Best Panted Poems
Home to President Woodrow Wilson
Ivy scaled Monmouth’s outer walls
Laughter of youth from decades past
Resonated in marble-floored halls
The theater building was set apart
Further down Cedar Avenue
Another spirit stalked the stage
Where college actors made debuts
A gift from the Monmouth Race Park
Actors’ dressing rooms were stalls
Where a stealthy ghost spied silently
As thespians answered cue calls
Arriving early one April night
Eager to recite the witty lines
Of “Blithe Spirit’s” Madam Arcati
Rehearsing her séance foremost in my mind
In character I asked, “Is anyone there?”
Was it a true spirit who answered?
A short young man swept down the aisle
Stage lights my vision hampered
“Hello,” I called as he disappeared
Into the workroom below the stage
For a moment I stood frozen
Losing my place on the script’s page
Curious, I followed his path
But the work area was empty
Where did he go? Whom did I see?
Unanswered questions tormented me
A bit of fear entered my heart
To doors above the seats I raced
No one else was in the theater
My terror was not misplaced
But as I opened the door to leave
Professor Harrison entered
Stunned, I gasped, and he had to ask
“What’s wrong?” (I was usually centered.)
“A man came in as I rehearsed,”
I panted, “wearing a shiny hat
And a jacket of dark blue satin.
He vanished, gone, just like that.”
My mentor grinned as I composed
“Believe me, what I’m saying’s true.”
Harrison smiled and said calmly
“Huh, I guess you saw him, too.”
I wasn’t first, perhaps not last
To see the lost jockey searching
For the stable that held his steed
As the great race was approaching
*October 16, 2014
True story. It turned out many students had seen this jockey's ghost. Professor Harrison worked on set construction and I could sometimes hear him talking to the "ghost." Happy Halloween!
Her sharp nail cut away the muscle from the bone
Each tormented scream of his was heard by her and him alone
He panted between screams and shouted, “Do you know who your father is?”
“It was the medicine man and I’m his son, you brother, please”
“I… know,” she whispered, “Now catch your breath, I want you alert,”
“Because this is where things are going to really hurt.”
The pain he felt from the boiling water sent him into a blackness so thick
A blackness he could feel against his skin that made him sick
At least the pain was gone, he thought he was dead
Until he heard her voice echo in his head
"Come back, come back to reality," it said
He heard whimpering and cries
From the demons cowering with “I’m glad it’s you,” teary fire red eyes
Just before, he was dragged back to consciousness
That moment he would dell on as a painless heavenly bliss
His nose was filled with the stench of his own flesh
He threw up at the sight of his bloody chest
The excruciating pain reminded him of reality afresh
This time he lay there, he was not alone
There were a thousand of his tormented tribesmen and she was sitting on a throne
Next to her was an eagle and a bear riddled with maggots to the bone
They were in the land of the gods, a hell he would call his new home
The village lies desolate, a village that once thrived full cheer
It took one little mistake which imprisoned with fear
And one by one they began to disappear
This is the story I was told by a man
Who hides in the town begging for food, when ever he can
I don’t know where he goes or where he has been
But since last month he disappeard… never to be seen
** Sorry P.D I didn't know how to end it but there is your Coyote**
on the lush carpet
I explored his lips and kissed him with lust
and he responded- to ravage my mouth
we were lost in ecstasy . . .
I panted his name and he whispered mine
until
we swirled higher and higher above the clouds
like birds in a wind current
then falling
falling . . .
___________________________
June 4, 2020
Poetry/Free Verse/carpet interlude
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1258-111-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Some Kind of Sensual
sponsor, Nette Onclaud, 45 words
First Place
COMPANION POEM TO :
ODE TO MYRRH TREE
So Myrrh stood in centre of desert
wild winds through branches delivering untruths plaited with sorrow
dust particles choking cacti
scatterings of sparse rain made
no patter ~
silence w a i t i n g
white became her trunk scrubbed with
daunting sunrays through sluggish day
undulating endless sand dunes …
panted
time miracle-less, no veils shielded
raw core, passive ~
lizards l o u n g e d
odourless her branches lost seduction
no oily lubricants for pear-shaped flesh
brittle bark snapped in lost loneliness
beauty a faded glory buried
d e e p
beetles spent by breeding atop
harsh grit of ancient desert f o s s i l i s e d
mystical myrrh magic was no more
her stump dissipating into fragments
sore
breathless desert discerned, exhausted
camels, lashes threadbare, kneeled surrender
tongues brittle papyrus into electrons
lips parched ~
lines of m e l a n c h o l y
Tree of kings, empresses and prophets !
