Best Bleary Eyed Poems
Those gold ornate gates opened wide,
and on wings she flew up above;
to join in heaven her true love.
And we who loved her on earth cried,
her name is Connie Marcum Wong;
I knew a lady kind and strong.
I still cannot believe she died,
she had a pure and gentle soul;
in my heart there is now a hole,
A sweet sublime poetic guide,
sending lovely poem comments;
always giving nice compliments.
As I write- I am bleary-eyed,
this her form created- Constanza;
where we pour words in each stanza.
To call you friend . . . I feel great pride,
I will not forget dear poet;
and hope this poem will show it.
Those gold ornate gates opened wide,
and we who loved her on earth cried,
I still cannot believe she died.
A sweet sublime poetic guide,
as I write- I am bleary-eyed,
to call you friend . . . I feel pride.
__________________________
September 14, 2022
Poetry/Constanza Rhyme/Farewell, Dear Poet
Copyright Protected, ID 09-1487-262-14
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
(Constanza Rhyme - created by Connie Marcum Wong)
Poem of the Day September 16, 2022
Written for the Premiere contest, Brian Strand Premiere Choice
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 09/22/2022
The winged god Zephyrus, handsome and graceful
gently flapped his wings, gliding across the meadows.
His eyes fell on naked youths splashing at play
in the sparkling water of a deep wide pool, sheltered
by willow trees, where fragrant flowers bloomed.
He slowed his flight and looked with lust and admiration.
On the green grass he espied a tender youth;
athletic and beautiful was this young Spartan prince,
scantily dressed, playing his flute with nimble touch.
Zephyrus’ heart fluttered and leapt; he could not help
falling deeply in love with beautiful Hyacinth.
Little did he know that he was already being
courted by Apollo! Out of sight he lay in wait
then made his move and sought him out at sunset.
He approached him and with golden words he tried
to tempt his heart, but all in vain. Though impressed,
Hyacinth remained firm and faithful to Apollo.
That night, Zephyrus many restless hours spent
alone, ignoring Chloris’s sexual charms.
Entangled thoughts engulfed his frenzied mind,
jealousy clawed at his heart, tore deep within.
Dawn arrived, and bleary eyed he hastened forth
towards the hills, in search of calm respite.
Alas, it was not meant to be; envy reared its head
with poisoned fangs that sent him reeling mad.
Emotions changed from red to green, and in despair
he flew high up, aimlessly circling in the sky.
Then all at once, upon a verdant field below,
he caught sight of Hyacinth and Apollo
playfully engaged in discus throwing.
The green-eyed monster lunged and with swift intent
Zephyrus blew a gust of wind that swerved the discus
from its route and it hit Hyacinth on the head
resulting in instant death. Jealousy prevailed.
Furious yet heartbroken, Apollo held Hyacinth
tightly in his arms, blood dripping from his temple;
and with one last act of love he changed that blood
into a most beautiful flower called Hyacinth.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Contest: Epic Only
Sponsor: Skat A
Placed 3rd
SNAKE OIL SUNRISE
coiled lies an oily snake
circling the rim of the cup
eschewing the softness of milk
the sweetness of sugar.
A black hole – waiting – beckoning
the bleary-eyed robot
leaving a scent trail
harsh, uncivilized,
unadulterated,
psyche popping
caffeine.
11/30/2016
submitted to WAKE UP WITH COFFEE OR TEA CONTEST – Poetry Contest
CRASHING waves... SMASHING seas...
Bringing sailors to their knees.
As they struggle to save their lives
Hoping and praying, help arrives.
The stormy seas as dark as coal,
Preventing the sailors from reaching their goal.
Battered and bruised, but still they fight...
Staring ahead, into the dead of night.
Rocking and rolling as they try to stand...
Hoping against hope, that they soon reach land.
Bleary eyed from lack of sleep.
Down in their cabins, huddled like sheep.
As they're rocking and rolling down beneath
Weary sailors above, resist with gritted teeth.
hours later, as the storm starts to dissipate,
It leaves a calm tranquil sea in it wake.
The veteran sailors know the battle is over, and they have won...
As they contemplate, other storms yet to come...
Woke up this morning, looked at the clock
Bleary eyed, thought it read 5:23
Way too early... turned over and went back to sleep
Woke up again which seemed like 10 minutes later
The clock read 7:42
Thought for a moment in my stupor
Holy crap! Gotta get up!
