Best Newmann Poems
It occurred to me
I think more and more like a poet
Thoughts jumbled with imagery
Off in my own colourful world
Small wonder there’s a disconnect
With dusty musty pencil pushers
People whose minds have shrivelled up
Have trouble seeing art and beauty for what they are
Gifts from above
I can’t relate to people
Bent on upward and forward
People with hardened hearts
Their erected walls with tiny doors
Tightly locked with guarded keys
They look down from lofty towers
Baffled and indignant
At meaningless people like you and me
To them we’re satisfied with so very little
We look at the world
Through poet lenses
Yes we appreciate that subtle dimension
That’s invisible to most
Keeping the pathway to the heart open
The channel clear
Seeing that life’s real treasures
Are being offered only
To the receptive soul
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on February 9, 2018 for contest LOSS OF AN INNOCENT MIND sponsored by KAI MICHAEL NEWMANN
Categories:
newmann, conflict, discrimination, imagination, innocence,
Form:
Free verse
Here they are before me,
surreal in the dazzling morning sun.
Against clear skies of blue, and
peaked snow-capped mountains-
these tall glaciers of Alaskan ice,
stand heavenly before my eyes.
Their marbled, glistening whites,
with multi shades of blue,
arcane crevices and jagged peaks-
stir visions of cold, ghost-like forms
that glare at me in this mysterious Bay
of murmurous creaks and moans.
More than the eye can see,
these lustrous glaciers speak,
like eerie, moving forms,
in corridors that shift and moan-
and with their loud sonorous wails,
give birth- calving chunks that fall.
With an abrupt, roaring explosion,
all at once, it starts- the large,
calved segment plummets to the sea.
Waves and splashes follow every birth.
These exotic glaciers live and speak-
more than the eye can see.
April 25, 2016
~2nd Place!
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 3
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Judged: 06/20/2022
~5th Place~
Premiere Contest: Splash
Sponsor: Kai Michael Newmann
Judged: 06/07/2020
Categories:
newmann, beautiful, nature, sea,
Form:
Imagism
Cold the winter night as snow fell,
it drifted- collected on streets;
where a meandering lost girl struggled to walk,
weary and tired;
she ran away when it was warm,
when she had some money.
Now- had no shelter or money,
the wild frigid wind blew and blew;
when she could no longer walk she lay down in snow,
weary and tired;
down she sank into the soft snow,
a man knelt beside her.
He picked her up in his strong arms,
she woke up with a warm blanket;
he gave her food, a bath and nice clothes to put on,
weary and tired;
she just followed his instructions,
how to give a massage.
The massage parlor was a front,
it was really a bawdy house;
a brothel- she felt tarnished and stained forever,
weary and tired;
the things she did were disgusting,
often had a black eye.
He gave her some drugs by needle,
so she would be like a zombie;
she lay down on the dirty floor and closed her eyes,
weary and tired;
the police raided in a sweep,
found her dead on the floor.
They closed the place down, busted all,
the doors were padlocked- was shutdown;
the police never identified the dead girl,
weary and tired;
was buried in an unmarked grave,
just another lost girl.
_______________________
February 12, 2021
Poetry/Verse/Weary and Tired
Copyright Protected, ID 02-1328-100-12
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, They Closed The Brothel
sponsor, Kai Michael Newmann, Judged 03/05/2021
First Place
Categories:
newmann, life,
Form:
Verse
in my life-
some have tried to murder my spirit-
to assassinate my soul
with their single-mindfulness
nincompoops mean and nasty
torture brutal massacres relentless
running home for love
mothers arms
and kisses
from childhood to a young woman
I have found my ink
and I send poems wide and far
my soul bleeding
my crime for those with tunnel vision
I am part Ojibway-
in a world ruled by white
always different but not in poetry
except for some-
who come to kill my words
slaughter my poetic soul
murder what I love
nincompoops mean and nasty
sometimes I am befuddled
I stumble
crumble
crumple
puzzle
words are weapons
leaving forever deep scars
my house may be weather-stained
my garden ravaged
but the wheels of time have rolled
now, I have a strength unfathomable
a pride no one can kill
or slaughter
those who have words of misery
stay in your tunnels of hate
with your tunnel-vision
for I am an Ojibway girl proud
with flowing hair like a streaming river
and poetic spiritual soul
and the grandfather spirits in the sky
will ever and forever be my protectors
and I fly with eagles . . .
_______________________
January 28, 2021
Poetry/Free Verse/words are weapons
Copyright Protected, ID 01-1324-456-28
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, Murder in the Tunnel
sponsor, Kai Michael Newmann, Judged 02/12/2021
Fourth Place
Categories:
newmann, murder,
Form:
Free verse
Corrupt words shake the ocean of my sleep-
Since childhood words have infected my mind,
and the endless winds of time roll and creep;
I carry scars- my spirit and soul twined,
my mind a ravaged garden deep.
And in my decay I weep;
will peace, I find?
Those unkind words are chains of heavy lead-
A mind ruined is like a church defiled,
oh, the tarnished shadows of time I dread;
I will not sail across the sky exiled,
I will find a new path to tread.
Destroying poison said;
my thinking wild!
