Best Journal Entry Poems
Slowly drifting, drifting away, and it feel likes I’m drowning.
I'm drowning, my eyes are drowning every time they surf into the world of pleasure,
Seas and seas of bodies creating electricity yet God hasn’t struck me for such sin,
Come closer, Come closer, I freeze as I lose my soul to the enemy, the screen, the bodies I’ve never touched,
This encounter leaves me feeling so ashamed and afraid.
What if they know?
Would they think I’ve changed my nationality?
Would they now think I live in a country of red ,orange, yellow, green, blue, violet.
Heal me, but every time I receive the baptism, I progress into a another stage of sickness,
I envision myself, my body, that I see in such high regard, hanging highly from the ropes of betrayal,
They made me thought that it was okay
Is that you last words? God looked at me as he was ready to pass his judgement.
Yes father,
And my body transformed into the place I belong,
A sea of fire,
And this time I wasn’t sure how to swim, and as I take my last breath and reminisce, I realized I've been here all along, it didn’t burn this bad, maybe because the world leaves you to believe that you have a thick skin and no heart.
I was born sick, I don’t love it, command me to be well.
I have been doing a lot of thinking
'cause to the past I am clinging
and pondering who exactly I am
am I warrior or a lamb . . .
one thing quite positive is my inking
yet, I must get with the program
have a tranquility some do not get
but past sorrows hard to forget
I push sadness away to stay present
accepting that my soul is bent . . .
I believe that I can change my mindset
yes, will work to end the torment
___________________________
May 31, 2020
Poetry/Rhyme/journal entry - may 31
Copyright Protected, ID 20- 1257-150-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Submitted to Contest No 780
sponsor, Brian Strand
Honorable Mention
How the wind whispers to the weeping willows.
Nearby the lark sings her song of sweetness
And the walnuts and apricots drop onto
The leafy ground. The man sits with his muscles
Glistening in the sea’s mists. He stares upward
Toward where the emerald seas meet the blue skies.
Today I touched and tasted the bark
Of the cinnamon tree. The lioness reached out
To pat at me as I passed by, then rolled over
For a belly rub. I nearly stepped on
That little green snake curled up
Under the apple tree, the bounty
Of the mother earth. The man misses
So much. I think he needs his freedom.
I see it in his eyes. I like the sound
Of the word, full and round, freedom.
Silly little snake basking in the sun
Under that tree. Those bright red
Apples. Tonight with the cinnamon
I found, maybe I’ll make the man
An apple pie.....
I lacked a lot of sleep these past couple of months.
and abandoned the routine I’ve grown so comfortable with
in this time by myself.
I didn’t realize how much slack was in my learning curve lately,
and I was starting to forget how incredible it is to wake up by
hairs being plucked from my arms.
Miracle workers.
My mother is the only one who saw me lose patience.
2 am on the wood floor, sweating like I just got done fighting.
Spewing out questions to God as fast
one would spit out sour milk.
Ground stomper. Neighbor waker.
A lot of people didn’t really like me talking to them during this time,
just like I didn’t like anybody talking to me
when I’m too busy worrying.
I was a jerk.
My swings get triggered far less than ever before
now that I’m more squared up with stability.
I’ve come a long way from a short fuse.
I sure am glad my brother was there to cover for me
while my sanity took a break, and
in the moments I had to check out
because the tantrums in my own mind got too loud.
My own thoughts, or yours.
Together or separate. Relative or irrelevant.
It has been a roller coaster school year so far
for more reasons than are appropriate to detail herein.
Thank goodness for the true friends,
and the doors of her aunties house
and ice cream, and mindless television on soccer trips,
and family,
and people looking at me like a role model,
and the act of blowing on my little cousins belly,
and my skateboard, and Mother’s Day,
and having food, and graduations,
and getting lost sometimes,
and poetry slam night, and for Steven Brooks.
and for my elephant.
Really y’all, every last one.
L. Cohen said,
“And draw us near
and bind us tight
all your children here
in their rags of light
in our rags of light
all dressed to kill
and end this night
if it be your will.”
I went to the cemetery today to visit my beloved dead,
followed the tree lined road to the big grey rock;
and the weeping maple tree and turned on a small path,
that in time led me to my family grave site.
It dwells in the middle of the old cemetery in the shade,
of many trees and towering faded monuments;
I stood there looking at the names engraved in stone,
and my heart was heavy and I was soon weeping.
In order, is my sister Suzanne, who died in childhood,
I remember that day still like a well played movie;
like slow motion she slips under the wheels of a truck,
and my mother is screaming as she holds my hand.