Hey wait a minute... I'm retired
No one's waiting for me to solve any problems
To create a market plan for a new product
My big easy chair awaits... SWEET
© Jack Ellison 2014
Black-blue and purple-gray, barred from florescent in amber we play
scratched across vinyl, we sway, arguments in amber we play.
Hopped up on booze, blow, and the down beats blare where we grind
the twenty-first centuries bruised gene pool is content in amber we play.
Fused in secretions, saps, drink thrust and dine whoring for more
like the short lived denizens of earlier times in amber we play.
Alive in the moment pupils blown, see them sway
selling their innocence as if it were blight
oh the pretense of love, found, lost or betrayed.
Drunken dancers grope for holds, bleary eyed strays
tasting the bitter fruit bone weary of fright
alive in the moment pupils blown, see them sway.
The disc jockey's spinning tunes stage dive, surf the floor
in the jaundiced light of bars where love's betrayed in amber we play.
Whites blown and blood shot, cigarette smoke a thick haze
jaundiced death walks to the bass beat as in amber we play.
SONG: Whiter Shade of Pale
“I open the door and cross the threshold of imagination”
Time past, like a grandma’s tale
Has a moral to tell.
Time present, busy, full and bursting
Save me, my Lord.
Time future, O God, It’s but a dream
Time hangs heavy hereabouts, at this bus stop,
Called the market stop, where folks wait bleary-eyed,
But not for this spectacled, haggard, wiry girl
At this bookstore opposite in conversation
With a rough- looking guy for forty minutes now
The bus comes, I squeeze myself in , but eyes strain
To find if that butterfly, book in hand, a last minute arrival
Had fluttered on to this bus; yes, she had..
Time suddenly grows a butterfly’s wings and flies.
Out there, time, the prancing horse, is a non-stop myth, ,
The ageless do not get time-worn,
Again, there, air, space and all its gadgetry
Free Of all traps and waits and longings
Having time, not human-clock-bound,
Locked up in stellar boxes, pressed into black holes
Waiting for an explosion..the end…timeless end.
Form used: All the three are in Free verse form
Contest: `Three Gems` of Constance La France ~ A Rambling Poet~
BY : S.Jagathsimhan Nair
Date written: Written years back, but slightly compressed for this post
04 aug 2011
They came in the night
Nocturnal mammals plying their trade
Armored carriers of an age old scourge
A modern day version of a creature from a Mesolithic age
Rooting in the soil for their tasty grubs and morsels.
Leaving behind holes in the lawns and uprooted fresh planted beds.
A total destruction of a days labor in the garden.
Anger arises from the waste and want of the destroyed beauty
A plan, a trap for these ancient creatures cunningly devised.
Arising in the night,
Waiting with gun and light
Ever vigilant for the coming of these armored destroyers
Waiting, waiting, as the day begins to break,
But not to be seen after a long night through
Bleary eyed, and exhausted from a sleepless night.
Another day, another night, a new plan to be devised
To see if they come,
Seeking the tasty grubs lying beneath freshly planted beauties.
A combat to be waged with these armored creatures of old.
A test of wills to see who will win out.
She was a tiny angel of a woman
mindlessly moving, in a chemical faze
her heart baracaded, tormented
from her long, lonely days
while dancing on the edge of a pin.
Dreaming images with her feet, twirling
oblivious on a pole,
trying to live a shoddy role
stripped of dignity, ripped of grace
imposed upon her lifeless soul
Her teardrops falling, slowly slipping,
silently dripping, leaving behind
their clear, salty trace
as they slide down her cheeks,
like icy blue, watery veins
on her tear, stained face
She dances mindlessly
from one seedy cloud to another
in faded memories blurred by her past
Through hazy, watery depths she bleeds
tying to quench a thirst so deep
in her hemorrhaged, sedated heart,
so worn, so torn,
by her dreams that did not last
As she slides down the pole~
she floats in a hazy, igneous swirl
of aqueous diluted anesthesia.
