Best Chiselled Poems
Sun is held hostage by a blanket of clouds,
reflecting an agitated addict's ashtray.
Birds depart from soaked naked branches,
as eyes seek refuge from the ugliness of change.
I peer beneath this umbrage pitched upon the ground
anticipating a palette of summer to simper back
yet all I see are stick figure shadows frolicking
as this bitter autumn wind encircles me
Symphonies of the sky continuously weep.
I watch petals float in puddles of regret,
so I reflect back to a summer of mon amour,
where Michelangelo hands sculptured my garden.
Reflecting back, delicate strokes within velvety folds
as fingers trace the edges of my heart's blossom
crimson drops slip silently between my hands
for even the beauty of a rose holds autumn's thorns
Secure from rustic debris that blow against windows,
5pm twilight, means no rekindling with my cherished sun.
My shortened days lash back through glares of street lamps
with frosty glass etchings chiselled by night's harsh breath.
Collaboration with Sandra Adams
Silent One
20 October 2019
The wood was perfect.
Hammer in hand, he toiled.
Sweat trickled down his neck.
Her face was chiselled,
A perfect portrait:
The hawk-like nose,
The high cheekbones,
The wide brow.
But not her flaring eyes.
They defied him.
In exasperation, he threw the lamp,
His only source of light,
And watched the wood burn.
In the deserted cabin.
In a wooded glen forlorn,
When the fire subsided
They found his body
Long dead, carbonised and cold.
And a piece of chiselled wood
Charred and worthless.
originally written in 10/4/2016
Leave trails of light for me to follow
Through your dark, elusive game.
Let them flicker past the hollows
Like aurora's harmless flames.
Take advantage of my blindness,
Lead me to that empty room.
Don that mask of chiselled kindness,
Let the growing blaze consume
Every thought I've ever pondered,
Every hope I've entertained.
And don't you dare neglect to squander
Every virtue I've maintained.
Splash fragrant fuel against the walls,
Let it spill across the floor.
Light the match before it falls.
Don't forget to shut the door.
My father’s funeral, a sad occasion
but his cruel actions go beyond the grave
My sister had organised a display
A silver frame contained a picture of his smiling face
Many other smaller photographs were scattered on the table
One picture in particular caught my eye
I’d never seen this photograph before …
One stone of cold chiselled grey granite
Three generations of names embellished with gold letters
a permanent family memorial…
But MY name was missing
One of the mourners asked me why my name wasn’t there
It is a question I still don’t have an answer for
Two years have passed since he died …
I am still yet to grieve
(This has been a very cathartic poem to write. I have since discovered that in 2007 my father organised for his name, my mother’s name and my sister’s name to be added to the family grave in Lithuania. Just the dates of death are missing… along with my name)
Two word challenge contest
Sponsored by John Lawless
11-05-17
She loved him dearly; many times she bled
The thought of parting piercing like a dart
The lifeless body ’cross her lap now spread
His head she cradles with most tender care
With acquiescence she avoids despair
Although there’s sorrow chiselled in her heart
And frozen teardrops waiting to be shed.
-------------------------------------
Rhyming scheme: A-B-A-C-C-B-A
Contest: Rhyme Time 6
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Placed 1st
© 24th August 2018
The yellow neon sign casted a glow upon his chiselled cheekbones as the bustling sounds of a city that never slept droned on.
He carried his troubles with him, like a worn out cloak, weighing him down in his every step. His mind was entwined in a thorny thicket.
He has been haunted and bewildered since his introduction to her in a smoky speakeasy.
She was a siren shadow amongst strangers of the night, whispering his name in the breeze, intoxicating his psyche with a tempestuous flame.
She entangled him in a perilous dance, playing a game of chance.
Their encounters were like unbridled wildfires. She captivated him, consuming his soul with her potent allure. He felt engulfed, delicate as a feather in a storm, swept away by her force.
However he was a moth enticed by a relentless flame, she incinerated his dreams and made him feel hopeless. In the end, he succumbed to the hounds of disassociated reality.
His story concluded in tragedy, leaving his loved ones cries to echo through the empty streets of a heartless city.