Next, is my baby boy, born perfect but dead,
my heart was ripped out of my chest that day;
I thought, I would never, ever recover, but somehow I did,
still I never forget the day we buried him- I sang a lullaby.
My husband is not buried here, his family wanted him,
with them, I can understand that, but its a long journey.
next, my dad left me, quiet, I never had a chance to say bye,
and then mom, her years of pain over at last.
Not far, my grandparents are buried side by side,
and my favorite uncle who died way too young;
I know the sadness will stay with me for days and days,
I guess loving is also grieving, and so I do and do and do.
___________________
April 23, 2017
Verse/Journal Entry, April 23, 2017
Copyright Protected, ID 894906
Submitted to the contest, Poem Written in April
(Not For A Contest)
Sponsor, Laura Loo
First Place
Saturday April 13, 1877
Remove the dagger from my eye;
Apply a tourniquet to my wounds;
Surcease this oozing blood from the-
Depths of my soul;
Deliver me from this pain;
Allow me to live again;
No more motivation ~
Tick tock...tick tock...tick tock...
No more inspiration ~
No one to blame...
But me;
Shall I help dig the hole?
Will you hand over the shovel?
Deeper...deeper ~
No path out...
Tick tock...tick tock...tick tock...
No solution ~
It is now time for the conclusion;
The clock will surely strike-
The Hour soon;
Shall I call it a day?
Shall I leave work early?
Shall we salute with bread and wine?
Tick tock...tick tock...tick tock...
The apples are rotting ~
I will not eat a peach ~
No resolution to this-
Bleak life;
No room for interpretation;
The blueprint allows not-
For flexibility;
Tick tock...tick tock...tick tock...
The murky river runs too deep;
Wipe the sediment from my brow;
Everything so particular...
I drive through a blizzard-
Only to slide...pendulous...
On the threshold of a slope...
Trapped ~
I will never sleep...again.
Candle light flickers it’s
rhythmic dance
and strikes shadows across this
brittle parchment
The sea is rolling, chomping at the boards,
angered by our trespass
I try in vain to steady my hand,
to write with even flow
The winds have long since
given up its ghostly attack
on our tattered sails
and weathered faces
Yet lines of distress are deepened
within the folds of night
As I sit below deck,
cramped between pickled eggs
and rotting barrels of gun powder,
my mind transfers images of
fields filled with flowers
I can still see in my hand, malted ale,
the taste of which still lingers in my mouth
I would pay my weight in silver
to touch land with my bare toes
And forgive the madness that overtook me
in the search of money and power
Amongst the sea of raging greed
and soiled men, I shall try to rest
And pray my slumbering imaginings
shall restore my hope, my optimism
for the long day ahead,
for the long trip home
some men are born to be killed
some men life means nothing to
can old men hold their heads and cry
you can only dodge so many shots
before you eventually take a a few
then it's about surviving
some men have no nightmares
some men only dare to dream
history reflects repeated screams
women, colored men, stars of david
I wish i could let it go
i can not
I wish there were such palaces as heaven minus hell
i don't know what i believe in
some men believe there should be
a balance between good and evil
some men misunderstand the hurt
the hurt then becomes lethal
I don't know how i got here
or how much longer i will be here
but if i don't stand now
i will forever be falling down
i can only hope you understand
my sister says we didn't choose this life, she cries
I don't even know her
but i could feel the droplets from her eyes
some men are born into lies
others into contradictions
some men mean well
other live in a figment of fiction
"tiny thoughts of the black hitler"
April 25, 2018
Of time Past-
I cannot discard you (memory)
no matter how far I push you away
you come c r e e p i n g like a wild vine
deep in the corridors of my mind you grow . . .
I wish you would depart
but NO- I am viewing you in technicolor
like a movie well played . . .
It is the death of my mother-
her time has run out
"call your family" said the doctor
and I did- I called each one
one who did not come- my nephew
my sister said- "he is afraid of death"
(who isn't) . . .
he was a grown man not a child
mother died -
a sweet beloved bird f l u t t e r e d away
quietly- just as she had lived her short life
(I have held my thoughts to me . . .)
When he was a small baby
my mother purchased for HIM
all his diapers, formula, food, toys and clothes
she paid for the rent of an apartment
she was the prime babysitter for years and years
but HE could not come on the day of her D E A T H
a grown man could not pay his respect
I have never forgotten- never forgiven
(maybe I should . . . )
and I can only talk about it in my journal
n e v e r to my family-
so I keep it inside of me to come creeping
to make me angry again and again and again
Outside birds are chirping and a gentle breeze blows
perhaps a walk will make this memory
depart or at least f a d e - (why am I weeping ?)