And I will bloom a beautiful flower-
I swear, never will this girl's heart be cold,
my wounds will bring me strength and power;
I will leave those bloody stains of old,
and pure- I will stand a tower.
Oh peace will flow each hour;
leaving words told . . . .
_________________________
April 4, 2018
Poetry/Rhyme/Contamination: Of My Mind
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1010-114-01
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym,
Written for the contest, Contamination
sponsor, Kai Michael Newmann
Ninth Place
Categories:
newmann, corruption,
Form:
Rhyme
Rubiks Cube, a 3D puzzle, a toy, invented in 1974
became a worldwide craze
called by many names over time
Magic Cube
Speed Cube
Puzzle Cube
Sliding Cube
those six sided faces of colored plastic
made for frustration . . . .
oh, I was lost in a maze of colors
often hope shone like a pebble in the gloom
it inspired tournaments
and beside Speed Tournaments, many other
one handed, feet solving, blind-folded, fewer moves
anyways, not sure about you . . . .
but I usually gave up
the cube shook the ocean of my sleep often
only the dedicated remained to solve the cube
but imagine . . .
a round, sphere puzzle like Rubik
and the drums of time rolled and ceased
and somebody did . . .
oh, clouds of joy sailed cross the sky
for the Impossiball, is a round sphere
that is scrambled . . . to be re-assembled
same concept
same frustration
and from its blue vase, the rose of day drops
for I still hold, that round sphere
that fits quite nicely in my hand . . .
____________________________
January 14, 2021
Poetry/Free Verse/the ''Impossiball''
Copyright Protected, ID 01-1321-245-14
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for Premier the contest If The Rubiks Cube Was Round
sponsor, Kai Michael Newmann, Judged 01/26/2021
Second Place
Categories:
newmann, life,
Form:
Free verse
With this psychosis, faces wear dark, angry stares,
and all at once, chills travel up and down my spine.
Transfixed, immobile, their stark leverage declares-
from fragment of my mind- that they had crossed life's line.
Those bevel faces, I do recognize from past;
an EMT, back then, I watched them pronounced dead.
But now a derelict- I feel confused, harassed,
by these strange visions that appear outside my head.
They point their fingers at me, and I know not why.
I feel accused somehow, as I fall to the floor
and shut my eyes- no resolution- they defy
to go away, for when they open, I see more.
Oh God, this horrid sinkhole sucks me in with ease-
trapped by each illusion- damned Parkinson's disease!
Sandra M. Haight
Premiere Contest: Eight Word Challenge
Sponsor: Kai Michael Newmann
Words to use: psychosis leverage fragment bevel
derelict resolution sinkhole illusion
Fictional write in the first person for this contest - but based on the true
hallucinations of a family member with Parkinson's disease. With this disease- psychosis and visual hallucinations are the most common other than motor problems.
(Revision of a former poem posted in 2018)
Categories:
newmann, mental illness, sad, sick,
Form:
Sonnet
If the Rubik's cube were round;
As a ball, as a globe- round;
Could I drop and roll it around town;
If the Rubik's cube were round;
Like this world it spinning around and around;
If this Rubik's cube were to turn each of its space;
Would each colored square align with grace;
Could you see the look on my face;
In frustration case cubes misplaced;
If the Rubik's cube were round;
As a ball, as a globe- round;
Could I drop and roll it around town;
Would each colored square align with each space up or down;
if Rubik's cube were as round as a ball;
Each square in place would now roll, not turn, move nor crawl;
1/10/21
If The Rubik's Cube Was Round Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kai Micheal Newmann
Categories:
newmann, adventure, allusion, analogy, confusion,
Form:
Rhyme
Moon Spoon
In high school, I met
my sweetheart,
and together,
we followed our dream
to romance that turned into love.
When school ended,
he joined the Marines.
We fed our sweet love
every day
with letters and pictures by mail.
Our hearts stayed as one
by that dart
which dear cupid
implanted so well.
Together, at nine,
every night,
miles apart, 'neath our Moon,
we would meet.
In her light of romantic glow,
we'd spoon love
to each other's lone heart.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Free Verse On Love
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Judged: 02/26/2018
~9th Place~
Premiere Contest: Moon Spoon
Sponsor: Kai Michael Newmann
Judged: 11/17/2017
Categories:
newmann, love, moon, sweet love,
Form:
Free verse
Each religion has its own ideology
Its own house of worship
It has its own dialect,
It is bounded by
its own rites and rituals
Its own drama and myth
It has its own justice system
Its distinct way of atonement
Its own unique style,
It is partial and onerous,
It promises heaven in afterlife
but creates living hell on earth.
It demands total obedience,
Total reverence
It defers explanation
It defies reasoning
It professes eternal life
and exacts strict wages;
Each religion has its own
interpretation of God
Each has a special pathway to heaven
Each designates dire caveat for hell.
Love, on the other hand, is free,
Free of all nuisances
Free of all boundaries
Free of all rites and rituals
Free of all race and creed,
It speaks with the eyes
Listens with the heart,
It only seeks soul mates,
It is universal
It encompasses all
and excludes none.
