Best Ornately Poems
In the recollections of my journey thus far, the tattered pages of my life flutter
in my mind. Like snapshots of times and places in black and white and color.
Haunting faces and glimpses of places. Sad narratives come to mind along with
stories and the history of family. Happiness entwined with sadness is all mine.
I often open the rusty old gate and travel a winding path to a place of weeping.
And I stand trembling with the wind in my hair . . .
the wind takes my hair
tangled branches creak and groan
whispering my name
And the tattered pages flutter. I find myself in a church, ornately beautiful.
I am a little girl praying on my knees. The hum of a thousand candles flicker.
Then I am holding my fathers hand as we stroll a lush green park. We laugh
as we walk along, just me and my father. We are going to feed the swans,
oh the beautiful floating white swans of my memory . . .
crystal clear water
the swans silently drifting
they come to greet us
Like wings whirling the pages move. I am me just a few weeks ago. I
hold a single red rose and place it at his headstone. I trace the words with
my finger. Baby, son of . . . he never got to see the sky. I never got to hold
him in my arms. I must turn this page for it is ripping out my heart and soul.
He the family secret not adopted but dead . . .
and gentle rain falls
on a bright red rose bleeding
clouds darken the sky
___________________________
July 11, 2015
Poetry/Haibun/Tattered Pages
Copyright Protected, ID 07-688-244-11
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
For the Premier contest, Haibun,
sponsor, scott thiryseven, Judged 2015
Third Place
Submitted to the Standard contest, Completely Your Choice (43)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged, 01/17/2021
Tenth Place
Categories:
ornately, life, memory,
Form:
Haibun
I pull down from the shelf
The beautiful box of treasures
Ornately carved
Warm, yet well worn
To the gentle touch of my fingers
There is no rush
As I sit in this cosy spot
The sunlight of memory
Like a shaft of enlightenment
Beams onto my cheeks
There is a brass clasp
That silently releases the lid
Inset with filigree, blue and gold
My favourite colours
In my favourite pattern
The hinges release the air inside
Like a happy sigh
A hug of acceptance
As a valued friend visits
After life has carved out years of absence
My eyes closed, I reach inside..
I find the sound of laughter
Forest light streaming through the trees
Jewels of picnics and Spring days
Friends I have loved and lost
I find endless Christmases
Warm Summer gifts of love
Painted pictures from children
Smiles from unexpected messages
Or kind words that linger
I find weddings and food and dancing
Music and poetry and photographs, old and new
I remember the holding of many hands
Small, soft, pretty, all different
Some tired and wrinkly (my favourites)
I find emotions that I thought I had lost
All gathered in this precious box.
Placed carefully,
Never broken
Always perfect and personal
I am slightly overwhelmed
(it happens sometimes)
For now, the tears can stay outside
As I close the lid, replace the clasp
Until the next time
Categories:
ornately, family, friendship, loss, love,
Form:
Free verse
I want to be a poet to write those words which rhyme
But it seems I'm having trouble with tempo, tense and time
How do the poets do it rhyme words so undisputed
They neatly find the perfect word and exactly where to put it
They make it seem so simple words flow in easy verse
While my words go from good to bad and then they just get worse
Oh to have the poets flair for grasping words from out the air
But alas I stare at paper bare and pine for words which are not there
With ease the poets do it pen words so neatly dressed
While I sit here debating and getting more depressed
To them it's not too arduous to mete out rosy prose
While in my mind bewildering a musty cobweb grows
Ornately Poets do it scribe sentiment so clear
That lifts the heart and stirs the soul like music to the ear
As I scan their lines which meld and knit I envy those who conjured it
And when I read their words united tis my id which gets excited
I twitch and get elated when I find two words of whit
But I'll be darned if I can find another two which neatly fit
I thumb through my thesaurus till the moon is fully lit
But my brain is still in neutral and not a rhymes been writ
Each pair I work to sound enhance fails to bring the bards due dance
And the prose I opt for seems to lack the poet's gift of word romance
But I'll persist and see how it goes
And perhaps one day I'll write some prose
Categories:
ornately, fun, funny, poetry, words,
Form:
Rhyme
Upon a sullied slate sky
of alabaster and aquamarine,
floats a formidable flotilla
of charcoal-colored clouds.
And on this mild, melancholy
mid-March day;
they dawdle, dribbling drops of rain
in sporadic Spring showers.
