Best Dictionaries Poems
She calls on me, intermittently
In fickle favor, in spotty dictionaries
My demure, distracted destiny
She is the unrequited lover, the absent mother
She is Santa, granting wishes
Upon orphan dinner dishes
Then, flitting through my mind's back door
Leaving me her messy, unfinished chores
She is sly mischief's mocking whim
She is moonlight's pull, waxing and dim
She arrives on trumpet's fanfare glory
To bestow in my beggar's palms, a story
I am too poor to pass her by
Too thirsty, her nectar to deny
I am the third string, the second select
Her stepchild of benign neglect
She is my bitter pleasure, my inconvenient pride
My every frustration, my only tribe
I am a poet on part time pay
As full time runs a five second delay.
6/28/19
Let me love you like a poet would do.
Let me bite on the lid of my pen, thinking of you.
Let me write you down on pieces of paper and scribble you
down on the back of notebooks.
Let me make sonnets to you and of you and fill your neck with haikus.
Let me translate you into polyglot texts and use dictionaries to decipher you.
Let me spill black coffee on my verses of you and delight
in every bittersweet thought of you.
Let me use metaphors to transform you
into a mockingbird or a blanket or a fresh morning dew.
Let me love you, so theatrically, so dramatically, let me
be the moron of all the oxymorons I use to describe you.
Let me engage in a long soliloquy trying to fathom you
and then weep helplessly, existentially like Hamlet would do.
Let me love you like a poet would do.
Let me love you with so much further ado.
Let me lose my senses and declaim my poetry to you,
and then lose myself in a jazz-like catharsis, singing to you.
Let me implode and explode into a million little words,
and a million little worlds loving you,
until I no longer am the poet.
You know me as a poet, and writer of poems sad,
I take poetic license, violating rules and conventions;
telling a story using figurative language, I share,
my life's journey and sorrows in beautiful words.
Few beyond this safe harbor have read my poetry,
I write with raw emotion and I lay my soul bare;
my poems are my treasures and I keep them hidden,
oh, fathomless is the pain.
My view on life is somewhat sadly fatalism,
my destiny foretold, it is already written;
there are many facets to me that I share with few,
oh, classical music moves me to write my poetry and words;
I love Chopin, poet of the piano, Mozart, oh that lyrical charmer.
And I am a lover of art, going to the art gallery weekly,
I love Van Gogh, Degas, Pissario, Bernini and Botticello;
Leonardo and of course, Michelangio, I could go on and on.
I am also fascinated in the architecture in my city.
Often, I just walk the streets looking for beauty,
admiring Gothic revival with its arches and vaults;
and I love the Victorian building where I reside,
with my cat.
I have a small garden, created with a love for nature,
a tribute to my mother's great fondness of flowers.
the things you may not imagine about me are many, for example
I adore vintage jewelry and clothes, and antique anything;
and I am a collector of books, reference, dictionaries, all in a clutter.
And one last thing that I find so very odd and strange,
is that although since childhood I have walked with death;
and death haunts me- I am quite happy, although quite internal,
and I do love and absolutely need my silence.
_________________________________
July 30, 2015
Poetry/Verse/All That I Am
Copyright Protected, ID 30-695-897-30
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Submitted to Standard Contest # 260,
sponsor, Brian Strand
Fifth Place
_____________________________
Submitted to Standard contest, 100 In A Row #1,
sponsor, Poet Destroyer
Fifth Place
_______________________________
Submitted Premier to the contest, All That I Am
sponsor, C. Puddifoot,
Seventh Place
Were I a restaurant proprietor
Al fresco and exclusively for poets
My menu would be cryptic metaphors
Original from memories echoic
Spring rhymes of happy times and brighter days
Fresh summer sonnets mostly bittersweet
Then autumn prose on multicolored trays
Some winter villanelle hor dourves for treats
And if you come your muse can eat for free
Imagination is a welcome guest
There is one rule, no dictionaries please
Yes, thinking caps are furnished on request
Come dine with me until you get your fill
The best part is you'll never get a bill
September 6 2016
You know me as a poet, and writer of poems sad,
I take poetic license, violating rules and conventions;
telling a story using figurative language, I share,
my life's journey and sorrows in beautiful words.
Few beyond this safe harbor have read my poetry,
I write with raw emotion and I lay my soul bare;
my poems are my treasures and I keep them hidden,
oh, fathomless is the pain.
My view on life is somewhat sad fatalism,
my destiny foretold, it is already written;
there are many facets to me that I share with few,
oh, classical music moves me to write my poetry and words;
I love Chopin, poet of the piano, Mozart, oh that lyrical charmer.
And I am a lover of art, going to the art gallery weekly,
I love Van Gogh, Degas, Pissario, Bernini and Botticello;
Leonardo and of course, Michelangio, I could go on and on.
I am also fascinated in the architecture in my city.
Often, I just walk the streets looking for beauty,
admiring Gothic revival with its arches and vaults;
and I love the Victorian building where I reside,
with my cat.
