Best Bludgeon Poems
SONNET FOR THE SILLY
A blessing on all kinds of action silly
Let our God not be a solemn old curmudgeon
The folly that belies the serious dark and chilly
Which imposes stark importance with a bludgeon
For freed of strictures rife with disapproval
The spirit can create with wild abandon
Without constraints demanding the removal
Of that which breaks the sanctity some stand on
I will praise the brothers Marx for their absurdity
And all ‘fools’ who mask high wisdom with the artless
May they lift our spirits when we face adversity
The rejection of such gladness would be heartless
Could it be what we shall hear entering the Hereafter
Is not a harp strings but the sound of joyful laughter
6/8/2019
Written: November 06, 2023
___________________________________________
A swarm of herring gulls amassed
Nexus Nautilus nabbed by zealous winds,
whitening the black soil
we hold spears in our hands.
blood-stained thorns on the side
sullen squawks a skirmishing sporophyte,
dubious, grayish rumors must be buried
drave in a drizzle, drape to deities.
Installation of sentry fences
Sisyphean stones
anchor down using seal and string
flaws in the swings used by blacksmiths
Unborn burning bullion bludgeon
Savage sunless swords embryonic
Edgeless, with no reflections.
Each peak over the Edenic Steppes is sprayed,
using torn paper candles as bait
climbing scaffolds with lumber rungs
pounding of leather-heavy boots
darkened, grimacing features
Flocks failing feathers or flight.
Our hold slips on windswept
Windswept updrafts carry us away
as offspring of the royal family.
Life is a bastard son, prodding the fertile horizon
poking into places tender, tearing the expanse of dawn
he taunts, rude and bellicose, so full of himself
spewing into the weakest streams, a wet dream.
With platitudes he prances, son of a fearsome father
promising eternity, singing a lover's song of praise.
Light bearer, holder of the golden scalpel, night cutter
leaving glare where softness once held sway.
May the abyss, the gentle dark, the yin forgive you..son.
From the pear-shaped loins of sister Eve, you have burst
washed in the waters of she, a caul of white adorned,
pray, stay your hand, do not bludgeon your better half.
Existence, endless, fleeting, meld and join this randy pair
for universes swing between this bastard and his dreams.
Dedicated to my muse Brenda Atry
please read her "Black Diamond Night"
Bind my hands
Shackle my feet
Rain lashes on my body
Prick, prod, impale and crucify
You can impound my freedom
You can bludgeon me bloody...
Still, I stand tall
Proud, unbowed,
My spirit is yet free
I am yet, the master of my soul!
(Inspired by W.E. Henley's Invictus)
~Contest: A Freed Verse
~Sponsor: Brian Strand.
~"I Stand Here" contest
Sponsor: craig cornish
You breaketh my soul
where am I to find it now that you've taken control
neglecting the tide
my fountain of youth placed there by your side
Never shun the forgotten sinner that by shame ever to stay in remembrance
strained to be as Temperance
flawless by standards of mind playing amateurs in times glance
my savoring heart will not bludgeon yours if you offer it your stance
Procure me to the parade
hover moonlight shade
blue turns to jade
stay with the lovers heir to which we have made
peer into the ocean of silver ice crystal streams
seeing our fate in my dreams
Call of minds refuge
upon weary lands of ode
memories kept under deluge
to decipher the code
Forgiven are ye who walk upon the stony grave of deserts loom
swept ashes by grace unbound naked as a cleansed fume
THE MARX BROTHERS or The Unimportance of Being Earnest
I will praise the brothers Marx for their absurdity
As all ‘fools’ who mask high wisdom with the artless
May they lift our spirits faced with an adversity
The rejection of such gladness would be heartless
For when loosed of strictures rife with disapproval
Their spirits could create with wild abandon
Then without constraints demanding the removal
Of that which breaks the sanctity some stand on
So I bless them for activities unbounded
Say our God is not a solemn old curmudgeon
Their folly then belied the earnest tied and grounded
Freed from stark importance laid on with a bludgeon
Could it be they heard on entering The Hereafter
Not only harp strings, but the joyful sound of laughter
10 September
Contest: My Upcoming Birthday Celebrity
Sponsor William Kekaula
End of a working day sees nightfall bludgeon me.
Sir Harold, Knight, the valiant swain
Did call his Lady Nell.
He held her close and kissed her hand
And bade her sweet farewell.
"Forth from here I needs must go
My swainly Lady Nell.
I shall return, my bonny lass
To hear our wedding bell."