Winter's white wonderland
seasonally salted with brindled blotches,
magically melts away;
revealing rough-woven, ragged patches
of grassy green.
When Winter's weakened grip gives way,
bulbs freed from frosty tombs;
are awakened by the tap, tap, tap,
of April's tepid tears.
And straightaway,
snowdrops, crocuses, and tulips
suddenly start sprouting;
simultaneously sending shoots skyward.
Color taunts the blandness of this dull day
as a robin redbreast abruptly appears;
defying drizzling drops of grey
with its crimson chest,
ornately on display.
Categories:
ornately, anxiety, april, beauty, change,
Form:
Alliteration
Holding on with slender vines that gracefully twine the fence.
Ornately draping fragrant blooms, the hummingbirds like best.
'Neath, in your shade, the rabbits rest in the noontime sun.
Evening breezes bring your calming scent across the lawn.
Your tender shoots reach out, like a child's hand that wants to be held.
Spring awakens you to help welcome my Roses near the well.
Unlike any other blooms, so dainty and delicate.
Creating a yellow, orange and pink upon green, sweet blanket.
Kindly, I snip and try to train you to stay in one place,
Lucky for me, you forgive this invasive disgrace.
Elegance is your nature, while tenacity is your strength.
For Carol Brown's contest: Flowers Of Spring
Placement:3rd
Categories:
ornately, nature
Form:
Acrostic
Satan, I don’t like your hating.
Satan, I don’t want any part of you.
No fractions, none of your distractions,
I want to live the life that’s true.
This life guarantees the ultimate satisfaction.
Satan, I don’t want to have any dealings with you
You hinder my life that is true. No one wants to
Be sad and blue and tear everything up like you do
Satan, you messed up. You have too many whammies.
You’re pressed out of luck. I want big bucks but,
Not in the manner that you get them. That way want
Last and will not benefit anyone else in God’s kingdom
To ever get GLAD. Satan, I don’t want any part of
Your MAD. I want the best for my God-given, created,
Can’t be faded life. Something that you gave up a long
Time ago and you suffered a great big fall like Humpty
Dumpty on the wall, all of the kingdom’s horses and
All of the kingdom’s men should not have the desire
To put you together for your selfish desires to win so
Many will catch on fire as a result of you. Satan, you
Lie on me and my God-given, created, family. Satan,
You see the worst in me and want me to believe it’s true.
Satan, in Hell you’ll be skating on your wannabe icy
Lake of fire because you had the desire to be the Creator
And be a hater to what God made greatly. So skate ornately
And leave me alone. I want to live with God and not
In your heated home. Satan, I don’t want any part of you.
No fractions, no distractions, I want to live the life that’s true.
1-26-11
Categories:
ornately, inspirationallife, god, me, fire,
Form:
Rhyme
I first met her on a holiday at Shuklaphanta Wildlife Reserve.
Love strikes me like lightning when I saw her,
so powerful and intense it can’t be denied.
It turns me inside out,
and there was no going back from it.
Once the thunderbolt hits, my life irrevocably changed.
With a carved stem-thin figure,
And sparkly appearance.
Her pencil-thin eyebrows,
eased down gently to her velvety,
Eyelashes.
Her beauty is the celebrity's cute wind-swept
twisting through
the late evening's darkening heavens.
Her smile shines stunningly
like the sun rising over the skyline,
her luminous, heavenly-white teeth flashed
as she pawed at me with her flick star nails.
Her gorgeousness is the stars
that is now quivering into view
as their star shine ends its life journey
as a whim I am.
Her enticing, constellation-blue eyes
gazed at me
over her syrup-sweet lips,
She had a springy character
and a syrupy voice, which I idolized.
She is like a candle's flickering flame,
radiating a soft warm light into me.
Her hair was ebony-black
and it tumbled over her shoulders.
Her beauty shines from the inside out,
It flows like a journey down a long route.
Those sugar candy-sweet lips,
her well-designed personality,
all awestruck me.
Her eyes sparkle like a bright star in the sky,
seek out the good in me.
Her body ornately furnished with typically girlish curves,
Her voguish garments still kept enslaved an odor evocative
of lemony fresh and floral-fresh mint.
It loitered in the apartment long after she had gone.
Categories:
ornately, beautiful, beauty, chocolate, color,
Form:
ABC
I survived scarred but
unscathed growing up Irish
catholic.
