Best Lapsed Poems
What kind of foolish heart would let you slip from grasp?
In a land of ten-thousand fools, I would be the king of them
I will now forever walk a lonely path that I have laid myself;
sorrow, torment, regret will be my ever-present burden.
In a land of ten-thousand fools, I would be the king of them
I strayed, lapsed, and failed to stay my earthy urges.
Sorrow, torment, regret will be my ever-present burden.
If it were possible to turn back the clock, I would in instant.
I strayed, lapsed, and failed to stay my earthy urges
Senseless self-gratification, a massaged ego, failure.
If it were possible to turn back the clock, I would in instant.
Could I sing "Non, je ne regrette rien." No, it would be a lie.
Senseless self-gratification, a massaged ego, failure.
Empty glasses in empty bars, this empty foolish heart
Could I sing "Non, je ne regrette rien." No, it would be a lie.
I said my sorries, yet you knew weakness would lead me to repeat.
I saw you gliding by across a busy street today and realized
I will now forever walk a lonely path that I have laid myself
Your beauty, within you and without, what have I done?
What kind of foolish heart would let you slip from grasp?
MY FOOLISH HEART Cash Prize Poetry Contest; placed 5th
Sponsored by: L MILTON HANKINS
Date wrote: 3rd April 2022
Lost in a labyrinth of
Glistening sights
Infinitely out of reach,
Trembling amidst sweeping mistrals,
Fabricating a life of nostalgic allusions,
Caught in lapsed reveries, of
Restless arias and faint rustlings
Sequestering my rampant aura,
Bleeding in russet naivety,
Evaporating in silent elegies.
Springtime, camped between the mountain valleys.
Air filled with tickled laughter ventured through
canopy of leaves bathed a golden hue;
labyrinth fields sun's freedom to rally.
An owl rides the air stream, into darkness
against the fading moonlight to confront
joy of flying in silence of the hunt,
while crickets sing loudly in the stillness.
Rumbling sounds reach deep sleep from twice its breadth,
barely glean the worth turning into dreams
grasping the state of mind lapsed into deep,
a twilight world that knows not its own depth.
Waking up in the light of morning beams,
cooing sounds of mourning doves in nature's keep.
3/22/2018
Italian/Petrarchan Sonnet first 8 lines) abba abba (next 6 lines) cdecde
There was a barn once painted red
that stood on grandpa's old homestead.
T'was built so very long ago -
a sorry sight. I told him so.
I often, as a boy, had wondered
why it hadn't ever timbered.
I knew the sagging rafters creaked
and roof, with missing shingles, leaked.
I stepped inside, the barn doors gone
and found it home for sparrows' song.
Circled they, around freely,
over floors in man's debris.
No matter which way I would glance,
dust in the sunlight rays would dance.
The warning cobwebs seemed to sketch.
Between the timbers, they would stretch.
Foundation laid in cobblestone
but its sure footing wasn't known.
Between the stones were gaping cracks
that could not hide the basic facts.
Now every post in building leaned,
and wall to wall had needed cleaned.
The winter winds would whistle through.
That big ol' barn had lost, I knew.
The weather's sin had taken toll
and wind and sleet had found its soul.
Its only purpose, couldn't render -
so it offered full surrender.
Now that ol' barn is much like us
and in our wants, we make a fuss.
Our sagging souls are so uncouth
that we no longer seek the truth.
Deceit flies in our open door
'til we care little anymore.
We’d rather compromise instead
as cobwebs fill our empty head.
Our minds are filled in sins' debris
with anyone whom we'd agree.
The love is lost between our bones.
It leaves us cold with loosened stones.
Will our beliefs stand firm, upright -
or will we yield to windy blight?
Are we responsible instead, or
is our character really dead?
Down through the years, the time has lapsed
and long ago that barn collapsed.
As I look now at its demise
I listen to the worlds last cries....
©2008 louis gander / ganderpoems.org
Your love song lapsed into ancient French that April day.
I only understood the words of spring and heartsore
lapsed. Only love and heartsore, I understood your ancient
words of the spring-day song into that French April.
You fabricate my pauses into repetition, silence speaks
of ages strung to rhyme in love’s difficult service
you strung into pauses in service to ages. Fabricate of
love’s repetition, rhyme speaks my difficult silence.
We practice tedium of vows till language breaks apart.