I have a small garden, created with a love for nature,
a tribute to my mother's great fondness of flowers.
the things you may not imagine about me are many, for example
I adore vintage jewelry and clothes, and antique anything;
and I am a collector of books, reference, dictionaries, all in a clutter.
And one last thing that I find so very odd and strange,
is that although since childhood I have walked with death;
and death haunts me- I am quite happy, although quite internal,
and I do love and absolutely need my silence.
_________________________________
July 30, 2015
Poetry/Free Verse/''All That I Am''
Copyright Protected, ID 07-1140-660-30
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Ideology is silent, victory is violent, we are corrupt, death is abrupt;
Perhaps if the world were still flat we wouldn't know what we know,
Stacks of black and white dictionaries defining the worst of what
tomorrow just might hold:
War, famine, poverty, disease – hatred, racism, phobia, and sleaze;
In a perfect world we would only know each other by name, blame,
never brought upon what we sought as we found peace and happiness
in all that we thought;
There would be no need for money, honey, emptied from jars, stars,
made of diamonds, would only shine bright in the sky, never in what's
ours;
Bullets would be relics from a past never known, killing fields empty,
the winds never blown, away, like innocent works of art, splattered
on the mud, covered in the blood, of children, at play, at war;
In a perfect world we would all matter in the ways that matter most,
mostly thoughts of love for those who we love to boast, about friends
and family, kind ways and sunny days, days on which our kids would
love to play;
The only weapon in our armory would be one of a chiseled harmony,
echoes soaring from the rafters above, doves flying, wings open, open
to our gentle hands, holding the sands of a desert spent searching for
wetlands, drenched in our smiles and our songs, throngs of us
preaching not our judgments, but rather reasons why we're strong,
willed to excellence by arias of immaculate acceptance, played by
symphonies of converted marauders who's only wish in this world is
for the wealth of healthy sons and daughters;
It's in those ways that make this place the best we have to offer, offering
ideas of humanity over vanity, kindness over blindness, and a general
sense of respect for whoever cares to share, life on this beautiful blue
sphere, where, in the end if we hope for our history books to look back
on this chapter with love, above all else, then maybe it's best we look
deeper inside, searching our own mirrors for the potential perfection
within the reflection that stands before us, human and still;
February 12, 2016
Another meeting of the bobble heads
Will hopefully soon adjourn
A motion has been passed
A blogosphere, concern
With their dictionaries in hand
They find some words to use
New business on the floor
To help them fight their blues
With the king up on his soap box
They all now raise their glass
He thinks his words bring wisdom
But they’re really lacking class
This meeting of the minds
Is really just a joke
It’s just another excuse
To stir the soup and poke
The depth of my intensity is unfathomed and unknown
I mutter a million tongues in a million different tones
Unleashing my mind, I spew prolific poetry
Draw a wedge in your subconscious, like I’m parting the Red Sea.
I can speak into your mirror and distort your reflection
Rebuff the remnants of denial and rejection
I use dictionaries as pillows to absorb the definition
The creations of my mind fluently brought into fruition
Regurgitating rhythmical rhetorical reasoning
Metrically mingled in metaphorical meaning
I launch lyrics like missile’s launch rockets
Targeting your soundness i devour your logic
my thoughts slash deeper than even the third eye can see
Double edged sword, assured to bring you to your knees
Shake your composure like the clashing of clouds
Words once whispered, are now boisterous and loud
Ink embedded with Solomon’s wisdom, David anointed my pen
Possessed with spirits of the most high, stirring within.
I resurrected my resilience and recaptured my breath
These rhymes will live a thousand lives but never die a single death
In my writing space
With pen and paper
Two dictionaries near
As well a thesaurus
All handy when needed
Now ready to create poems
Wondering what to write
Trying hard to ponder
My eyes heavy from
lack of sleep
Did not slumber well
Battle to stay awake
Wanting to write a poem
No luck tonight- I tried
Will give it up and turn
in
Then create my poetry
Tomorrow i will be alert
To begin to write again
In my writing space
(Written for Jim Eslinger )
DEVOTION POEM 5, “Unspoken” ***** (for Jim Eslinger)
Young and new to each other,
There was always too much to say.
Glancing around in restaurants, we’d notice
What so many friends remarked on when seeing
Those older couples staring at their water goblets
Or their fingers and never conversing —
What seemed
Not a breath spent one to the other...
Thus, we swore, we’d never ever be like that.
Until now, we are as the telepathy of time
Often does story — full with unspoken exchanges
And kindnesses, like when I want more coffee
And Jim has signaled a waiter before I signaled him,
Or there are things regarding our surroundings:
The commotion and din; or notes about raindrops;
And the phases of the moon; points of quality;
Jabs of conflict; moments of pain; and expressions
Of known love between us. Thus so,
Our lives joined
Evermore outside of dictionaries and essays,
Even overtopping poems...
We speak in being:
Together.
