Best Alcoves Poems
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
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.
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
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
It starts gently—like a setting sun,
a tingling drift uncoiling in my abdomen,
tracing meticulous pathways through my frame.
It slithers into my mind, a weight both foreign and familiar,
a harbinger of past collapses,
whispering peril in the language of ghosts.
A whisper becomes a tremor, becomes a howl.
The cold vacuum yawns wide, swallowing every lucid thought.
The world outside disintegrates into shadow.
Fear is no longer a possibility—it is law.
Rational thought fractures,
splintering beneath its weight.
I am hunted—
by echoes, by specters,
by the certainty of failure.
A thousand past mistakes resurface,
each one carved into my skin.
My heart pounds, hammering dread into my ribs,
a steady cadence of self-inflicted peril.
I drift—untethered, lost in a space with no end,
caught in a current I cannot fight,
dragged by a tide I cannot name.
I have strayed from the path.
My only armor is retreat,
a desperate crawl into the deepest alcoves of my mind.
I search for anchors, for proof of the real,
but terror clings to me, thick as tar—
a parasitic thing feeding on certainty,
swallowing past and present whole.
Damn, it’s painful.
I question the steps that led me here,
the fractured frame of my own making.
I am reduced to a child—
small, breakable,
locked in combat with invisible horrors
as they claw their way from the abstract
into the marrow of my bones.
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.
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.
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.
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.
In the chambers of the caves,
I sought refuge from all the moral forgeries
spreading over the land. Holding my lamp aloft,
I pursued solace in childhood alcoves.
In the chambers of endless caves,
I explored myriad twisting pathways
longing for the playful mirth of recall.
But Cerberus confronted me, snarling,
preventing my passage beyond his gate.
In the chambers of the caves,
I descended deeper into unconscious cavities,
finding vast chasms of terror, and
winding tunnels leading to oblivion.
I wept like a summer rain cloud.
This was all a terrible mistake, I decided.
How do I escape?
In the chambers of the caves,
I wandered, panicking aimlessly until
I stumbled into an illuminated hollow.
Suddenly, I was surrounded by dancers.
Festive music played as they circled me.
Here, I felt safety and delight.
Laughing and clapping, the dancers pranced.
How this confusing labyrinth brought me
here, I couldn’t guess.
In the chambers of the caves,
I soon learned I must continue my exploration.
Everywhere, there were caves for living and dying,
deep subterranes of experience. Jung called it
collective and archetypal. Others declared it
the physics of the soul, the quantum consciousness
of reincarnation.
Let me recount of the mirrored alcoves galleries of brands
Whiskeys deep gold many types of bottles into optic feeds
Highly polished bar timbertops rich shining deep.' Varied
Paper coasters to keep it pristene, bowls of cheese squares crackers at the side, the sent of a recent cleaning
Greetings warm when you stepped inside.' The old
Hearth with a brass rod demarking its boundry the crackle
Of the logs flaming, chasing smoke up the Old chimney'
The walled rear convinnial gardens, evolved over centuries
You could find in the country of England countless examples such as these.' Icons of much effort, yet so long
Now under attack by the heartless neuvo influencers with ideas not worth a jot! Much over regulation.' The desire for
More tat.? The absorbtion of online pastimes' yet it seems
There are few winners.? The almost holy 'human touch' i
See it was part of what was better.' The shared pot of morning tea, the opening of letters, taking time with the
Milkman leather satchel slung, white overcoat sentinel of
Three decades yore.' Its gone the same with churches the
Pews all ripped away organs sold for brass, and gold reliefs
Maybe painted gray? Some mafe into coffe shops.' Some
Just knocked to the floor.' Now stand there stark drear
Terraces more like gaols.' Than should be seen; on any countrys shores." Its all send a link.' And no one blinks as
The old and youth are sidelined.' Its d e i its falseness first
Yet i hear rationalitys cries.' I'm looking at the holes in socks i've only bought last week.' While on the t v politicans
Promise to fix it up by a labour influx, because they are bent.' On getting things cheap..
Beneath the evening's astral embroidery, a kiss blossomed shyly,
A spark of hope, golden and gentle, in the fabric of the fleeting.
An arching celestial, lips gently incline towards the sea, aspiring to eternity,
And retreat serene, with the measure of the waves, in a whisper of dance and twilight.
They watch hidden, wrapped in crowns of smoke of memories,
A mysterious echo of silence that embraces the lake, the mirror of those unspoken words.
Hands unbound, through a labyrinth of dreams swayed by the wind,
Like birds that, in flight, relentless, lose themselves in the high blue of the skies.
And we, in the duet of destinies, embrace silences, see them as endless crystals,
Where once the candors of smiles now get lost in a rime of ice, as inheritance.
With locked doors, our souls paint in the canvas of days gone by,
And the tears of heavenly altars crystallizing in the air construct the invisible sign overshaded.
A massive wall rises on the horizon, the hours divide with implanted needles,
The plains of our love, now arid steppes, thirsting after the rains of falling stars,
Our chambers, once vibrant alcoves, now wait desolate,
Watch with the patience of a statue, coveting the brilliance of magic that brings love into mystical rebirth.
And there will come an interlude, somewhere, I do not know when, illuminated by reborn lights,
Unfolding before us the hidden play of the divine fragment and of mystery,
When the maelstrom of love that lay in doubts and questions,
Leaves behind only two solitary souls, regal in their peace,
Enswathed in a cocoon, where nocturnal butterflies await to metamorphose into a new flight.
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.
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
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.