As if art should aim at science, rigorous, quantitative,
rigorous language breaks tedium. Science vows a part of
quantitative practice till we should aim “as if” at art.
Till we lapsed into language. As your ancient ages only
fabricate quantitative French strung to that difficult
practice, science speaks of tedium and understood rhyme.
The spring in service of love’s rigorous vows. April
pauses, heartsore. You and I, apart. If love should aim
my words at day, repetition breaks into silence of song.
^she_
^she_ had a love/hate relationship with food
she only fed with her eyes,
i was a sparkless firecracker
and spoke English like i hated it.
not the least bit compatible
in any department
at any hour on any menu
she wouldn't even drink the water.
I would slip through the cracks
should she stop staring at me
up and down her beautiful 'it is'
she lit an incense and i was ignited.
i offered up an apple
a yellow delicious manifested
i peeled it for her
but she wouldn't taste it.
i laid eyes on her lips
kissed with dark secrets
an awakening of insects
with equal day and night.
She ate me with her eyes
clear, bright, ripe
it rained on the fruit
and i took a bite.
I spoke to the grain in her ear
i had so much to say
succulent was my speech
She took it all in.
potash, stolen, honey and rye
sup the festal dish don't cry
she had parted the thin line
between a want and it's fill.
I lapsed into that petri-dish
pierced by her green staring
Her warm glassy ogling
all up and down my countenance.
Nourished of palate perception
She relished on her diet.
I indulged as her entrée
feasting her with my gaze.
It would take a while
like a gala supper without wine.
^she_ would have no seconds
no weakness for flavor of the same.
well fed and fed up
she checked me out
her unusual hunger
gave me best regards
No repeats nor duplicates since
such foodstuff is most uncommon
Her daily bread was nurtured
with the edibles of my mind.
The End.
food, god, and the universe as you
You are the universe (I insist and will prove it)
So say grace before you eat ...
You agree we are stardust, the stuff of the Universe
So say grace before you eat, but think productively ...
If stars & humans are stardust, why not the food we eat?
So say grace before you eat ... and respect the food you become
Like the sun, we turn a piece of bread into bigger humans
So say grace before you eat ... know why Jesus did so
We have been recycled here, not dumped from another "place"
So say grace before you eat ... we are in this together
Listen: like water is not created, only recycled, so are we!
Say grace before you eat ... or drink!
We are eating the sun daily, in terms of food pyramids, the food chain
Say grace before you eat, drink, or go fishing ...
We are recycled energy from sun, recycled water, modified fish, meat, fruit
Say grace before you eat fruit, fish, fowl, or larger mammals or snails
And do not let THEM tell you where you stop connecting with YOUR universe
Say grace before you eat, and during cooking, by thanking life in the pot
Jesus made much of the communion; you let RELIGION stick you a ritual:
Lapsed Episcopal Minister, Alan Watts, said: "Cooking is a process of loving"
Say grace before ... during ... after consuming the Universe
Because you are consuming YOURSELF: You The Universe Disguised!
Searching, but never found
Chained and bound
Held back
looking for what life lacks
At my fingertips grasp
But alas my life has lapsed
9-15-23
Friday morning
I hopped out of the shower,
popped over to the lavatory counter,
flopped my most profound sexual characteristic
down and onto a misplaced curling iron,
burning the tender center of my-very-being.
Thankfully
Ms. Careless had left a glass of iced coke,
by her torturing implement.
I quickly and fully submerged my pain,
into the cooled, amber liquid.
Friday evening
I attended my first and last meeting
of the Brazoria County Poetry league.
I arrived at the BCPL president’s home
by invitation, to hear their guest speaker,
a young, professor of literature,
from Rice University.
He spoke at great length about metaphors.
What a metaphor was.
How poets used metaphors
to improve imagery in poetry.
He gave examples of metaphors,
and more examples,
explaining each one in detail.
It was raining damn metaphors.
I would have lapsed into a metaphoric coma,
if I had not discovered my bourbon glass
to be much too small, requiring me to rise,
and refill it several times.
When Dr. Metaphor finely finished I
strolled over to where he was smiling,
and announced that he was
full of rhetorical trope,
and didn’t know anything about real poetry,
and he had stepped on a metonymy
and it stank the room up.
And we poets from the sticks
didn’t need a hot-shot from Houston
telling us how to write poetry.
and the president of the BCPL
grabbed my arm,
and snatched my glass from my hand,
and it still had boozes in it.