Velcro ripped and soda fizz
Velvet crushed Moroccan night
Nocturnal buterflies those flickering fireflies
Our winking spies like circling satelites
Coming together , we fissures of light
Delicious refrain we split like pomegranite
Love spinning round the sun and the planets
Mortally chiselled on tombstone of granite
Hark ! Who goes there this Luciferous night
Its only I with my faltering lantern
Dragging behind attached little light
Fallen firefly - slow creeping glow worm
Mid air flight hangs the hateful things we said
Farewell this, heres lookin' at you kid
The endgame
And the cemetery was
nowhere to be found
yet was so present
in the shallow depth
the graveyard of the mind
No tombstone unturned
fragmented torn and twisted
sorrow flowing down
encrypted alleyways
and Thanatos’ call
Searching to imprint
coffin’s nails on seams
of muddy icy prison
hammered chiselled avenues
creeping through and in
Dead alive and collocated
hell firing place and time
scorching cementing
looming crossing overs
to where and when to how
No monument just
monumental nothing
void oppression
endless loop’s demise
thoughts emotions dragging
Torrential thunders
roping in electrocuted lightning
nooses from the tree of
living emptied darkness
flowing rapids standing still
The cemetery awaiting
ashes urns and vultures
presiding over Ganges Styx
Caron caring like a
lifeless Buddha saddened
Giving taking suffering
unthreading tapestry graffiti
splashing on the canvass
sombre art in progress
oscillating back and forth
The reaper harvests harshly
the mindless soul and body
crumbling bones infested
carbons desiccation apathy
hedonistic pleasures dull extinct
Gravitation nudges wild
and gently roaring
culling sculls foreclosing scooping
offerings burthens memories
premature un-furbished epitaphs
Silent roaring rampant syncopal
admonished synergetic resolution
teasing fool and morbid jester
luring loosening resolve
apprehending lithographic scribes
And the cemetery blinding
obvious and for the taking
present not yet for embrace
remains a silhouette on the horizon
and life for now is stronger
May 18th 2016
Contest entered:
And the cemetery was... Broken Wings
Just see
How fearlessly
Sunshine is seated
On the gravestone
And the caring breeze
Whispering to the loneliness
So absolute
Beneath the tombstone
A paleolithic stone
A meaningless silence
Guarding utterly alone
The desiccating non-existence
Here lies she
Neither sad nor happy
Decaying gingerly
Enriching the earth
Are all doors locked
The moment we breathe our last
Then why the philosophers and scientists say
Energy is neither created nor destroyed
Happy earth
Taking her in with mirth
Smilingly giving birth to
Green pink and yellow
Coz her face chiselled
Poetry in her dimples
Aggression in her pimples
She made the flowers bloom
Where there was just thorn
Dried hay on broken bricks
Rude words from unwashed mouth
All stared with amazement
Yes when she had her words and breath
Flow of life like a brook
Never dreamt of lying buried
Knew her life in wavelets only
In her looks
A cup of morning tea
A mug of evening coffee
Fountain pen and notebook
One who gave so much
To life and society
Will stop stay put and still
Useless skeletons?
In death too
To herself she is true
Providing nourishment to soil
Making room for red and violets
I look in wonder
You are still writing poetry
In these flowers of skeletons
Colours of desiccation
I am sure next spring
Here in this green cover
A Cypress will grow and spread
A recognition of yours rieker deeds
Now the afternoon is still here
Moments are tender and pale
Shadows are coming and going
Stillness of accumulated past
Intense is darkness
Beyond death of life
Like when a love
Suddenly ceased to exist
As I remember your face
I earn freedom from this cold ice
Your warm cheek and palm
Are still a vibrant support
In death you lie down here
Stay reassured
In life you are in our thoughts
Whenever a candle goes out
Whenever we run out of candles
We look for you at our centre
You never disappoint us
Ever lighting us a candle
This way death awakes in life
Cypress grows on lonely graveyard
This way shadows of deer and cheetahs
Rise in life to engage our eyes
_____________________________________
September 15 , 2017
Poems that paint a picture 2 Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
When I was laid in field of clay
No flowers above my head did lay
Nor marble headstone placed with care
With words of love chiselled there
No words of sorrow were spoken in pain
Tears of regret did not silken handkerchief stain
No volley of rifles to the sky
No last post lullaby
So when you ask
Were does he lay
This fallen soldier
Of yesterday
I tell you true
And
With pride
I lay with others
Side by side
In every corner
Of
A foreign land
You will find us there
Brother’s band
The girl I see in the mirror ...