__________________________
April 25, 2018
Poetry/Free Verse/Journal Entry, April 25, 2018
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1016-823-01
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Entered in the contest Best Free Verse in April 2018
(not for a contest) sponsor, Laura Loo
Second Place
I realized how delusional I was when I was still telling people to have a nice day. But that was only the beginning… The news only got worse.
My pen bone dry. For weeks I had nothing to write. Refusing to address the corona virus aka covid-19. Not wanting to agitate inner feelings and fears. Not allowing the ugly truth to sink in. Quite content to be the ostrich my head in the sand.
Time elapsed tenacious yet painfully slow. The peril instead of dissipating~ multiplying exponentially. Turning a blind eye no longer an option with death at our doorstep.
They call it the new normal as if there’s anything normal about it. People locked in their houses in fear of contact. Alone and isolated. Filled with anguish. Clueless as to what the future holds.
Doing what we can and hoping it’s enough to get by. Hoping for the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~COVID 2020~ 2020
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on March 31, 2020 for contest QUARANTINE POEMS sponsored by JULIE LEIGH RODEHEAVER - RANKED 1ST
On the gilded edge of evening, birds sing a song nearly long forgotten, and I am brought back to the very There and Then that only I have intimately known.
There where my heart is happiest, is at home. Then when yester-me watched sunsets and sunrises dazzle glitterly over the town, and believed I owned it all. There where I can be the most me. Then when I was endearingly naive.
I can still feel the sun streaming through those pines, still smell the jasmines and honeysuckles under those oaks, still see the town sprawling at my feet from when I stood atop the reservoir to take it all in.
And I absorbed every last drop of it, became my own memoir reservoir, loving and living a yesterday that etched and penned and painted and poemed the person I am today.
April 11, 2023
*written at the age of 42
Dawn comes again with sunny smile,
Seek cheery strains where music styles.
A gift of time to take a trip,
Work beat and rhyme as passion grips.
Bright moments here speak sublime truth,
Intent streams cheer in wonder's proof.
Words that I cite spur fond refrain,
Seize then fine writes to anchor plain.
The gist of thoughts move feeling bright,
See simple plots that sculpts fine sights.
Feel the normal ebb and flow here,
Heed the aural sounds that come near.
Montage sparks clear the happy moods,
Purge then the fear and live fond good.
Leon Enriquez
02 May 2016
Singapore
As the last sweeping rays of sunlight stream in through the shadowing pines, the sparkles of golden gravel path make the great sky highway up to the wild blue yonder.
On through soaring clouds, above the shimmering stars, taken on by rainbow hopes, carried witherly by stardust dreams, setting forth on moonbeams, welcomed by the sunset shades, passing through the pearly gates.
Beyond our dreams, beyond our hopes and tomorrow’s plans, on to our destined future. On and on, past the dawn, and into the golden sunset. Taken through imagination is the road that leads to Somewhere. Wherever it be, all our dreams will soar free, anonymous forever.
April 11, 1993
*written when I was 12 years old
Fireball rise red lazer ray has spear horizontal
Sending a shedding of angel wing span blessing
Busied birds converse beneath apricot mottle
From dawn huddle, welcome warmth suggesting
Splendour awaiting, drive Wednesday to Pacific
Three beach night stays after so long, a year's wait
Travel to shore infinite, lapped sand map terrific
Coinciding coastal followed day, I'll turn thirty eight
Egg fried ocean, toastily popped tomorrow's coast
Simmering indigo pot turns turquoise shimmer
Crash marvel intensified if today I'm able to boast
Comp entered in June has judged mine a winner
Whilst very unlikely my little poem will number
Against names recognised, English professors
Threw my lines in the mix so regret slid asunder
In the year of realising poetry's divine pleasures
22nd September
Satirical Journal Entry #1
Attempting Suicide:
Just The Beginning!
If I killed myself today would anyone notice? Would anyone be at my
funeral?
If so, would they come just ot give themselves peace(piece) of mind over
all the things they took from me?
I guess better late than never!
Hmmm..........
A corpse could always use a loan or a shoulder to cry on.
I wonder how I would be dressed?
Ah....... maybe somehow right before I die I could mangle my face so my casket would stay closed.
-Less opportunity for more disappointment that way.
If I killed myself today all chaos in my mind would end.
I would be in hell for sure
but I know that all this torture on earth would be forgotten.
Yet one question still remains.
Is it worth the damnation?
Yes! I am a selfish !