And he promenaded me to the door,
and assured me that I was talent-less,
and that drinking myself to death
would be my one and only contribution to poetry.
He pushed me out of his home,
onto his front steps,
slammed the door in my face,
after suggesting
I never attend another meeting of the BCPL.
For a moment, I was stunned,
then bowing to his authority
I hurled on his “Welcome” mat.
And Friday morning
as I stood in the bathroom
cradling my tormented body element
with both hands,
the Queen of the Bastille entered,
demanded to know -What my problem was?
I informed her I had no problem,
and suggested she drink her damn coke…
before the ice melted.
Hmm...What Discursive Poetic Theme Shall I Write About...
Today (a rather brisk, chilly,
and otherwise sat
tiss factory twirly delightful
December 18th, 2018) matte
her of fact quite
refreshing noontime, while this fat
tend plot of Earthen surveyed terrain
situated over scat
herd modest suburban tract,
(actually yours truly some watt
urbanely sprawled out) at
Latitude: 40.2538 Longitude: 75.4590,
where I sit pat
and think to write
about some reading material flat
touring my "FAKE" status
as king of agitprop for chat
hurrying class gussied up with
artistically crafted rat
tilly done up snazzy razz mutt tazz
(approved by Willard), this expat
lapsed Peterson harried tailored script,
asper previous peculiar
swiftly styled idée fixe
literary unnecessary, rat
tickly tawdry superfluity)
interspersed with dollops of splat
hard logophile, nonetheless gentle
on the eyes, yet feeling totally flat
and devoid of meaning, and quite
convincingly desperate idea this pratt
tilling far amore in the dell doth
expatiate, expound expressively, gnat
cheerily witty, (i.e. hint- please
pretend these humph fat
tickle lee meandering, rambling,
and warbling words) taxing
on mental faculty as bat
tan gruelling death march
physically, when circa
April 1942 Japanese forced
76,000 captured Filipinos,
and Americans Allied
soldiers to march about 80 miles across
Bataan Peninsula (province
in Philippines), where they died
enroute to...during World War II
on island of Luzon, espied
as a spiritual sanctuary hosted
by a knowledgeable tour guide
named Matthew Scott hood dons
genuine (musty smelling)
Tory wig to hide
as an alien alias (from the outer limits
of the twilight zone) incognito
even to himself, and especially the bride
of Frankenstein, who evinces a strong crush
toward said nondescript gentrified
vested gentry groundless thinker with pride
though, dirt poor (at least on the surface),
but deep down rich with
Schwenksville well watered
history harkening back to 1684,
when hoodwinked, jilted and lied
Lenni-Lenape Indians got fleeced
then taken for a ride
this land ceded to (stolen from) William Penn
nestled along the Perkiomen Creek.
We'd made a dawn start that day, following in his footsteps, as
apparently Jesus used to get up early.
Our group had gathered for a reading, and to pray, along with
fruit and cereals our first staples of the day.
The good Lord had gifted us a painted morning of Coeruleum blue,
and a warm spiced breeze flossed my smile.
I turned and watched the city for a while.
Amidst the pink and beige jigsaw of the old city, the Dome of the rock
had caught the morning rays and was now bragging about it,
shamelessly blinging,
competing with the shouts of Minarets
and Church bells ringing.
Few things can compete with an Israel morning, but you did.
Perched like an Owl on a low wall, cross-legged, your head moved
from side to side, scanning the mount, sharing our glass,
drinking the moment.
You wore white cotton, an arm hung with beads, an evil eye bracelet
and what looked like a Kara, glistening.
Styled by the Gods, with three quarters of a straw hat
wedged in the bricks.
And then I found myself before you,
Lord knows how, and I was trying to remember how my mouth worked.
Your head cocked to one side you watched me for a while
then nodded me a soft hello, and finished with a smile.
Ice broken, we gathered intelligence- you, a 'gap year Guerilla'
on a global reconnaissance , armed with just a shoulder bag and a credit card.
Me, a lapsed Catholic with an empty soul, seeking a childhood faith long discarded.
A shout from the tour guide burst our intimate bubble and I retreated,
backwards, gesturing, as if in the presence of a Shah.
She waved back, almost lost her balance, and a gust of wind would
have placed her gently among the sleeping of the Kidron
if she hadn't grabbed her hat.
And that was that.