Mind numbing Masses sung in
Latin
Ostentatious Corpus Christy
processions through local
streets
Ornately dressed priests
Eyes to the skies, garbage
underfoot
Fair game for taunting
classmates armed with cutting
quips
abstinence during Lent
weekly confession that
required creative thinking to
minimize mortal sins
further ingenuity required to
pass off venial sins
to fill the quota on weeks when
you were good,
But it was the redemption
through suffering
or straight to hell in a hand
basket that crippled.
The collateral damage of
inherited weaknesses?
An act of contrition, three Hail
Mary's and an Our Father
To survive
"I have had to deny knowledge
in order to leave room for
faith."
Fascinating for it's simplicity
and heavy dose of reality.
It helped with my struggle to
understand
what others appear to see so
clearly.
And yet despite this cross
connection the majority of my
actions
are calibrated against my
religious upbringing.
A voice, my own, my mother's,
echoes from statues, holy wells
and saints
that continue to haunt my past
and dissect my actions
I am a reluctant Catholic.
It is part of my DNA.
Early on I found out how hard
it was not to conform
when I began to swim against
the tide.
Lifelines were few
while responses took the form
of it is just a phase,
Have him have a chat with the
priest.
The alienation was akin to Irish
tee totalers
welcome, yet removed from
the nexus of Irish society, the
pub
Categories:
ornately, religion
Form:
Blank verse
[Continued from Part Two]
The elder took no notice of risking life and limb.
Hither, thither ran the children, glancing up at him,
while indulging mindlessly in each impulsive whim,
with no apprehension of the future looking grim.
Their chances for salvation seemed increasingly slim…
That aged man’s deep compassion filled him to the brim.
The father knew the children liked any strange device,
exotic playthings, trinkets, whatever would entice.
He needed now to improvise a mode, in a trice,
that could capture their attention— something to suffice
to hold their young imaginations— to be precise,
a mechanism marvelous, no matter the price.
He had stores of immeasurable wealth, beyond doubt,
and his warmhearted love was impartially devout.
Just then the elder had the thought that not in the least
would his limitless riches and reserves be decreased,
even if to a kingdom vast he were to dispense
his overflowing fortune… so why shouldn’t he hence
give out his wealth directly to his progeny all,
before the children’s catastrophic deaths should befall?
The aged man reflected on what tactic to pick—
an expedient means that was sure to do the trick.
He told the children of exquisite toys he possessed
along with lots of precious carts of the very best
craftsmanship and quality, that all had been designed
expressly with the youngsters’ own enjoyment in mind.
The elder next, in order to persuade them, stated
that right outside the house at the entrance awaited,
to suit the young ones’ fancies skillfully created
goat, sheep, deer, and ox carts, ornately decorated.
He said that they must rush to leave the mansion, in haste,
and he’d give them everything— there was no time to waste.
Then the children finally fulfilled his desire
and scurried in a race safely out of the fire.
The father beamed with bliss that the urgency had passed.
They had securely left the burning building at last!
When they’d exited and scampered out, they all sat down
on the dewy earth and asked their father, with a frown,
where the toys and carts were that the elder had portrayed
for their own special likings to have been tailor-made.
The youngsters had escaped and the elder’s heart was eased.
But now each one of their capricious wants must be pleased.
[Continued in Part Four]
~ Harley White
Categories:
ornately, allusion, destiny, fire, life,
Form:
Narrative
I.
Ode the thrill of a tango
curled in clutches sleek
Elegance, a prerequisite
Add on a spun euphoria
Nimble is a turgid swoon!
Arms conduct to the aria
New skin, feels no tocsin
It's deeply in a you and i
Glazed, to the tightening
and a strangling organza
Necked into a suffocation
So go the tunnel deaths…
(1/27/2021: '02 Silverton MY; Alameda ...contest theme was murder in the tunnel)
II.
Ornately, I gild over my days a’ la fresco
Carefully, I wield molten gold, enigmatic
Elaborate must these life undulations be
as metallic sheen screens all insipid aura
New cantankerous crack? Just weld upon
and smooth the jagged with flowing flora
Now the feckless plaster sparkles golden
I spurn mawkish, like the silvered literati
glossing my craven, to caverns gleaming
Aurum weaves, in its narcissistic miasma
Nothing malodorous in self-love / loathin’
So imperious my bombastic art, it glazes!
(8.17.21 Redone at Willow Berm and DBW; theme was Craig’s Broken contest relating to Kintsugi)
Categories:
ornately, addiction,
Form:
Ode
I stood,
At the edge of the abyss
And stared deep into its void
Letting its gloomy silence
Fill up the empty shell
That had become my heart!
