Best On Tenterhooks Poems
Here I sit on the ocean bed
Just sifting mud and ooze,
But If it was up to me
It's not the life I'd choose.
It's dark down here, there's creepy things
All looking for a feast
So I live on tenterhooks,
Hiding from the beasts.
To be higher up the food chain
Is where I'd love to be,
But to be a shark, or a huge blue whale
Was not my destiny.
So my life is what it is,
I am just what I am.
But it's no fun at the bottom,
It's no fun being a clam.
Entry for
Personification poem of a pet, wild animal or insect Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Tania Kitchin
2/9/18. Placed 6th.
(TWIN FLAMES)
Like he pleaded for your friendship
Let’s say he did, alright he did!
Polite rejection would be great,
But all those “hellos” were as fake
He thought being true was good enough,
And hoped by her life would look up.
As in his mind was the thought born,
It there did die before it sprung.
Quite all the moxie that he had,
Without a toil would have been hers,
Yet she felt naught (like would a corpse)
When all his dreams drained through the crust.
Like she pleaded to thus be strung,
Let’s say she did but was not wrong.
A gentle advance would’ve been best,
She tagged the others guys “coquettes”.
How would he know? He’s quite sinless,
And the movies would neither help -
Nor would these books reveal to him,
How upon maids, they work their wits.
Maybe she was, and’s still like him,
And never hopes to turn from it,
Maybe she too is still as true,
And hence she fell on tenterhooks.
She could be hurt and not retell,
The wondrousness within herself,
And how his fancy had took her,
From that first glance and salient smirk.
Like they both pleaded to be born
Dizygotic or one by one.
One should suffer, one should serve
One should proffer the other care.
Once on the earth and swarmed by dreams
Either, confused reality.
Who would be crowned? Venus or Mars?
Or would they both meet in the stars?
“Like a cold corpse felt naught” he thought,
Her heart was cold and dangerous.
Like autumn leaves are fallen dead,
She thought, “no love was on his head”.
The world is bleeding
We stand at the edge of a precipice,
Looking in fear on our Earth,
Boiling, bubbling, and steaming,
With pools of blood flowing.
Warplanes blanket the sky.
Volcanic sounds pierce the ear.
Booms of gun shots rent the air
Lightning passes blinding the eye
The skies let down a deluge of tears
The old world is strangled to death
Toxic waste muddles up every head
The world once dressed in green
Now wears a mantle of pollution
Green- not a colour any more.
The earth wriggles in pain,
But its silent whimper
Falls in deaf unheeding ears!
A sword dangles on a thread
Ready to fall anytime over our heads.
Might dissipates men’s eye sight
From everywhere rises the bleak cry for help
Pale faced grimaces of death as bombs explode
Groans of pain as bullets whizz past
Once warm blood spilled over the streets of Paris
Twin towers were raced down in the U.S
School children massacred in many parts of the world
Now the animosity between Russia and Ukraine,
Iran and Israel keep the world on tenterhooks.
All through the globe, seismic waves of terror
Sweep across… effacing life, love and dreams.
With modest tools, if the Neanderthal men fought,
Modern men are powered with lethal weapons
Any of which can annihilate the whole world in seconds
Men themselves turn as weapons,
And explode like bombs killing thousands.
Where shall we find a bastion
From this rabid pack of wolves?
From the quagmire of terror, we need an escape
Let it be writ on every wall and billboard
‘Down with War, Down with Terrorism’
I
wanted
to write
a hymn
for her.
A poem
that sings
her gentle
songs.
Prose that
justifies
and ignites
her eloquence.
I've endeavored
to carefully
piece together
the 26 letters
of the alphabet.
Rearranging
these slices and
strokes to
convey my
verdadero -
my vrai
for her.
But I can't.
For her
poetic alphabet
leaves
me
on tenterhooks -
breathless
and bedazzled.
She is
a treasure.
A perfectly
cut diamond.
And
when I
close my eyes
tonight,
I will inhale her
enchanting prose.