"Ignoble lord, I'll wait for you,"
The lady she did say.
"Don't forget my diamond ring;
The wedding's set for May.
"I'd like three chests of herbs and spice
And a blooded horse to ride.
If these you manage Harold, dear,
I'll be a happy bride."
Sir Harold, Knight, the henpecked swain
Did ride upon the wind
That he might fight and battle see
In armor made of tin.
"For Lady Nell," he cried in war,
"For her the fight be won!"
He smote his foe with courage great;
The battle soon was done.
Sir Harold, Knight, the honored swain
Returnéd home to Nell.
He greeted her and she did say,
"Harry, you were swell!"
But Harold, Knight, was two months late,
And Lady Nell had news:
"I waited long as I could wait;
Just call me Lady Hughes."
Sir Harold, Knight, the spurnéd swain,
Did bludgeon Lady Nell.
"I forgot the damnéd diamond ring,
And since she's dead, it's just as well."
This Body
Those on the bottom can see but can’t act,
Those on the top can act, but can’t see,
O Lord, please free me from this body of Death, America.
Dear Lord, How am I to stay composed, as the very fabric of justice decomposes from
beneath me?
My footsteps are weighted down by the sounds of my ancestors screaming for my freedom, as
they realized that their deliverance was only in the life to come?
Am I to wait until the life to come?
Like some passive animal, always turning by backside to be flogged by the excruciating
hypocrisy of white supremacy,
You ask me to hold to your precepts, you ask me to hold to your law of love,
And yet for me it is like Atlas, bearing the weight of my oppressor’s ignorance, all the
while attempting to free them from their codependency on my subjugation,
Even for those who see, their loss is still their gain, Privilege,
But for me, loss is the sound of riotous rage burning the streets of Chicago,
And yet my Lord,
Faith is the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things unseen,
I must believe, even as my circumstances bludgeon me from the inside out,
I must believe that you have a plan.
We need not loans, but a redefinition of what it means to prosper?
Can you grant us at least this my lord?
A vision of repentance in which top and bottom begin to fade away beneath the sound of
righteous equality?
If we can just touch the hem of your garment?
If we can just touch the hem of your garment, then we shall be healed.
And this body will know the sublime language of harmony.
Lord God, do not free me from this body of death, America.
For in my freedom, my brethren will still suffer.
Rather, free this body from its insanity.
So that we all may sleep and dream soundly.
Spare a thought
For buffaloes, bulls and bears groaning, mourning, starving
Under your collar don’t blow hot
Making rivers and rodents sad, carving
Space and time you don’t own
Encroaching on privileges animals and plants possess
In their comfort and discomfort zone
You dare to distress and stress
Best to minimize the plight
Reptiles and rabbits confront every morning and afternoon
With no morsels of grub in sight
As savannas and simians croon
Shambling in starvation style
Bulging bellies boast as labels of stables and fables of gluttony
For a convoy of jalopies cruising in single file
Pay last respect to Tony
Who’d passed on in pitiful poverty
Impecunious
Although in death no novelty
Comes through under the guise of ingenious
Crafting of manipulation
But you’d do well to sacrifice creature comforts to elevate the fate
Endured by long suffering trees and tigers whose daily nourishment ration
Ought to funnel a debate
On the injustice witnessed globally when a tiny few
Gorges on two thirds of world resources
With neither care nor clue
On the abuse fauna and flora sources
Suffer
Dwindle
Prefer
Decrease as the self satisfying spindle
Spins and spins
With little thought on air and water pollution
Pins
On environmental dissolution
Metamorphosing the Earth into a less habitable planet
Treated with disdain
Depleting the Earth’s net
Worth as polluters gain bargains again and again
Super profits
Turning a blind eye
To sarcasm skits, bludgeon bits and tendentious tweets
Lying inside a liberal lie
That all’s well
Environment concerns mean nothing
As imbalances and inhospitable elements swell
To spell doom unless you start caring for Mother Earth and her everything.
There is no need for blades of steel.
Now, missiles and bombs do the job.
To warmongers that has appeal.
Man might someday be one big blob.
Yes. Fighting commenced long ago.
It started with Able and Cain.
Cain killed with a rock, not a bow.
Continuous envy … insane!
There were wars before 1 B. C.
The Battle of Kadesh was one.
‘Though it ended with a treaty,
Bloodshed for power had begun.
There was Alexander the Great.
His thrusting spear won many wars.
And the deaths never did abate.