I went back to the wall that evening, and the following morning,
I don't know why- she'd be bathed in the rose of Petra by then.
For a short time I was bereft, and stood, fittingly, before the
Basilica of the Agony, and then sat on our wall,
to watch the chosen wake up.
I think my soul woke a little, just then.
For God had left me with a little bit of love.
Unrequited, but worth hanging on to ,
worth building on.
It's been thirty five years, and in those occasional quiet places
I still think of you
For contest 'Love in a far off place', sponsored by Frank Herrera
22nd July 2015
Glasses of different shapes
Showing out various shapes
Glasses of distinct hues
Blowing out vague and clear-cut views
Mirrors of you in glasses
Like crystals molded in mashes
Furor, dolors, splendor in glasses
Like petals defoliating in sashes
Mirrors of you on hand
Reflections of you unveiled
With all mirrors of the world at hand
Imperfections of you unsealed
Tales of the pasts, stories unmasked
Events of time lapsed, memories basked
Mirrors of you from the past
Blowin' winds in cast
Mirrors of you everlasting
Tokens of you not flabbergasting
Mirrors of you on the rocks
Dusts of you sprinkled in blocks
You are what you are in mirrors
Fictional or not in errors
Mirrors of life are in you
Mirrors of you are all but one in you
Barcelona looked like a church
as I walked down La Rambla
in search of a vacant room
on that warm morning.
The balconies of the flanking
high-rise apartments were pews
festooned with holy day
football flags and bedsheets.
The white haired flower seller
sat silently with his serrated scissors
and buckets of sugar water
as if listening to a confession.
People who passed me
on that righteous path
became parishioners
with detailed back stories.
The mustachioed man walking
his dog near the grass
was a lapsed Catholic
and Spanish novelist
taking a break from
the tapping of the typewriter.
The chubby middle-aged lady
in high heels and a skirt,
who carried folders and puffed
on a quick thin cigarette,
was a museum secretary
with the curator's copies
and a mother who cooked up
fish and paella for her children
every Friday during Lent.
The invisible clouds that
wafted from the restaurants
smelling of grilled seafood
and lemons and garlic
were like the prayers that a
priest's incense personified.
I later spent a humble evening
in a small rented room
washing my socks and
shorts in the white sink
and reading the boxscores
and baseball epistles
from a day old New York Times.
I studied batting averages
as my underclothes slowly dried
on the back of a wooden chair
with the help of an electric fan.
An art student, she was a mysterious brunette,
whose most stunning feature were eyes of piercing
tanzanite; silent and deep as a fathomless ocean.
Even the most skillful sailor, caught in those whirlpools
of blue light, which knew no depth, plunged into the
waters to drown.
He was a conservatory trained tenor with features
as striking and hard edged as sharp granite massifs
standing against the sun. Coeds swooned, especially
when they heard him sing. His voice was as sweet
and thick as fresh cream before becoming sweeter
butter. If he sang four measures of "Maria," from
West Side Story, coeds would mentally disrobe him
and dream of languishing in his arms, as if struck
by mystical lightning.
The eyes met the voice on the
campus green on fine spring day during
"Art at the Student Union." She was displaying
2 water colors and an acrylic. Fittingly, he was
singing "This Nearly Was Mine," from South Pacific.
The eyes heard the voice crooning atop a temporary
stage near the Union. She waded through the crowd
to hear. When close enough to the stage to trade
glances the eyes lapsed into fantasy so quickly
her knees quaked. The voice never wavered after
making contact with the tidal pool that were
her eyes. Still safe atop the stage he mentally
rejected a life jacket and dove full bore into
her swirling blue waters. She drew the voice into
the depths of her tanzanite sea, enfolding him.
His voice threw off sparks that would make
Van De Graff pale, electric portraits in sound.
She now paints arias on canvas of his granite features.
His voice flares blue sparks. Lighting the air with sound.
All this from a mutual glance on the campus green!
The Golden Shoe
It derailed me on arrival, there was the golden shoe
A warrior who lapsed a portal, the prophecy was true
His name began to roar, who ran of rapid speed
And from another world, its told that he would free
He rushed inside my heart, he told me we were lovers
He’s to save me from the king, the prophet of thy runner
He’s lost his mother in the one, and found her in thee other
The Golden Shoe has come, they’re yelling in the gutters
A man who has no fear, if scriptures tell it right
Thy man who wears thy shoe, will strike its golden light