I stood,
Tilting my will,
Like a mad pendulum,
Hesitating between choosing to jump in its depths
Or to walk away from it
When,
Unable to bear with the weight of my own burden,
I succumbed to the madness
That hovered everywhere around me
So much that it even invaded
My usually fragranced mind,
Adorned with its many roses!
The void of the abyss seemed to be laughing at me
And I could help it no more,
Opening the many branches of my lungs,
I shouted at it to tell it
That it can claim victory over me
Since, it, empty abyss,
Has been able to destroy the fortress that poetry
Has built all around me!
My shout into its void
Brought about a response from it,
A response which left me flabbergasted
And bewildered
But which nevertheless had me
Gathering myself back together
And realising that my life can be stitched back
Into the ornately decorated piece of clothing
That I once was!
Yes, the void whispered to me
Of how inner strength is crucial in a world
Which shall ever remain puzzling
More so,
Since the same power that impregnated me with
Goodness, created the abyss
And that I was brought to its edge
For some purpose which got fulfilled
The moment that I understood
Of my inner potential!
A shout into the void
Echoed in the vacuum of my body
And lighted in me,
A flame, flickering and gentle
But sturdy to withstand any storm!
Poem written on 11 December 2021
Categories:
ornately, strength,
Form:
Free verse
Oh wow. Oh great. Look over there. Quickly now. Come on. It is the mitigating migrating mammoth mansions. Brick by brick and bone by bone. In a line. Travelling. Traversing the plains, fields and mountains but not on roads for roads are neither natural nor normal so always wear a tea cosy hat when pouring tea at a tea party. It is to show not to shine that has the sun in a pondering and philosophical mood. The auric rays are neither a moon sitting in a tree nor are they a kayaking planetary alignment. High seas then create high teas. Whirling in circling dresses of spotted green. But never in a greenhouse does one find a tomato in a tantrum. For tomatoes are very very mild mannered especially when given a drink. And this is good for compost can be crafty and doesn't like moods. A wafer thin biscuit is a flat chested mermaid moving around at the dusk. By the marina. Catching a glimmer is easy for the eyes of the octopus in an office with high rimmed glasses. Circle then dash. Tick tick tick. Form done. Signed. Signatures separate stagnant stale stupors. And the fat wading brat bird yawns on a front bench in a large ornately decorated room. How common. And yet rather uncommon is the master of the seaweed sermon whose speakers are never wise upon answering questions and questions are rarely answered so why play noughts and crosses with a jute duty bug? Inheritance is not to be placed in a kissing box for boxes are to be reserved for tiny biscuits who march around chaotically chairing and chanting at quite important times. Thus causing a lot of little flowers to sigh and droop their heads in an apathetical style. In a scrapbook posy position. The layout is not the layer and the label is a laugh. Numeration of a numerator is a numerical nautical nonchalant nerd. And the beast of the best bank is not to be trusted with a styrofoam cup. No never gi e it that cup. Always give it a baby bottle. For it is ignorant and infantile. Beware of the two foot clam in that drawer then when you are putting socks away. Hahaha a mist is coming to play cards and monopoly with a tree top, a hill, a perfume factory, and a zoo. Hahaha dolphin and duet with a dancing seahorse at a grand opera. Xxxxx desensitization Z now eat a nice scone and sing la la la to a doorframe. Z peacocks.
Categories:
ornately, age, allah, allusion, angel,
Form:
Warriors in us,
When time comes, we fight our fiercest battle.
A dainty lass, cocooned by mother’s care,
and father’s protective arms,
grew up gleeful and merry, humming melodies and frolicking carefree
in the lap of bountiful nature,
Nobody told her she was the most captivating beauty ever existed!
But when a Prince trotted by, and caught glimpse of an exquisite vision,
he couldn’t but fall in love, with the breathtaking beauty, body and soul.
The Prince recognized his destiny, he was certain that this symbol of elegance, he was waiting for,
And didn’t waste a moment begging for her hand,
It all sounds surreal, sometimes life is stranger than fairytale.
The exquisitely alluring queen lived a blissful life with her King,
Until one day life brought something utterly tragic and unforeseen -
The young King left her alone in this world with an infant child.
The Princess became a real Queen,
not only occupying a jewel-encrusted throne, and wearing a tiara with Rubies and Diamonds,
safeguarding the country with a powerful hand, defending the needy and the weak.
