look
Since I was seven, this ritual continues; A routine going on more than 51 years
A sad silence as I look across the grounds, always the rush of tears

As I read each name, I wonder who they were; what their story was
A World War II Veteran, a mother, father, grandparents, daughter or son
A teenager on the brink of life, an innocent baby with life just begun

Some headstones are neglected, no flowers or sign of care
Everyone wants to be remembered; not forgotten like the release of a dove 
Some graves have monuments as a tribute; to show the endless love

I say a prayer for those gone before me; brother, sister, parents, aunt and others
A whisper soft breeze moves my hair, a gentle presence that doesn't last long
I think of this fleeting brief life; We're here for a moment... and then we are gone

A peaceful feeling surrounds me as I recall precious memories, happy times
I place the flowers down and turn my back to walk away
I whisper my promise to come back again, another time, another day

Crazy came knocking

One day crazy came knocking on my door
Without hesitation and not knowing for sure

I let crazy in as if she was one of my own.
Unaware of the chaos she would bring to my home.

Now I’m not saying crazy hasn’t been here before
But only to visit nothing less and nothing more 

This time she came with the intent on moving in.
Bringing all of her baggage even from way back when

I thought I could handle crazy I’ve always enjoyed her visits
But even the sanest person would be pushed to their limits.

She has become part of my life I can’t seem to shake.
I don’t know what to do or what it’s going to take.

I guess if I can’t make her leave and she is here to stay
I will make the best of it and let crazy have her way.

THE SIXTH MASS EXTINCTION

THE SIXTH MASS EXTINCTION (Manmade this time)

The sixth extinction is at hand
It's grasp extends to sea and land
Earth shone blue in darkness of space
Extending its welcome to a human race
Earth long was seen as a life giving planet
Many animals too made their homes on it
Humans judged they were subjacent to none 
Dominated all creatures under the  sun
Animals are not lesser because they aren't human
Humans are lesser for what  they did to them
The natural order mandated life's forces
But Man's greed drained earths' resources
Earth was the planet once singular in space
Now has the color been drained from its face
Earth was a planet of great singularity
Nothing can now return earth's parity 
Earth once a planet of green and blue 
Faces a change in the shade of its hue
Life was the reason for earth's special place
It's now gone and earth is a cold rock in space
A creature called Man caused this cosmic disaster
The Cosmos declared Man not allowed hereafter
ELIZABETH SMITH

house of skins

There's little left,
say for the skin of those i've bled.
Stacked heart deep around me...
i live in a house of skins-

Iv'e had chances to redeem-come clean,
but always chose to breathe the slanted sweet.
Nobody to blame but the idiot 
(me),
sitting high atop his grinning rock-

Less than half a clock left
(there is still time... i think),
to sweep the heart of filthy sweet-
with a malstrom of apologies
where to start-its quite a list,
i live in a house of skins.

i used to think heaven was in reach,
until i looked behind
saw the burning pins i jammed into angel eyes..
time to patch them up with a birthday card - tarry rhymes;

crow footed memories- so little time...
i live in a house of skins.


 1