Demons eat and devour through
her darkened descent of amnesia
Painful depths that turn and twist
in her hazy, muddled reality
of unspeakable memories
that cannot exist,
lest they drive her deeper....
to a shattered demise
Her childhood dreams
stripped cruelly of their parts,
allowing her mind to wander
in an unconscious state of grace
from hungry teeth marks
left on her innocent, delicate skin
Cheap neon lights bathed
the trashy, shoddy floors
that smell of stale cigarettes
and booze in seedy, darkened bars
Dangerous, dingy, low rent neighborhoods,
leased by lurking, slovenly men
who try and grope her every move.
She sits on a bar stool
sipping amber, colored water
from a dirty, shot glass
waiting for drunk, greasy men
to approach, handing her
their rumpled, grimy cash.
Two dollars a dance~
to the tune of one weary, old song.
Or ten dollars an hour
to some bleary eyed man
for an endless moment
she'll dutifully belong.
Shadowy features, biting at her heels
Unnamed creatures
gripping, ripping her heart
into clawed, broken shreds of steel
from many wounds that cannot heal
One sad morning,
the headlines of the daily news
printed one more obituary
of a life badly abused.
Her parents were sent
a note from the club
that said:
"Your daughter used to work here,
will you please stop by....
and pick up her clothes and shoes?"
Ivy-covered sheepskin, firmly in hand
the confident graduate, square-jawed and tan
Pulled offers from prestigious start-ups all over the land
a year later he played lead guitar, hat in hand
He, ever-grateful to his folks for those music lessons
They, bleary-eyed from all the therapy sessions
Yet Patience will out, and Time always tells
Perhaps by thirty-five he'll own an oil well
Perhaps the most inane entities contrived by the human race,
(Leaving folks wondering why they must meet in the first place),
Are the interminable meetings of committee, panel and board,
Convening for hours leaving participants bleary-eyed and bored!
For many boards, committees and panels, alas, I was drafted,
Sitting through them with eyes glazed as my mind drifted and wafted,
Listening to self-appointed experts spewing their hide-bound views.
What they were babbling on about I had no interest nor any clues!
We could take a few lessons from some of God's creatures.
The lowly ant could be one of our greatest teachers.
Legions of those little fellers get the job done with precision,
Without convening a commission or panel for every decision!
Observe the busy honey bees toiling in the fields and hives.
They have no useless commissions or boards obfuscating their lives!
With precision and organization they go about their employ,
Producing delectable cones of honey for us to steal and enjoy!
If thinking of me for a meeting, include me out, don't call!
For I am not the least bit interested and am not inclined at all,
To sit and hash over useless stuff that usually doesn't matter,
And listening to hours and hours of inane and vacuous patter!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Will you burn the earth`s skin to glass?.
Yet, right there , in Harmony of `69
I bent in adoration
before the dusky pearl of your forehead
the soft slopes of your never-ending body
shifting under a sea of blankets
Oh! treasure of treasures !
sparkling
to life
love
in the inner-sanctum of the
tent-temple of my emerald heart,
filling it with that attar fragrance ,
that compassionate smile,
that yearning voice,
quieting my storm
urging me
to swim your sultry sea.
How could the world ever be the same again ?
Outside,
rooted like stark brood of the Black stone ,
rocks parried thuddingly the capricious charge of waves
and subdued the swell and swirl of a dark ,disturbed sea.
The summer night was short
and I
cleaved to you like a calf to its mother.
Your dark-eyed nipples breasted the blanket ,
occulting the coarseness of Harmony .
We rocked to cradle the peace in the galaxy,
with love milking the way
to the morning star .
Winking over the mount,
Venus caught us intertwined ,
drooling like babes,
sated
I, summer cloud paramour of
you Landie ,
altar of my sensuous sacrifice
sweet naos forever
Yolande
briefly
undraping your
compassionate cosmic essence
for a gallant stripling
starving for affirmation.
Awed,
i nested in mouths
harmonizing
now enchanting,
now strident symphonies,
keen enough to split
chaos
into mutual opposites
that grappled , grinded and finally clashed ,
giving birth to a higher union.
I tattoo your name , Landie, on the stretched skin of the earth.
I pullulate the waves in your name
sackbutting the syllables
till tremolo breaks it breathlessly to foam
on the glistening beach of your belly
Wrinkles I didgeridoo into the dark blanket of our night,
stringing out your diadem of stars
I spiral you stately across my deep.
Breaking away
reluctantly
from the tug of your knees
i trolled our anchor through love`s flow
girding it close to my wound-up heart.
