Best Beaded Poems
In riming realms
of crystal contemplations -
frozen water-vapor meditations
and chilled flutes
filled with zodiacal-light musings
of ancient cosmic dust
dancing in the arms of Sol..
windswept operatic reveries
rise and fall
as her stirring soprano
tickled by the chanting of icicle chimes
gathers momentum
in strengthening sprays
of frosted musical notes adrift in broken chords
she bestrides
a clouded steed colored mother-of-pearl
flowing with fury
within which beats a blustery heart
surging at jet stream speeds
on the clattering beat of hailstorm hooves
from streamer-skies of the northern dancers
they fly aloft
on arctic gales of lyrical laughter
igniting the imagination
of her freezing fire
burning now with a blistering whip
and a frostbite nip
that sinks its tingling teeth deep
sailing
a supernatural stage
amplifying—
her aerated soprano soars
in polar vortex arias
as an avalanche of glazed trinkets
—descendants of her fertile femininity
skydive
in shivering sixfold symmetry
falling
in fierce flights of fancy
as she cyclones on consecrated currents
with wild abandon
escalating
in twirling trills
of glass beaded squalls
swirling her iced eiderdown skirts aflare
baring tempest thighs
storming with a Siberian sting!
..and as her electric eyes spark
luminous with lightning
she buries you in a blizzard
of opalescent mistletoe berries
and wanton whims.
“For in your light I dream, as evening takes my hand”
Silently I find my thoughts illumined by your beauty
In soft shimmers of dancing silhouettes
and patterns allowing far away breaths to sigh
Eyes peer into velvet skies,
visions set in motion eternally, find me stranded of this
distance we share, north to south, longing for you
Desperate for but a breeze, a movement of shadow,
a hope of wishes made upon the early arrival
of this crested view
Lonely among the maples, towering soldiers
lined at fielded boundaries, claiming wisdom
as they too reach for your smile
“And I yearn the knowledge of your distant view”
Do you think, do you feel, do you dream of me
from balconies high above hibiscus footpaths,
candle lit in passing moments which flicker, enchant
Drinking from a porcelain cup caressed by your hand,
a touch my body pleads, soft fingers on smooth surroundings,
ripples following moonlight sonatas,
days of spring blooms and whimsical showers,
flooding affections to wash over me,
carry me to you
This moon, suspended in charcoal heavens
upon a beaded blanket of perfect pearls,
beckons our dreams in simultaneous fashion
“Does your heart share this moon tonight, with me”
Written for the Long Distance Love - Poetry Contest
Streets of blood
She stood upon the terrace high
streets of blood below
The gate left open in the night,
a dark sky threatens snow
With swine and pearls running free
her bed sheets fought the wind
A tear drop fell her worried eyes
at hate now once again
Of drawbridge wars in endless fight
to stones of castle keep
A single rose a’ bloom this dawn
as mothers come to weep
For sons of father’s destined fall,
these followed footsteps bare
Along the streets so narrow, long,
where death becomes aware
“Enough!” she shouted far and wide
“This fighting now shall end”
“Take your swords and hateful spite,
do not return again”
And lifting high her amulet
upon a staff of wood
She chanted as the stone did glow
this morning where she stood
“Of peace, let all be felt this hour
Thy breath of saddened greed
Be gone, be gone, oh beast of war
No longer doth thou feed
Ye shadows o’er a nightfall mist
Lest blood befall your hand
Beyond this tree lined sacred place
Be gone from this our land”
When then a mighty wave did flow,
the streets were cleansed of fear
And there beyond horizons call
the sunrise did appear
And where once sat a single rose,
one thousand buds did grow
Of crimson red and silken gold,
the sweetest fragrance flow
Mothers hugged their children close
as loudly trumpets blared
The bloodied streets now white with snow
and love by all was shared
But there within the canyons lurked
cast eyes of beaded red
“I shall return to take this place
O’ ye who think me dead”
“To once more fill yon streets with blood
of this ye can believe
No matter what the masses want,
know this, I shall not leave”
A gypsy dance enthralls the stars
into a twirl of rustling hems
as women tap bare feet, guitars
lift twiddling notes of lore’s anthems
along a woodland’s lively fest,
where beaded hair glides in thrilled zest
to charm night’s hours...to romp away
till wagon drifts when morning strays.
My destiny number is 7, though I chose
my path number 8--- jan 8
rispetto form in 8 lines
------------
Andrea Dietrich's Tell Me Your Number Contest
Sunflowers blush as petals creep
Along easels of meadow's keep.
Winter's arctic days now long gone,
That morn's fair promise trails upon
Breezes sweet , once an icy blast,
Engrave a kiss on spring at last
Cardinal swoons with trilled refrains
Upon leaves' edges like beaded grains,
For springtime is a godly rite
When heaven molds its prized delight!
.................
for Brian Strand
+Her Spirit Sublime+
She knelt in God's marble chapel, in her uniform.
A suit of deep,forest green with fresh white blouse
honoring God, her King.
So young, she bowed her shiny brunette head in reverence,
Hearing the robins sing, that teenage spring, singing
in angelic consonance.