Killing is what Heaven abhors.
There were Greek wars and Cretan War.
Caesar’s Invasion of Britain,
Roman Wars and the Chinese War.
Enemies they would stab or Bludgeon.
Weapons of war were of metal.
Armor did not end the bloodshed.
Back then, like now, death was brutal.
Blood bathed killing in the world … spread.
Back in the Eighteenth Century,
Freedom and brotherhood converged.
Engraved, a sword blade said boldly.
Free people are brothers … life urged.
Gone, all those years, yet, man still kills.
Freedom has brought joy to many.
Brotherhood builds a bond and thrills.
Freedom gives its joy to any.
Teach trust; then, live and love in peace.
We must encourage and applaud.
Anger and hatred has to cease.
Each of us is a child of God.
And that makes all of us brothers.
There is no need for blades of steel.
We must all love one another.
Then, peace on Earth will become real.
1/16/2017
Inspired by the contest, the Contest:
The Swords Speak
"When your down and out you need some Joe Bonamassa."
Quote by _ Constance
His music is raunchy and moody, his voice raspy yet smooth. If I close my
eyes I am in a rundown bar in the middle of nowhere down and out on luck.
His name is Joe Leonard Bonamassa, an American born blues rock guitarist, singer and songwriter. Born in 1977, he grew up in Utica, New York, USA.
His parents Len and Delia were avid blues music fans and owned a music
store and this is where Joe got his love for guitars. He started playing guitar
at four years old. At twelve he was playing with B.B. King and has played
with many notable artists. He has fifteen solo albums, and eleven of them
have reached No.1 on the Billboard Blues Chart. He has been nominated for
three Grammy Awards. He has his own record label called Keeping Blues
Alive Records where he supports blues musicians and their music.
Something interesting about Joe is his vast collection of guitars and amps,
four hundred or more. Most are vintage. He has been buying them all his
life. A room in his home is called the Bona-seum ! He loves his Fender
Telecaster that he nicknamed Bludgeon. But, there is another rare and
valuable guitar that he uses in concerts, a 1958 Gibson, Flying V, he calls
Amos after the original owner Amos Arthur. I love this man, his music, his
message. He can play the blues for me anytime. He keeps his private life
private, I like that about him !
random lyrics from
Mind's Eye
Joe Bonamassa
help I'm going down
need someone
to slow the spiral down
reach up, dig deeper
I'm haunted by memories
you can'nt see
_____________________
May 07, 2023
Poetry/Bio/Joe Bonamassa - Blues Guitarist
Copyright Protected, ID 05-1545-662-07
All Rights Reservered, 2023, Constance La France
Written for the Premiere contest, Joe Bonamassa Inspiration
sponsor, Robert James Liquori, Judged 05/07/2023
First Place
The river is smooth, quiet, and serene.
Our fishing boat is at one with the flow.
Years from now I'll remember this scene
And wish it were like the life I would know.
But that isn't the nature of this estate.
Boulders may bludgeon at every turn.
Debilitating illness may strike early or late.
Rough water tells me I am here to learn.
Problems then are mortality's tool
To form and fashion the person to be.
They take us to the hard-knocks school
To prepare us for life's squally sea.
I’ll pick you up and make you fly.
I’ll sit you down and you’ll think.
At least until you can fly in sync.
We’ll go up in the clouds and spy.
You will know me because I try.
I bring you to the crest of a brink.
I catch you before you truly sink.
I am the one always asking why.
I’ll show you a sea castle,
Bring you to the dungeon.
I am the one you all hassle.
I keep you from bludgeon.
So pick up and fly away with me.
We have a great big world to see.
© Copyright: Ann Rich 2006
Ashes
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…
How many times have we heard this?
on TV, in a play, in a movie…
Have you ever read it in the bible?
The very book of life!
He that made all things,
you, me and the trees,
is the true creator.
Sadly the high in chair,
stare into the dark willingly.
They are using You.
Those in the seat of power.
They speak Your precious word,
to bludgeon others into their own belief.
Not the truth at all,
But a miss-happen, miss-shapen, explosion,
of warped possibilities all gone wrong,
culminating in a virus that closed down,
the whole world!
Now we watch as our friends pass.
Now we take note,
if not too late;
that people are worth more than money,
that hurting others is a bad thing,
that killing unborn babies is a sin,
and murder is murder…
regardless of reason.
We need to bow are heads,
and know that our prayers…
are desperate.
This will pass, stay inside, God is real...