"Go now love….spare me a thought "
Your voice and a gentle seabreeze wafted me out.
Diving at dawn with a whale of love
between waking dunes
capped by sourfigs , bleary-eyed revellers,
the blue-blue sky warbled
“one and one and one is three
One thing you got know ,is you got to be free
Come together, right now , over me.”
.
Two weeks we'd been droving; and the end was now in sight
In the distance was Dodge City, we'd be there before night
I was on the trail with other cowboys from the Double Circle Ranch
And we were looking forward to the saloon, the notorious Long Branch.
We reached the railhead with the longhorns , just before sundown
Me and the other cowboys were itching, ready to hit town
The buyers were there waiting, hands were shook the deal done.
We were aware there would be lowlifes, so we all packed a gun.
First a shave then a hot bath to wash off the layers of dust
Then buy some new clothes and long johns, the latter a must
We then headed for the saloon and were ready for some rye
After two weeks on the trail our throats were kinda dry.
We walked through the bat wing doors, there were the usual stares
The good time girls were beckoning us, to follow them upstairs
We all asked for some whisky and some ordered hot foods
Then the young bucks went upstairs; to satisfy their lustful moods.
Old Jethro our foreman, the next day rode into town
And spent the best part of two hours tracking us all down
Bleary eyed and throbbing heads, no spoken words were said
And thoughts of that long ride home filled us with dread.
At the stables in a side street our horses were stood ready
We paid the stable boy and mounted, we all felt quite unsteady
We'd ride for nigh on two weeks crossing the great Texas plain
Get home round up more Longhorns and do it all again.
Written 20th January 2021 .
Fundamentalists
Evangelists
Jihadists
HolyWar and Final Judgment and RoughLove Advocates
against infidels and other, more domesticated, sinners:
Put down your Bibles and Korans,
written to grow love
and not weapons for bleary-eyed bullies.
You spend too much time reading and thinking
and arguing
to let your spiritual emotions swell and grow love.
Instead,
pick up a small recycled brown paper bag
of healthy
fertile
organic mustard seeds.
Learn faith with them,
that together you might grow
to know
this radiant reign of God's Eternal Light and NonDual Dark.
Plant them into Advent darkness,
care for them,
water them
and not the tarish tearing weeds
of envy and supremacy,
hypocrisy and punishing misjudgment,
superstition
and hope for antiEarth anti-logical magic,
nightmares and violence,
anger and fear-mongering,
Old Testament blood sacrifices
and enslavement to false fascist idols
as if these were large enough
to contain the wisdom of one regenerative mustard seed,
sprouting radiant love for God's sun
and MotherEarth's baptismal waters,
fueling our shared root restorative ecosystem.
Harvest these therapeutic cultures of health
and gratitude
and grace,
make spicy brown mustard with them.
Serve to and from your students
and children
and mentees
on homemade 7-Grain ReGenerate Manna.
Wait for Paradise
to flow through your mouths,
down your throats,
into your communion stomachs.
If your kids are faithful and loving goats,
watch them wag their tails,
wages of love and not sin,
in gratitude for Grace.
If human
help us listen to,
and speak,
and write better tales
for restorative healing of love,
omnipresent as a mustard seed's integrity
of each moment's sacred with secular potential.
And if you should learn faith as one of these kids,
your tail
and tales
will wag truer,
and far more grace-filling effective
and affective
and infective
and reflective
too.
Then you may be safe to return
to your holier-with-you gardening books
on how to grow histories of love
without sinning against faith
of a mustard seed.
Hungry and bleary-eyed
I lie on my bed late in the afternoon.
Rain pitter-patters on my window panes,
Thunder rumbles overhead.
A half darkness envelops the room.
I wish to sleep but repose eludes me.
An enigmatic discomfort prevails.
I ponder on my desperate ventures
to capture your elusive heart.
Where did I go wrong?
My memory's gone, I can't discern
What blunders I've gone and done.
I know there was pain, and worry;
but there was love too.
Great love, too much love
Perhaps too much? Surely not too little!
Which is why I feel sick.
Who knows if this will pass,
And pass soon for I am nothing,
An empty sphere without you,
But it's all right. I'll try to survive.
But for love's sake, please stop the singing!
Delete those romantic lullabies.
I suffocate. I'm drowning in my love for you.
The world is spinning! Hear instead
The pulsating rhythm of my heart.