Her prayerbook of black leather, gold-leaf edges and
ribboned marker of red,
Made her realize as she stroked it, that is was only by God
was she to be led.
The delicate scent of candles that burnt so bright!
The artwork of mosaiced windows, sunlit-hued made her
feel heavenly light.
Her crystal, beaded rosary which transformed,the white marbled
walls, into a supernatural rainbow divine.
Grateful, to be in a school, that this memory still sings in her memory, sweet,alive and utterly, sublime!
11-30-2020
10:30am PST
**Poem of the Day**
12/2/2020
Dedication~ to my high school and religious mentors, who taught
me who runs this world! Thank you.
Red, red roses, you flowers of immortal love
You first blossomed in God’s Garden for Eve
In my garden too, you bloom so bright
I tend you with love and care day and night
You gladden me all through the day
That my verse on roses before all, gleefully I lay
Amid stinging thorns and the cover of leafy green
Your frilled beauty is sometimes veiled unseen
But as the wind croons all day in your ear
Your sweet fragrance spreads in the husky air
Thus, we are drawn to your hidden presence
And come to know of your lovely existence
You appear most beautiful when budding new
Lovely you are when your petals glisten, washed in dew
My Garden serves as a therapy in stress and strain
It is there, I forget and forego all my pain
When the first rays of light fall on the flowers
And the leaves are beaded with dew drops in bowers
I get out to work in nature’s household
And it brings me returns and rewards manifold
As I pull out every unwanted weed
A bit of my grief, I am learning to set aside
Sure, the smiling flowers give me lots of cheer
And my health improves, as I inhale morn’s fresh air
I can see a sunny day
The air is crisp and clear and warm
It permeates my skin
Infusing every single pore
with lavender of light
Every wing of every bird
glides in feathered harmony
Every flower beckons
and honey glistens every hive
as busy bee’s parade
It’s not just in my memory
this day of golden shine
Through silver beaded drops of rain
and clouds of shadowed fate
I see it up ahead
I feel that sunny day
and with its keen embrace
I’ll hold onto its ever present kiss
To not look back and not regret
and linger in the dawn
Cherokee chamber,
where a pow wow stampeedes preconceptions of inheritence,
from Her beaded neck charms of chance & chains of change
glisten from opulent offerings of roots, corn & lavender ablaze
on an alter of unworked stone mantled with skins strong beasts knew,
She is a " Stomp Dance " Queen with an owl as a friend and a spider as assassin,
with rattlesnake ribbons around Her wrists and prayers in Her braids thick with traditions,
the walls of Her teepee painted with the pigments of buffalo blood & sunflower pollen,
portraying a history hewn from customs known to Spirits and men alike,
the " Stomp Dance " Queen speaks for Her People and sings from the stars,
I found this Tribe, not in Appalacia nor on a prarrie stage but in the smoke of ceremony,
the Cherokee Princess has rattlesnake teeth tied to Her thigh & turtle shells upon Her hips,
She played the rabbit on the scene, then the wolf, if you know what I mean,
celebrated by the warriors as a tomahawk maker,
praised by the medicine men for Her Visions,
and feared by the Elders because of wrath that may follow Her steps,
the " Stomp Dance " Queen is a Princess, She is a Cherokee with a song Her own -
J.A.B.
two boys racing
dash, dart, tear
airburst in a clearing punched open
arms of piston pumping disperse white funnels
dandelion fluff curling
scattering flowered stems
as water streaked, streams down joyful faces
clearing,
a clawed out seclusion
child claimed freedom unspooling in summer heat
pulling back its gauzy veil
pushed to disarray
in this seething space, holding promise
two boys, breath weary, tumble into the tall grass
laugh and roll,
confessions shared like wanting to drift somewhere
- imaginary to real
claiming turf needing no repair
stories whispered before they're pushed off the page
in a green clearing, its window-heavy future
till tall tales take a different slant
to rest like beaded sweat
upon lined brows
Poem composed February 21, 2023
Rainbow Forest
Indian maiden, resting on the verdant, grassy, shore.
White leather, beaded dress.
In moccasins, does dream, she would confess, longing
for my happiness.
For now, dreams of days of serenity galore!
She,of unknown beauty, does not know.
Of how lovely, she is, truly as gorgeous as the
diamondesque sparkling stream.
She, was created of glistening metallic dreams.
As an ultramarine light show.
Amazing Star is her name, in this universe aglow.
She of ebonied, flowing hair like a waterfall dream.
She is my Spirit Guide in the land of peaceful, moonbeams.
I meet with her, and other animals, who seem to flow.
Oh, a most fulfilling, flute filled show!
6~7~2021
They hang like a beaded curtain
in a fortune teller’s parlor,
each buoy a bauble
from the sea’s own trove—
sun-faded,
barnacle-bitten,
unstrung from nets
that once strained tides for omens.
Now they sway in the wind,
rattling secrets and guarding
the doorway to elsewhere.
Who dwells behind the curtain—
a castaway witch, perhaps,
who brews fog in mason jars
and weaves seaweed into capes?