In her twenties, she transformed herself into the protector of the land.
The demure, bashful Princess mustered her entire strength, her indomitable spirit,
She decided to turn herself into the Warrior Queen, on a horseback,
wore a warrior suit, carried her husband’s sword.
It really happened, soon her land, her Jhansi, was attacked by foreign powers.
The Fighter Queen was undaunted and fearless,
her sole goal was to protect the people from the enemy relentless.
With blessings from her beloved parents, and undying love from her deceased husband,
The Warrior Queen went to the battlefield with her greatest power, with supreme might.
With a child on her back, she jumped on the loyal horse,
She fought until her last drop of blood was shed on the soil of her dearest Jhansi.
Alive is the Warrior Queen, in the ever-chanted melodious strains sung by her people.
They sing the song of a Warrior Queen
who was as ornately beautiful as a dainty Rose,
and as valiantly courageous as the Mother Earth.
First Place - Warrior Contest (A Warrior Queen)
Sponsor: Silent One
Categories:
ornately, courage, strength, war,
Form:
Narrative
she got on about three stops after I did
I was sure she was conversant in ballet
by the way she danced up the steps
and delicately deposited her passage
into the device next to the driver
her fingers were disproportionately
long and far too elegant for
such tiny hands
her nails were ornately painted
with purple flowers on a white back lay
she must have been very ambidextrous as
each tiny fingernail looked exactly alike
it was winter and there was about
18 inches of snow in the lanes
she wore white rubber boots
the bus wore its annual tire chains.
I was dressed in my traditional white tennis shoes,
weathered blue jeans a white Eddie Bauer T
and my socks were soaking wet
from trying to dodge the slush
near the bus stops
she was enveloped in a long
camel-hair pea coat
and, crazy as it sounds
a feather hat much like
Robin Hood used to wear
I thought I would depart before her
as she asked for a transfer
like a novice-carom-billiard player
I almost fell flat on my backside
when the bus shot off
before I could grab the overhead rail
as I lent her my seat
the bus was lousy
with swing shift laborers
headed to the fish packing plants
I one of them
pangs of passion
swelled deep in my heart
and seeped through every pore
I wanted to hold her in my arms
and love her, nothing more.
then she left, brushed close by me
and the driver sweetly shut the door
pain exhaled softly
silencing a lion's roar
with mangled mane (and vanquished pride)
I knew not what to infer
through toothless jaws silently cried
my heart alone for her
the seat where she once sat
remained unoccupied
save for her plumed hat
that I stared at
'til the end of my ride
Categories:
ornately, life, lost love, for
Form:
Light Verse
‘I didn’t sleep well last night’ is all you say, as if you sleep well every other night, as if you don’t have more important things to do, heavier burdens to carry. Rivers running through your fingers and vaulted ceilings made entirely of stars. Nameless faces, unfamiliar voices in song; lulling you to sleep, to drown.
The dark rings under your eyes are a permanent fixture, no amount of vanity will take them away. They are a part of you now, just as much as the dirt under your fingernails and the eyes that constantly feel as though they stare into the depths of your soul. You hide the scars from the world behind forced smiles and a gentle voice, clutch at the wolf teeth strung around your neck and repeat prayers in your old tongue until your voice is cracked and hoarse and these are the only words you will ever know (besides the names that are too sacred to speak aloud)
Is self-deprecation an act of devotion?
You’re no prophet. Your place is not to sing and dance in their praise but to silently shoulder the weight of their wickedness, their monstrosity. You feel their divinity like a thousand knives in your back, between your ribs. You’re no prophet. Your place is not to teach others of their pain. You are wild; born of the wolf with forest fire burning hot in your veins. You’re no prophet. You’re just a child who howls with the wind and dances in the rain. Notebooks filled with words that can never pass your lips, ancient languages whispered in your ear even as you struggle to hold yourself together.
People hear the words ‘sacred, holy, divine’ and think of cathedrals gilded in gold and silver, ornately carved statuettes of the virgin mother, sunday mass and quiet contemplation. You know this to be untrue. Your prayers are selfish and your altar is the ever changing landscape which surrounds you, mud and moss and snow.
‘I didn’t sleep well last night’ is all you say, even as war rages in your head and the will of the Gods is enough to force you to your knees.
Categories:
ornately, mythology, religion, spiritual,
Form:
Free verse