has eyes the color of black ... and there is a pain
hard to look at for it will break your heart
and deep within dwells
a forever melancholy, grief and sadness fathomless
~ the corridors of her memory are ink like
her love is buried in the abyss
and each day she puts on a mask of cheerful ~
and in dreams she walks a starless night
seeking those memories beneath
immersed deep down in the pitch black of her mind
till she hears the song of a nightingale
calling her ...
~ and obscure images float from far beneath
cloudy and murky yet she reaches out
to hold them to her heart ~
oh, these are her loved ones gone from this realm
just names chiselled in slate
down a long gloomy winding road
a huge ebony raven is cawing an ugly sound
she is frightened and ... wants to fly away ...
into the ... 'black' yawning sky
~ she wakes in the shadowy dawn of a new day
knowing she will dream of deep darkness
each time she closes her eyes ... forevermore
... until she too is part of the abyss ~
___________________
August 24, 2021
Poetry/Free Verse/Black Abyss
Copyright Protected, ID 08-1384-111-24
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, The Color Black
sponsor, Chantelle Anne Cooke, Judged 08/29/2021
Third Place
The chiselled talons of soulless sane,
With crooked claw of judgement bane,
That in the glare of beaded tell,
Seizes the cries where innocents dwell.
Whose shadows are dust in plumage stained,
The ashes of merciless reign.
Where crowned in glory of thorned rose,
They’ll seat the throne of headless woes,
The guardians of the fallen ten,
The service of shadow less men.
Above: Wystan in fancy dress
as a beetle -1912
Photographs of Wystan
One of the world's
greatest poets
in a pose, similar
to an Anne Gedde's baby
Balancing beetle antennae
his head at an angle
a satin suit padded to
emulate the chest
of a beetle's,
Spare legs of black velvet
dangling while
he stands upright
feet together, his
expression, militant
Certain in this moment
of his current
resemblance to
a beetle
At five years old,
to think he held
potential for such poetry
A black and white photo,
frontspiece for "The Life of a Poet"
It appears to have been
snapped just before an
exhalation of his cigarrette.
At 65
his face is wrinkled
eye bags reminiscent of
a sharpei puppy
but it is the forehead
that so amazes
with grids as square as graphic paper
as if the poetry
had been mapped out
on his face
I've seen mud, cracking
like that, on a dried up river bed
His fingers are long, chiselled
and in relaxed contact
with that cigarette as
he holds back a chuckle
with the smoke
His air is of a casual formality- a waistcoat
teamed with with a plaid sports coat
In retrospect, here, he had
reached his full potential
I wonder if someone
uttered at his funeral
"Stop all the clocks."
At peace, of life bereft
in the last grave on the left
where wilting weed and musty bloom
cloud the legend on the tomb.
Words in chiselled grey
bear false witness every day;
acid rain a solemn screen
when every night was Halloween.
Thunderous drums roll near,
lightning jagged, forked and clear;
marching men and daily bread
echo sacrosanct and dead.
In plywood boxes my friends sleep
out of mind and buried deep;
pray for me throughout the fall,
the one who never sleeps at all…
"I heard an angel speak last night and he said "write"
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Did those lichen covered lips really smile?
Was it simply my imagination,
or were her eyes following me?
Her wingtips twitched slightly
and I knew it was true:
those stone ears could hear
every note of the birdsong
and her chiselled nostrils
smelt the roses I placed in the vase
at her marble feet.
Before I left, I thanked her for watching
over my son as he slept in peace.
Jack Horne
Written 15th June for Constance’s Angels in Cemeteries