********. ********. ********
(c) sally Young eslinger 2020
Thanks be to God
People have learned it is okay to be themselves
They no longer have to follow their parents or any dogma
They can make up their own religion, and no one cares.
People watch television twenty-four hours a day now.
Children can be disrespectful to their parents,
And it is normal. No one says anything until they get
So out of hand they have to be jailed, usually about age eighteen
When their mamas cannot “save” them from their bad choices any more.
We have computers in our houses, and we have something called Internet
Which means dictionaries, Thesaurus and world books are out-of-date, not used.
No one knows what RSVP means any more. Teachers call in sick now on Mondays.
No one keeps a job for twenty-five years; twenty-five months is the norm.
We have been to the moon, and we have mooned each other at football games.
Women are tattooing their arms, legs, backs, and piercing their navels.
Lots of people can work out of their houses and never have to socialize with others.
Electronic devices keep us entertained, so we never have to speak to each other.
Most people do not cook anymore because we run out to a restaurant all the time.
Some families do not even keep food in cupboards; we could eliminate kitchens.
We fell into the Twilight Zone in 2020 with a virus called the Corona 19.
Schools, restaurants and bars were closed by Marshal law. More on that later.
Every day in every country,
Our language is distorted, mutated on planet Earth.
Good words like “drolic” die,
Whilst “wanna ‘ave a go” is given a birth.
In Australia it’s clearly a Mad World with
Slang words destroying our grammar.
“Yeah naah, naah yeah”
Smash literature, smash it with a hammer.
We always modify and contort our words,
“Too right, this arvo, I’m rooted, go crack a fat”.
Aussies go getting’ it written in permanent,
“Good onya” a fair dinkum tat.
When u were left alone, alone to fight,
Fight for survival, u gave it a crack.
But the society of dictionaries, they stood,
Stood up straight, and then they turned their back.
So, traditional writing is dying,
Stuttering, falling, the writing’s on the wall.
See ya later elocution,
Ya didn’t shorten, that’s been ya downfall.
But alas, don’t freak, ur family name is safe,
Since some old words evolve and new are created.
Shakespeare invented and killed off heaps himself,
Arch villain, rant, drugged and assassinated.
Lyric: Mad world
Cliche: The writing on the wall
Image: Crowd of people turn their backs on a fight
Entered into "Lyrics cliché image" contest 5/14/2016, ranked First place
SIXTY EIGHT
For years I’ve lived with being a soixante-huiter
Although my wardrobe’s more fastidious and neater
Those heady days are not beyond recall
The nights and days when we first did it all
But sober work and ethics have combined
To make a settled bed my truest mind
And catalogues and dictionaries my woe
To understand what happened long ago
Far flung days have their own allurement
But nothing beats the logic of procurement
And adventitious loves have gone the way
Of all youth, to say it’s had its day
I daren’t even call myself a woman sweeter -
Past perfect indiscretions tend to tweet her.
YOU'RE NEUROTIC AND SO AM I.
THE ONLY QUESTION IS THE QUESTION WHY.
THE DICTIONARIES MEANING SEEMED PRETTY WEAK.
I SURELY NEED MORE THAN A PEEK.
I RESEARCHED NEUROSIS ONLY TO FIND.
NEUROTIC STARTS INSIDE MIND.
CARL JUNG EXPLAINS IT WELL.
THERE IS A DIFFERENCE I CAN TELL.
JUNG SAW NEUROSIS IN POLITICS.
WHERE DECEIT, CORRUPTION AND LIES ARE THICK.
POLITICIANS CAN NOT ADAPT.
THEY CROSS THE LINE AND CAN'T COME BACK.
HORNEY'S THEORY IN HER FINAL BOOK.
GAVE A THOROUGH AND COMPREHENSIVE LOOK.
A DISTORTED WAY OF SEEING THE WORLD.
INSIDE THEIR HEAD EVERYTHING'S SWIRLED.
COMPULSIVE DISORDER AND VERY OBSESSIVE.
AS TIME GOES BY IT BECOMES PROGRESSIVE.
ANXIETY, HYSTERIA, CONTROL DISORDER.
LIKE JUNG SAID BEYOND THE BORDER.
IT'S ELECTION YEAR SO BE AWARE,
OF WHAT YOU SEE AND HEAR ON AIR.
DON'T FOLLOW THE HEARD THEY'LL LEAD YOU TO SLAUGHTER,
TELL YOU EVERY THINGS FINE AND PLEASE DRINK THE WATER.
11082016 A.K.A. TRUTH BE TOLD
In the sitting room by the wall stands
Great Grandfather's pride and joy
The glass fronted mahogany bookcase
Scratched and worn, but still majestic
Housing beautiful old books
The choices of generations past
A set of Shakespeare Plays, leather bound
'Great Short Stories of the World' and
'The Lost World of the Kalahari'
Books on Botany and even Hypnosis
With Classics to improve the mind
Much thumbed dictionaries and a big red Atlas
Pictures of exotic places
Preserved
Stale smell add to the magic
For the curious child.