Best Full(A) Poems
It was a lovely sight gazing at the curved moon
Spooning with the tumultuous waves of the sea
I was walking along the lonely beach when this
Moon spooning called me and arrested my look
The night rapt in painting illusion in its universe
Now the moon chuckling and cuddling the crest
Next minute the crest spooning with the moon
Impatient to grow in glee to its full a golden orb
A perfect solitariness except the surreal sounds
Of tide rising to pulverize the moon on the sand
I keep gazing at the moon’s pretty bright cheek
The two moon spoons like dimples with drops of
Turquoise sea from the finger like Greek creeks
As if Pablo Picasso is painting the lovely spoons
Of liquid light raising a beauty of hide-and-seek
The world nowadays is mostly a place of pain
The scene of delight therefore was enchanting
I enjoyed as long as I could wait and quench
Then I put it in the pulsating pink treasure box
As an aim to dwell on to keep boredom at bay
October 30, 2017
For the Contest: Moon Spoon
Sponsored by :Kai Michael Neumann
Where in the night sky would I seek
to find the daughter of love,
while Phobos rounds Mars close cheek
tho' Deimos breaches slower above.
Never wanted to be less than whole
lost in a soldier's conquered dreams,
like fine wine alas asked to taste all,
love's sweet draught in moonbeams.
Never harbor a jealous heart
only serves to fulfill it's own needs..
to poison love's lasting waters,
and steal away bright moonbeams.
Laugh at all life's fortunes won
those red rosey skies full a sun..
yet all evenings lost it seems..
in moonbeams,
bright moonbeams,
oh, those
moonbeams.
Cruising southwards to LA from Sac
a midnight filled with songs ‘n Luna,
light-etching hills in a black infernal…
It was a leviathan’s back on which I
felt the tires unrolling a chilled grief ~
Owlish-full, a hypnotic moon, ‘n Dido
reminiscing tunefully about surrender
negating white flags and loves forlorn...
Inside the eye, a wispy face smiled hi
and gently slid open a papery fusuma...
Dazed, I held her gaze, so undead
Round face framed in softest ether
exhaling cool peppermint to inhale ~
Amaranth rains of fleeting gardenia,
mildly-scented dawn's astral gloam ***
(11/2/2020)
OLD BOB
Tell ya bout old Bob
Long bout O-One he lost his job
Twernt much ova job I fear
Hadn’t been fer many a year
Standin out front a this here super store
Welcoming folk in kind of a real dang bore
Best thing though bout old smiling Bob
Didn’t mind goin ta work
Kinda liked his job
Standin out front through weather foul or fair
Helping even the infirm with lovin care
Ya might say that there super store was Bob’s true home
Cause after hours Bob sat and sat quite alone
Sat in this one-room pad above a whiskey dive
Listenin ta noise all night all kindsa rock and jive
And as nature will Bob got much older then ill
Standin in front a that there store weak-kneed full a
pain
One day old Bob collapsed couldn’t come back again
He lay on his back atop that whiskey dive
Nary a soul knew old Bob was alive
Ya’d think after years front a that super mart never glum
He’d a wandered round inside found him a chum
“If some help had come he’d have survived” Doc said
This a course too late when they found old Bob dead
Well these things happen in this runaway world
Everybody caught up in their own little whirl
Old Bob it seems uz jist one of the thousands come to a
sorry end
Done his best made mistakes society don’t bend
Old Bob died fer want of a friend
there is a painting at the art gallery,
I have a strong affection for;
it is a man that calls me from the past,
in the year 1670 lived this nobleman.
long dark hair falls to his shoulders,
a strong face with fathomless eyes;
eyes full a passion and desire,
he does not smile, yet I adore him.
I want to reach out to him,
he seems to see me, beckon to me;
come to me- he whispers,
aristocratic is his demeanor, dignified.
O, but could I step within the frame,
be in his world- in his time;
we would hold hands in silence,
for he would know without question . . .
my heart and soul are his forever.
__________________________
March 01, 2023 (Repost)
Poetry/Freed Verse/the painting
Copyright Protected, ID 03-1528-736-01
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, You Pick Again
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 03/02/2023
Third Place
I met my Aloneness. It found me.
It moved into me, and I embraced it in an empty room.
In that moment I became full, a clear glass of sparkling water.
The sun and the moon were in that water, and the light of the stars.
I knew then that I was beautiful,
for all the light that ever was or ever will be
knew that it was Alone; a complete comprehension
that we vessels were created
to be these containers for Aloneness.
Since then I have been Alone in a crowded room,
I am defeated by my own grandeur,
and there is no we.
The Banyan Tree
I the Atlas carry a home
My master strong for his
Children seven had built.
Shorts and skirts
Thunder up my shoulders,
All hell let lose,
With their galloping horse-hooves,
Ride up the stairs full a twenty.
Doomsday be here
While they make a merry!
Platoons of ghosts,
Burst through the door,
Somersaults quaking me, to and fro.
My arms aching in holding the floor,
Left and right till muscles do tear.
Roaring laughter through
Quaking windows four,
Trap door opens and shuts,
Opens and shuts.
Down they slide from
My shoulder to root,
Clinging and scraping
My shins a many.
One by one upto the stairs
And down to the root.
Witchcraft and magic
Can save me not
With wizards seven!
The lord I thank thee for the
Night so starry and breeze so cool!,
Nightly rest to heal my sores,
A generation over,
Another I do endure.
History changes not
With more furore!
Stout and and strong,
With roots many more,
I, the Banyan, will shade many more!
Balveen Cheema
September 9, 2015
Competition: Personification
There is a painting at the art gallery,
I have a strong affection for;
it is a man that calls me from the past,
in the year 1670 lived this nobleman.
