Alcoves Poems | Examples

And Then There Were None - For Agatha Christie

I’ve only desired to light old lamps with young wicks
(the tongues of flame must be blinking hard with vigilance)
Across dark, mildewed alcoves that smell of ink —her writing ink —
But one thing led to the other, and the ink I
Found froze in my eyes, the bottle instantly petrified among desert ruins.
I searched, from my village to Nantucket, borrowing
The courage of voyaging storms, seeking earnestly her quill feather,
Just to caress her pretty face with it.
But the power of distance arrested me midway and warned me
Of the dangers of costly adventures.
I hankered after a trained parrot —an amanuenses of note—
With less brilliant plumage,
Electrifying elocution,
To detect to me the protocols of her language.
But that, too, failed.
The parrot was either born mute or chose to be.
I did all I could? to seek, to find, to locate, to identify items
Belonging to her —bric-a-brac of a telling age.
And then there were none.

My Destined Starlight

Soul
Breaking 
Lies whispered,
Seeking escape,
Soaked in caged deceit;
Mimes mocking withering 
Posies, left parched and sundered—
Suspended beneath obscured dusks,
Dripping amidst blinding aftermaths,
Idly shadowed by lewd scars of talons 
Amidst alcoves of echoing nocturnes 
Unshackled by your sweet afterglow, 
Healing me with the elixir 
Of our dawning horizons, 
Strumming eurythmic tunes, 
Suppressing starless 
demons, betwixt
Soul-stirring 
Destined 
Love.

Delivery

Another package of books arrived,
Another cardboard box to tear up
Or stow away in the basement
If it can be used again.

Story after story,
Big loves and medium-sized affairs and small trysts,
I try to find the way I felt before,
Yet nothing seems to compare.

So I take the knife and cut away,
The cardboard resisting my effort
Not wanting to be shaped into
Useless sorrow.

Confused I keep wondering why all paper
Resists me so,
For when I take my pen to white pages,
The same thing happens.

My anger rising
I force it
Trying to make it understand,
That there were some nice parts too.

Water glowing in flamingo pink and tangerine shades,
Little tables in bar alcoves covered in spilled wine,
Sunrise in a quiet room with eyes droopy with sleep,
Desperately trying to sound convincing.

Out of my trance I see that I'm left with
Plain brown rectangles of cardboard.

That'll teach me to stop
Letting these thoughts consume me
Restrict me to only what could have been
Or was.

Until the next delivery.

Renovations

The House was featured on the T.V.
Celebrities put on hard hats
posed with sledge hammers.
It was said that the old structure
had ‘good bones’. What it did have
were walled-in nocturnal whispers
and a resident paranoia.

Interior decorators re-imagined rustic hues
a bohemian nest chic-est
Rooms were staged and displayed
yet beneath the contemporary
the old retold its history.

Much of the house was to be renovated
pastel and neutral colors
replaced flock and wainscots,
yet bricked-over alcoves
still dripped a dried red rust
of long held rumors.

The house concealed itself,
but its fiber and pith,
its conduits continued to throb-on
echoing an older heartbeat,
a retelling
of long unsolved crimes
thinly painted over.

Angel Whispers

Angel Whispers

Angel whispers 
Announce
The Anointed One
In fluttering wings of Annunciation
And breathe of Emmanuel alive
In secret garden alcoves
Alpha and Omega arrival
On breath of ancient anticipation -
Pleas of Eden’s ancestry -
Align in shadows
Agonies of autumn-winter angst 
Pass away
As the murmur of the Spirit arises
Amid tender rustling
Air of breath to breeze
In astral asters of aurora’s –
Acclaiming tidings of truth ascendant
As an angel whispers.

7-19-21
Contest: Whispers
Sponsor: John Lawless

Faith

 
a gray brick church with hidden entrances
surrounded with many tangled gardens
and engravings above doors and alcoves
is where I go to pray on the virtues of
love, joy, peace, kindness, and faithfulness
on goodness, gentleness, patience, and balance
seeking oneness and dignity in life ...
I kneel in the silence of prayer
within a sacred candle flickering alcove
under a stained glass window of Jesus
with open arms

______________
May 15, 2021


Poetry/Verse/faith
Copyright Protected, ID 05-1355-820-15
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France

The Renovation

The House was featured,
celebrities put on hard hats
posed with sledge hammers.
It was said that the old structure
had ‘good bones’.
What it did have
were walled-in nocturnal whispers
and a resident paranoia
that stubbornly failed to lessen.

Interior decorators
re-imagined rustic hues
with a bohemian chic.
Rooms were staged
yet beneath the contemporary
the old retold its history.

Much of the house 
was to be renovated
pastel and neutral colors
replaced flock and wainscots,
yet bricked-over alcoves 
still dripped a dried red rust 
of long held rumors.

The house concealed itself.
In its fiber and pith  
conduits continued to throb-on
echoing an older heartbeat,
the retelling
of long unsolved crimes
thinly painted over.