For I know
her beautiful heart
will always share
a soothing
sonnet -
a whimsical poem
or perhaps a
magical hymn...
from her
to us
for him
for me.
I went to bed expecting I would sleep
Hours later I am wide awake
It is no use me counting sheep
Things are on my mind
So I cannot sleep
Dawn is here
And I am not pleased
Oh why oh why
Can’t my conscience let me sleep?
A cacophonous chorus greets the new day
Some say is sweet
But all I want to say to them is
Go away
All I wish is to lie in bed in peace
I implore all birds to hence forth hold their incessant tweets
A man on tenterhooks
Needs his precious sleep
Another day is born
Another sleepless night is done
If only I felt rested
And not like I just ran a marathon
Praise to all who can sleep through the night
I am not
And will forever envy
Your selfish delight
Dawn oh dawn why did you come so soon?
You came just when I was awaiting
That soothing dream to appear
You can be so cruel and unfair
New day that is now here
You give much stress and
I find your presence onerous to bear
It is about time you played fair
And not harass me 365 days a year
The dream begins at the old rusty gate,
it groans- moans as I push it open wide;
to reveal a house in a ruined state,
and through decaying tangled vines I glide.
The house like an elegant sinking ship,
I ignore the grand staircase and paintings;
and on gnarled invading tree roots I trip,
the faded walls covered in moss veinings.
Always my dream steps take me to the books,
the once library room with shelves falling;
old, sad, tattered- my heart on tenterhooks,
I find them all precious and enthralling.
Then- the ivy draped old rusty gate calls;
and I close it . . . to sounds of morn' birdcalls.
__________________
June 23, 2022
Poetry/Sonnet/The Rusty Old Gate
Copyright Protected, 06-1467-307-23
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Theme chosen - The Old Rusty Gate
Written for the Standard contest, One in Five
sponsor, Joseph May, Judged 07/11/2022
First Place
Submitted to the Premiere contest, 2022 Poetry Marathon, Mile 11
sponsor, Mark Toney, Judged 08/12/2022
You want to know its merits?
Very well, then. Daylight slants
deliciously across the boy's
inclined, thoughtful face.
His lace collar, crumpled,
houses valleys of shadow.
Or what about the Water Seller?
Look at that poncho's warm
woven woollen texture:
and isn't the rip in the shoulder fun?
And the dimples on the pot!
They scream "potness" at us.
Or the beads of water
clinging to the larger vessel,
whose horizontal striations
practically smell
of the potter's wheel.
But oh, that drinking-glass!
Does it seem possible to you
that unctuous oils and minerals
of earth, gouged from the soil,
can render the ethereal soul of glass?
It was a winter afternoon.
I'd gone along to the gallery
on the off-chance.
Standing before this marvel,
I found myself entranced.
But even as I gazed, the sun
(though never very confident in London)
stepped out coyly from behind a cloud.
Duck's-egg orange light, resplendent,
now fell aslant the canvas.
Surely this was harmful?
Sunlight bleaches (does it not?)
the colour out of things.
Alarm bells should be ringing.
I summoned a uniform attendant.
He nodded sagely as I explained
- but did nothing.
Why should he care?
Minimum wage is no great motivator.
An hour from now,
he'd be hanging up that peaked cap,
and be a person until Monday.
No point in bursting
a blood-vessel
over a silly painting. Later.
But I couldn't leave it.
If I stood just thus,
my human frame was just enough
to block the sun.
One little skirmish could be won
if I remained here
until the sun’s trajectory was done,
or the gallery closed,
whichever came the sooner.
So I did. On tip-toe,
spine inclined, quiet,
I crowded out the light of day
for more than an hour.
Pointless, you say.
I can't deny it.
The very next day,
And each subsequent foray
of Phoebus would
merely recreate the problem.
That's hardly the point.
Finding myself there,
I beat my ploughshare
into a sword and,
for that tiny slice of time,
I made the sacrifice,
bore the quizzical looks
with equanimity, quirky,
standing like a turkey
on tenterhooks
and saved the painting.
Out in the rain the restless winds
now moan as winter's pale rescinds.