Long dark hair falls to his shoulders,
a strong face with fathomless eyes;
eyes full a passion and desire,
he does not smile, yet I adore him.
I want to reach out to him,
he seems to see me, beckon to me;
come to me- he whispers,
aristocratic is his demeanor, dignified.
O, but could I step within the frame,
be in his world- in his time;
we would hold hands in silence,
for he would know without question . . .
my heart and soul are his forever.
___________________________
November 11, 2012
Poetry/Narrative/My Heart and Spirit
Copyright Protected, ID 11-435-073-11
All Rights Reserved, 2012, Constance La France
We did not expect Y our presence
Nor invited you t O come over
A peaceful and ca L m land
You stroke with full A ggression
Strong wi N ds initiating
To kill an D destroy
Please stop inv A ding, you're free to go away.
# Yolanda - is the local name for the super typhoon, "HAIYAN".
One of the most powerful storms ever recorded.
Joie de Vivre* (Shakespearean Sonnet)
We watched her birth in awe of God's sweet eye
as she burst forth through pain at time's behest.
The sun rose full, a rainbow traced the sky,
when God saw fit to grant our one request.
We checked for toes and fingers set aright,
no cry, a blink of wonder, scent of myrrh.
Her face revealed no hint of her true plight,
she closed her eyes and slept without a stir.
But peace was shattered and our sorrow grew
with fearful news, a harmful birth defect.
Black clouds obscured the rainbow's vivid hue.
Concealed cleft palate dimmed the sun's effect.
Three times she fell beneath the surgeon's knife
thereby to purchase right of joy for life.
*Joy for life
Across the green meadows over the deep blue sea,
I will wait for my bonnie lass to come back to me.
She promised me that she would return with the summer rain,
She's been gone for so long my life is not the same.
When the moon is full a lonely piper will play,
the sad music moves through the air until the break of day.
In my heart I know she will not come back to me,
because my bonnie lass was taken by the sea.
JSergi
The Camp Cooky’s singin again outa tune,
about turnin 60 today around noon
"What good is there in it?" I hear him say,
and it got me to thinkin . . . seein it was his birthday
It seems bein 60’s got two spins to that tale,
one frittered and wrinkled, the other covered in shale
The one who’s 60 if truth be told,
is still younger than all those 61—to real old
In the campfire’s crackle of light I can see,
how everyone younger, is likely dumber than me
So if my hands struggle with the knots and riggin fer sure,
the knowin and the tellin to those younger’s worth more
Havin outlived many a cow horse, while lovin them all,
the awnry and skitterish, the short and the tall
The summers ridin drag, and the worst winters mendin fence,
with a slicker full a holes, and that ol dog with no sense
And while the cuttin and the brandin seems boring to some,
it’s the importance of their nature and gettin things done
When the hats and the spurs and even the saddles are all gone,
and the sun sinks over that last mountain, like in Dusty’s ol song
I’ll remember the good times, lettin go of the bad,
and think back on the pards and the ladies I’ve had
Because just like for Cooky, it happened last year to me,
and turnin 60 seemed ranker than any bronc could ever be
But like that new Visalia saddle the boss man said was now mine,
I've found somethin that’s different, somethin gentler and kind
The speed and the strength ain’t been traded for free,
and somethin woke up that I guess was sleepin in me
And as I yell to the wrangler “Cut me one gentle and nice”
without loosin too much pride I ask, “Can you help Ol Jim
cinch his riggin real tight”
Then once more in the dark I ride off in search of the herd,
singin that one favorite cow song every real hand has heard
And as I inch up on the lead steer whisperin mellow and low,
“Yippee ki yay, Ol Fella; you ready to go”
For maybe one last time we push North thru the dark,
the sun still two hours off to the right of our mark
While in the distance a wolf howls, as that lead steer catches my eye,
and in that instant I know I’m still needed—a long ways from g’bye
(Dewey Montana: Circa 1990) Read In Elko Nevada, 1993
I can’t believe the words your written
What makes you think your smart
How dare you judge this life of mine
Was straight right from the start
I never was to meet you
What is it that you think
This is just my chat line
I’m not desperate as you think
If you think you’ve got me figured
I’ll tell you that your wrong
You need to walk a mile as me
Before you sing my song
Don’t tell me about the 90%
Don’t judge me by your rules
I will be me, and always me
Not someone else’s fool.
You think you know about me
I wish I knew the same
You’ve never even met me
You only know my name.
You’ve hurt me with your judgment
With your “think about it” tone
I thought I had a chat mate
But I’m wrong, I stand alone.
We flirted and we had some fun
And lots of time we passed
With jokes and stories
And things gone wrong
And travels in the past
But now I want to sit right back
And close those lines again
Those tentative lines that I let out
To reach the land of song
I just feel so let down again
By judgment from your kind
You seem to think my world is free
I tell you I need time
My being is a big dark place
Too sensitive I may be
I struggle with my very life
To feel my soul be free
I used to trust the whole wide world
All roses I did see
But I’ve learnt it’s full a big sharp thorns
That rip the flesh off me
I’m going now, for what its worth
I did enjoy our chats
Got things to do and places to go
And find out were I’m at.
BELFAST BAP
I once had full a Belfast bap
Then I had to go for a nap
It's a pretty big munch
If you have one for lunch
It certainly gives hunger a zap!
Drifting languid, light
upon the damp breeze,
the seeds of milk weed fairy fly
upon the aching air.
Snow white, weightless, dancers
skirts upturned before the coarser green
of velvet lawn they flee.
Backlit as virgin lovers
upon the meadow’s spawn.
The castle walls dare not belay
the upward loft with daunting gray
for on fragile wings in autumn damp
The world is full, a whorl in white.