Love is but Love;
Love just happens,
There’s no beginning
And once began
there’s no ending.
True Love is omnipotent
It is omniscient
It is omnipresent.
~Religion and/or Philosophy contest by Kai Michael Newmann
Categories:
newmann, religion,
Form:
Free verse
I lay my sad words on paper white,
and weave my grief and tears;
but my chosen words will not rest quietly,
they spiral, curling, whirling-
My words thread their winding way,
all around the world spiraling;
in a whirlwind of emotion and weeping,
for those who know grief-
And as I pen with ink like blood,
I lift my soul 'till it is soaring;
climbing up from my deep dark pit,
each step, a stepping stone-
Up, up, rising, twirling from despair,
I leave my sorrow on the page;
my pen is my God given gift and the key,
for grief must not be stifled-
_____________________________
June 10, 2020
Poetry/Verse/My Words Spiral
Copyright Protected, ID 20- 1259-531-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the PREMIER contest, Spiral
sponsor, Kai Michael Newmann
Second Place
Categories:
newmann, writing,
Form:
Verse
C orn, golden gains dried ready to pop
O kra green pods from the garden plot
R aisins dried from fall's grape crop
N ew fresh brown turkey figs
U tterly baskets filled with apples tart
C ornucopia is filling quickly with all goods
O pulence is a great gift from God
P ears yellow overflow the horn
I nserted potatoes on the table
A ll fill a basket for decoration
Cornucopia Contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Newmann
Written: 04-19-2020
Categories:
newmann, blessing,
Form:
Acrostic
If you follow my poem's flight,
Pray, hold it under no searchlight,
Worse, under prying microscope,
Give discreet ears and a long rope.
Let not your mind's nigh curious mouse
Set loose to probe unto its house,
Nor walk into its private rooms,
Dig out my hopes’ tenuous tombs,
Nor look for undue nuances
On meanings meant between two lines—
Poems mature long like good wines,
And good ones take some time to please.
And O look for no secret switch
To illumine its dark precincts,
If need be, curb all your instincts
To switch on the lights-- a false itch.
Take time, but dig not unto line,
Nor find fault with given design,
Dwell not on words. What's left unsaid
More crucial is than what gets said.
Nor, dear reader, try to hammer
Nor humiliate my humble piece—
A mother loves her child as is.
She’s privileged to nurture her,
Be mature nigh not to torture,
Nor analyze it part by part,
A piece is it of personal art,
Product of heart more than of head,
A bird free to sing her fond song--
A song deemed right, nor ever wrong,
Ergo, never give it a grade.
Be wary whenever you read,
It helps these dos and don'ts to heed,
When you choose my poem to read—
Breed of mine, to thee nigh like weed.
So, soften your critical dart,
Poems come with delicate heart.
_____________________________
Musings | 06.07.11 | poems
The Poet's Hands Are Tied Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Kai Michael Newmann
Categories:
newmann, poems,
Form:
Free verse
She walks ruggedly
in an abandoned long tunnel;
Her feet ~ as heavy as the stale steel rails
almost buried in forgotten soil;
Her hands as cold as tombstone's plate
as she grips her pen
and begins to write the obscure murder
of the man in blue suit~
and the deaths of twelve passengers
still unsolved...
She was here some decades ago~
aboard in an old steam train
The memory of that macabre ride
haunted her for thousand days and nights.
She writes in scarlet ink
on a bloodstained scroll
that says like this,
" To all the victims who died here,
I lay my hands before this forgotten tunnel;
and the woeful wall as my witness~
I never thought too much love would kill.
I killed my beloved man in blue suit,
the driver of that tortuous train journey...
Yes I killed him to save the three million people
dwelling on the final station;
Using the twelve infected people,
He was sent to spread that virus
that would change the world.
I didn't understand till now~
Yes, I killed him with a knife
and unlocked that explosive weapon
before it reached its final destination.
But I was spared~
not the twelve people;
Now, to the authority I shall submit myself.
So help me God."
02.01.2021
For a Murder in the tunnel poetry contest
Sponsored by Kai Michael Newmann
(unable to submit for the contest)
Categories:
newmann, memory, murder, mystery,
Form:
Narrative
It does not fit in these now modern times-
the news that's dominating our TVs.
With some gains made in world diplomacy-
these scenes of war are too hard to believe.
The Afghan war went on some twenty years;
yet threats of World War III seemed off the board,
since direful risks of nuclear weaponry
did grant discouragement for future wars.
And yet, it's happening before our eyes
two countries now engaged in fight or flee-
with fears of bringing others in the mix-
all NATO countries heading into war.
Though unprovoked, Ukrainians are caught
in war with sins against humanity!
Russia discounts rules of engagement, so
all women, men, and children are fair game!
How did this war slip back to brutish times-
now watching that Ukrainians must flee
to save their lives against the Russian plans
bombing their city Kyiv- and many more?
We had progressed ahead of former times
as fighting wars unveiled the awful costs.
But now, this war misfits- and perhaps peace-
is obsolete when enemies serve greed.
March 14, 2022
Contest: Kyiv Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Newmann
Categories:
newmann, anxiety, fear, sad, war,
Form:
Blank verse