The flowers at the window bay
are silent bells that stiffly sway
while marching on the roof begins,
a riot of a billion pins
that shatter all my disciplines.
I clasp my hands as if to pray
out in the rain.
I feel the breath of pardoned sins;
on tenterhooks this mid-March grins
its unborn promise. I'm away
to spread my arms in gleeful splay
and echo tales this cloudburst spins
out in the rain.
3/12/18
I spent my day shopping for rubies
I was on tenterhooks to make a choice
Rubies displayed on shelves glittered
And seeing the price tags I lost my voice!
Rubies' purity measured in carats
Their colors linked to zodiac sign
It was not easy job to choose one
With so many variations, I pined.
Seeing me grim, girl on counter smiled
"May I help you", she calmed me down
Given my budget, zodiac sign of my love
She helped me zero on to a Ruby crown.
Thanking her profusely, I left the gem store
A full day had been spent to buy this Ruby
Gleefully, my love accepted my day's labor
Hugged me like a scooby dooby do booby.
I let go of shopping pains, felt great
A candle light dinner in down town
As a return gift, I will cherish it forever
I am now more confident shopping a crown.
25.7.2020
On tenterhooks, our emotions run raw,
our days are filled with silent fright.
Feeling defeat sharpen it's claws,
we spend many sleepless nights.
We lay awake, with eyes shut tight,
self isolated and alone.
Our own demons, we cannot fight.
We stay within our safety zone.
Uselessness, we feel is our major flaw.
For us there is no White Knight,
to come and champion our cause.
To us the sun, does not shine bright.
There are only shadows in the light.
We feel it to our very bones,
there is no way out, from our plight.
We stay within our safety zones.
We find no help in Health Care Laws,
the sharks circle, waiting to bite.
We've run out of strength from which to draw,
so we stand ready, to take flight.
To hide within, out of sight.
By life, we've been disowned,
there is just grey, no colors, black or white..
We stay within our safety zone.
There is no magic pill, that works, overnight.
There is no happiness to call our own.
Until this depression, we extradite,
we stay within our safety zone.
For the contest: Ballade Boomba
Placement: 10th
This restlessness won't leave me,
it buzzes about my chest
as though it were a field of daisies
waiting to be pollinated
by a swarm of fretful bees
who sting like honed pebbles
but never die
At night, I can hear the daffodils whimpering
from my windowsill,
they reach for me
with limp limbs,
I feed them honey
spit on their soil
and read a poem from my diary
but they're still ill at ease
so we count stars
wishing one might fall through
our fluttering hearts
Google the world till you find me,
Draw closer; grip my heart and never let go,
Numerous moons have passed; countless suns have shone,
Yet my dream is curtailed,
I have unturned the blue; unzipped the stars looking for you,
Dug graves to uncover you; Uprooted trees to find clues,
Separated warm and cold air; to find the one I bleed; the one I breathe; the one I grief, the one I belief; the one I love,
I have befriended libraries to find your name; my love,
Given tokens to know the prophesy of your coming; my love,
A search that’s never ending until I find you; my future love,
I have roamed all over hell; to save your soul; my love,
Moved every corner of the earth; for the amender of my breath,
Tried bribing the archangel in heaven,
To certify to my heart that you are save and well; my love,
Just run a marathon in Daegu; for you who clutched my heart,
I can ran without shoes; but never without my strength,
Love I’ll die for you; as tomorrow means nothing without you,
Where are you at? Come swiftly seize my pressurized heart?
I know you can sense the soreness in my indoors,
Come cement my missing bits as you alone know how; my love,
Come devour me with glee; a beam that can never be expunged,
You know I need you; and that very true; my life; my love,
How can ‘I’ the Ferrari win a race without its tyres (you)?