Dream Sharing

Yes, we do share our dreams,
of course we leave out the inadmissible, 
the dark alcoves and the flying monkeys.

At breakfast I scratch in a notebook, 
doodle questions like
why I feel a duck-billed platypus 
is still nibbling my brain?
I remember then the billabong and the ‘jolly swagman’
all of whom party-crashed my REM-sleep.

I ask: did you dream in the night dear?
“Flamingo” she says tersely
as if I were prying too deep.
After a pause,
“You ran over my pet flamingo
with that big stupid truck of yours.”

I thoughtfully buttered some toast.

“It was the flying monkey’s”
 I reply weakly.

Observations In a Country Church

Dust motes dancing through glancing light,
refracted through stained glass windows, bright.
The smell of old pine and communion wine lingers,
wax polish and roses from grieving widows fingers.
A faint smell of incense, intense in it's nuance,
old hymn books weave their soporific fluence.
The imposing lectern, Gothic and glowering,
the Nave and Transepts, jaw dropping, towering.
The silence echoes in reverent tones,
so as not to disturb the pious bones
interred in alcoves and beneath stones 
inscribed with the names of the chosen ones.
Hassock and cassock, pew, aisle and choir,
childish imaginings of brimstone and fire.
Quiet reflections in an old country church
then out to dappled sunlight through Yew, Oak and Birch.

Media

The media's only thing we like sordelco for the pour
Where alcoves only pair theirselves for hocus pocus bhore
When all who watch heir listen more their cautions for alt time
Wear otius ferries for their trelves of cratious varied core

And take what honor's left in them
to traceous torried gore
When all that's left to face in them
is how or right they horror

Power To the Plough

Power to the Plough.
She sits there all used up, a shadow of her past self. The remains of her bodywork, only survive.

Rusting, and decaying into an iron oxide heap. No more use, the old gal is turning into a junk yard art scape.

Mice make homes in her alcoves, spiders spin webs amongst her corroded remains.

The red Fergie has passed her sell by date, a relic from the past.

She had a full and busy life on the farm, powering the plough to turn the earth.
Sowing, planting and rolling the fields.


Reaping the rewards of the harvest, towing trailers of corn, grass, and hay bales in the summer sun. The farmers friend, rugged and dependable, out in all weathers.

After all that she is just a  farm vehicle, a tool of the trade. Her days of powering the plough are over now.

Come Disappear

Rush your waves of freedom 
pulse slow where alcoves bleed
lay gently in the grass of heaven 
amongst the humble and the meek 
  
Faint eyes lie down in blazing heat 
where the burning fades desire 
unfurled taught ropes entwine 
and boil steams still streams   
  
Unguide lost thoughts subsided 
roam the hallows of my lair 
run past fear of another morrow 
into me come disappear

If Thoughts Be Laurels

If thoughts be laurels then I'd be a king,
Honing skills in dark alcoves of my mind.
Like muddy waters in a rain-soaked spring,
Life without meaning cannot be defined.

This oaf would a fool for a learned man;
Lethargy my mantra, why should I work?
Begrudge me not fools - ye form your own plan;
My smile is of joy, it's not all a smirk.

Life without fulfillment doesn't exist;
Excuse for failure or lack of life's drive.
Meaningless platitudes or chances missed;
Cancers of the soul just grow and they thrive.

Yet sanctity of life is what's meant to be;
Man can't thrive, if he's unable to see.

Masked At Midnight

castle bound
castle masked
masked by clouds
masked by snow
snow holding horrors
snow dancing in candlelight 
candlelight deepening the hollows
hollows of deep sunk eyes
hollows of alcoves
alcoves with writhing lovers
alcoves with frosted pink floors
floors ripe for waltzes 
floors hiding trap doors
doors open to dizzy guests
doors to back stairs
stairs to the turret
stairs to the dungeon
dungeon awash in the deep river's flow
dungeon where boats bring up guests below
below there are moans
below pain meets pleasure
pleasure gowned in satin
pleasure in black tie
tie the knots loosely
tie wrists behind thighs
thighs in silken hose
thighs open wide
wide eyed maidens shiver
wide worldly men gather
gather to watch the Mistress rise
gather them up
up, up the stairs
up to the minions who wait
wait as the snow blows through
wait as tangos blare
blare with the wolves howls
blare, bellow, and roar 
roar as the dead dance
roar as the timbers flame
flame in the fireplace
flame in the living heart
hearts at the devil's ball
hearts soon to beats their last
last dance
last kiss
kiss at midnight 
midnight feeding
feeding
midnight

Snow Aftermath

It’s been a few days, but snow still lingers,
fighting rearguard engagements with time,
hiding in shadowed walks, covered alcoves,
holding out against inevitable disappearance;
only a memory of white-covered ground,
joy to some, yet a danger to many others,
brought city to standstill, except those slipping
down icy paths and roads, flopping like fish
waiting for shoppers in a port market.

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