A fisherman’s widow still waiting
for him to return from
his final fateful voyage?
Or maybe no one at all,
just wind and longing
and salt-stung light
curling around a chipped enamel cup.
Or maybe an infinitely
unfolding maze that traps
who enters in eternal twilight
where each corridor breathes
with the hush of retreating tides,
walls papered in kelp and longing,
ancient air that smells of old shipwrecks
and unanswered questions.
Some say you can hear a voice
calling your name—not as it is,
but as it was
before you forgot
what you came looking for.
And yet the house remains,
perched above the tide line,
porch sagging like an old shoulder,
paint peeled by salt and time.
Through warped windowpanes
the ebbing light still flickers—
not warm, exactly,
but not unwelcoming.
Seagulls gliding in a gyre.
A foghorn’s distant intonation.
And always, the buoys tapping,
as if to say:
You’re closer than you think.
My people the Ojibwa are fierce and strong. A people of stories, myths and
knowledge. On birch bark scrolls and stones their history is told. And I,
a mere Ojibwa girl writes stories. The early Canadian explorers wrote of
our fierce warriors. "Strong arms held bows, arrows and clubs, their bodies
tattooed in various fashion and design, faces painted and noses pierced."
Eventually they stole our land, so I fight for the rights of my people.
I tell my stories
keeping the warriors alive -
their strength and spirit
And there upon a sheer and rocky cliff a black stallion stands majestic under a
blazing sun. My Ojibwa warrior looks at me with great love. In the air and wind
that roars, his feathers earned in acts of bravery flutter. I am nestled within his
strong arms. My turquoise and glass beaded dress sparkles in the sun. Far below
the Ottawa River thunders. The vast lands of Canada stretch to the horizon. Up
above in the azure, many eagles soar, as a symbol of Ojibwa unity. The Spirit
Fathers approve of this love. And in this dreamy dream the imagination of this
Ojibwa girl moves his majestic feathers. The beauty will never fade in stories.
wild water echoes
of land as far as the eye -
and tribes brave and fierce
___________________________
May 1, 2015
Poetry/Haibun/An Ojibwe Girl - My Spirit
Copyright Protected, ID 05-668-447-01
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Submitted to the Stndar contest, Show Me Your Spirit,
sponsor, FJ Thomas, HM, Judged 2015
Annotated Achilles amends fallen frame amputees
Bulimic Barbies browse media monkey banalities
Cameo clouds cling to beaded breath curios
Dopamine dreams delineate check cash desires
Echo endophfins eulogize bullet brain excrement
Fecal folly fantasies reveal relevant frivolities
Gonadal grownups gulp secret scrotal generosities
Helical hemorrhoids hinder senior stricken hemocraps
Idiotic ideals idioiosyncrate postpartum iconoclasts
Jack Jill juxtapositories seek sexestential jouveniers
Kryptic killer kisses ascot arrogant kingdumbs
Liquid lipid loiners fear frontline lucklullibies
Malevolent mommies masterbate rich reflective mommocules
Nevertheless nightingales nourish ruby rich noonbeams
Ovulatory occults outsource torrent tofu outrages
Pensive pisces picnics lovelorny passions
***** quiet quintensials release rancid quotients
Rape ripe residuals nullify nimble repercussions
Silky seafoam silhouettes fornicate frothy sandlets
Tepid torch trilogies belie belligerent tourniquets
Useless utterances utilize organize orgasmic utopias
Venomous vixens violate cruel.com visions
White willow wombs softly seed hospice hell winds
XX XY xfactors envision extracurricular xraydoms
Yearning yoyo yesterdays calculate clearcovert yields
Zen zealous zions mirror magnify Zoneotones
^^^^^
My people, the Ojibwe, fierce and strong
A people of stories and myths and knowledge
On birch bark scrolls and stones their history told
And I, a mere Ojibwa girl, write stories . . .
The early Canadian explorers wrote of our warriors . . .
". . . strong arms held bows, arrows and clubs,
their bodies tattooed in various fashion and design,
faces painted and noses pierced, majestic feathers"
Eventually, they stole our lands . . .
So, I tell my stories, I dream my dreams of a time past . . .
There
Upon a sheer and rocky cliff
The Appaloosa horse of many colors stands majestic
There
Under the blazing blue sky
An Ojibwe warrior looks at me with great love
There
In the air and wind that roars
His feathers earned in acts of bravery quietly move
There
Nestled in his strong arms
My turquoise and glass beaded dress sparkles in the sun
There
Below the Ottawa River thunders
The vast lands of Canada stretch to the horizon
There
Above in that perfect sky
Eagles soar together as a symbol of Ojibwa unity
There
In the imagination of an Ojibwa girl
The only sound the wind that moves those feathers
Today, the majority of First Nation still live on reservations . . .
_________________________
May 24, 2013
Poetry/Narrative/The Ojibwe
Copyright Protected, ID 05-480-540-24
All Rights Reserved, 2013, Constance La France
Written for the contest, Your Nationality
sponsor, Nathan D, Judged, 05/30/2013
Second Place