I preserved every cell for you; ignored all love for you,
Don’t let me sting no more; I gave up everything for you,
When I confided in this love of ours; many pasted me a coward,
But my thoughts of you assisted me keep my sanity and purity,
My fluency with love rules made me patient,
Enough to wait for you the trance bloke of my centre; my love,
A love of tomorrow I preserve today and forever,
Soon my heart will dance and shout your name ‘ohh my love’
I treasure you my love; my tomorrow; my dream; my desire; my all; the one I have been waiting for all my life,
I sit here desperately jotting this jingle to you my love,
On tenterhooks it reaches you and remits you to me presently; my love.
Stuck in a place with negativity bound within it's Walls.
I need to get out of here, before the phone rings with insanity's calls.
I burst out of the door into the streets owned by the night.
Shadows staring back dodging the lamps light.
I begin to walk down the urban corridor of uncertainty.
The workers of soul catchers carry out their shady activity.
I find myself in the empire of danger invoking pure photo-phobia
It's a small price to pay for escaping the mecca of claustrophobia.
As I reach the climax of the spiraling vortex tunnel.
I walk on tenterhooks as my problems funnel.
Facing me at the end of this path, is a door laced with remorse around it's edges.
The entrance to unknown stands out with a line of devoted pledges.
Those waiting and queuing are the damned and the lost.
As I drift towards them, I wonder how much my sin will cost.
For I felt the weight of the pressure and stress, forcing me into the light of shame?
For I was the puppet master, who poured onto me the petrol and drew the flame.
My moment of selfishness was a cardinal sin to myself and others.
lacking consideration, deprived of thought for my sisters and brothers.
That self indulgent cowardliness, has lead me to this final act.
A door beaten with the hands of the damned, regardless it's still intact.
As the number descends down to it's final member.
I stand there understanding my sin, bound to surrender.
Reaching out I grasp the golden handle, and turn it to the right.
As I push forward on the door and out bursts a green neon light.
My chance of escape has come to a halt, it's time for me to face the jury's end.
I stand by my plea of weakness and insanity, as into the court I descend.
A skeleton of the peril court rises with a verdict and answer.
The jury has decided I was overtaken by a vicious cancer.
The disease wasn't voluntary but they agree my cure wasn't correct.
My punishment is to fade into the man that never was, with immediate effect.
A bloke who hails
from New South Wales
will know of Gundagai.
Some guy found gold,
or so we're told,
in days now long gone by.
I grew up there
without a care
when both of us were nippers:
she was my mate -
her name was Kate -
I used to call her "Kipper".
We loved to lark
around Yarn Park,
and sing Frank Ifield songs,
play hide-and-seek
on Morley's Creek
all golden summer long.
I'd glance at Kip
(she fielded slip)
and try to hoist one high:
but quick as thought
she'd yell out, "Caught!"
or "Nice try, Gundagai!"
Her brain was quick,
her wit was slick,
and ready with a joke.
She'd bat and bowl
and kick field goals
as good as any bloke.
Well, time moved on.
Those days are gone,
and never to return.
I've roamed this earth,
for what it's worth,
and one thing I have learned.
In this wide world
there's heaps of girls,
and some of 'em are ripper,
and dark or fair,
I've had my share,
but none of 'em's like Kipper.
I'm not that grand
with pen in hand,
but I've written Kip a letter:
I may be wrong,
it's been so long.
She may not even get 'er.
So now you know
the way it goes.
You've heard my tale unfold.
I'm like those fools
with sieves and mules,
hell bent on striking gold.
I'm a chafing chook
on tenterhooks,
awaiting her reply.
I know my Kip -
she's sure to quip,
"Oh, nice try, Gundagai!"
When the past impressions gathered uncoil
The spirit gets encased in the mortal coil
Ages past they are lying buried deep; curled
Incarnate as human, when get unfurled.
Once in bodily frame, the play of elements
Asserts with expression of all rudiments
With an interplay of the three basic traits
Combine to express in different proportions.
Then commences the jigsaw puzzle; intensely
Pulling up and down the corridors; ruthlessly
Placing the spirit ever on tenterhooks; awfully
No escaping from the drama nearly permanently.
The cravings of flesh clamour for the fleeting
Joys that are no joys in the true sense of being
For release, the spirit persists in its yearning
But the flesh is weak though the spirit is willing.