where have colourful canvassed tents in
sandstorms gone with patterned serpents curling to tunes of alluring pipes,
smoke honey eyes, when limbs twined warm ~
sensual t o g e t h e r
the All-Embracing laments
languid
across desert’s fierce micro flames
sweat dripping ~ His amber inlays
melting into black beads
disappearing
soundless screams ache
starving l o n g i n g
ages of loveless waiting
what is beauty but terror flipped ?
wrinkles speak of struggle and beasts
time tightening grip across
opEN
s p a c e
scent slipping ashen dregs
as desert creatures cackled an end
stars dripping crystalline sorrow
myrrh momentarily disappeared …
___________________________
Published: Edge of Humanity Magazine:
June 26
Placed : 5th Premier Contest
Sponsor : Brian Strand
April 26
He was drenched, his hair plastered to his head;
dark eyes burned from sweat that ran salty rivulets down his red face.
Inflamed, and throbbing in all his straining parts, he panted hard.
She, his midnight vision, spurred him on. . . .
Her skin was moistened with perfume,
and her long velvet hair cascaded around his face
to graze his ruddy cheeks.
Her eyes of green mirrored the moonlight
as he gazed down at her. Then she softly moaned;
he focused on this vision and revived. . . .
His weak and flagging body suddenly became fully upright,
and as he gave himself one final thrust forward,
he propelled himself past one opponent and then the next
till at last he broke through the ribbon at record speed.
Victory! At last he'd won the gold!
It was a shock
Even though I didn’t check the clock
That colorful approach blew my mind
Cause it was seldom to find
Prior to this time, panted my heart
like never before
My system shook in search of the
missen…
My members anticipated for as long
as I waited
For time tickled slowly in delay of
fate
But something keeps beeping in my
head
Up! Up! It seems far away in the sky
Soaring with birds of unequal
feathers
And I know that’s ‘’U’’
When will force of gravity start
working in opposite?
When will rapture show its face?
Even if rapture and gravity take to
no concern,
Then I will board a plane
But still waiting for gravity to go hay-
wire,
Suddenly comes the heaven kissing
the earth.
And now comes my dreams at my
disposal
Oh! What an aura to behold.
See her smiling to attract sentence
My star, my heart, my baby
The rib that left before my inception
You’ve just filled the lacuna.
For I was blind yet could see your
heart
Dumb, but could still tell you that I
love you
Deaf, but heard you when you called
my name
Lame, yet walked into your life
Your eyes prints give me a reason to
stay
Your sonority reverbs in my tympanic
membrane-all wisdom like a sonic
boom
Hmm! I feel the euphoria of true
love
And I know we’ll forever move with
the speed of light
Now, my members dangle for joy
They jingle doggedly because of this
mingle
And never would I want to remain a
single
For my heart still pants to answer
your emotional questions
But…. Wait for a while!
Don’t I need some check up?
Ah! My chemistry has lost its sense
of organization
My members gyrate even when I
don’t take cigarette
I am drawn to what I cannot
understand
But that’s not my fault
Cause at the touch of love, everyone
becomes a poet.
CHILDREN OF LAHORE
(Easter Sunday 2016)
Arms flailing
From
Her
Blue burka,
The woman
Jumps
Like a checkerboard
Piece
Up and over
The white squares
Of bedsheet
To bedsheet
To bedsheet
Each
Draped
Over a
Red blossom
Bump
Lumped
And soaked on
The gravel dust
Fairground
Floor.
Like a game of peekaboo
Between mother and baby,
The woman
Lifts
A corner of sheet
Howls
Then pins it back
With her fingernails
And just as quickly
Jumps
To the next
Small
Square
Hump-covered
Sheet
Lifts
Repeating
The move
Three hundred
More
Times.
“Ibrahim!
Ibrahim?”
A police officer puts her in handcuffs.
No, her husband
Is tackling her.
Actually,
She is a fly swatter
Crazed, swinging at new yellow ghosts.
She
Tears
Her hair
Out
From the back of her head
Like overgrown grass
Grabbed
From a mud puddle
In clumps
Clamped
In her garlic-laced fists,
Even the dirt is surprised,
Hanging
By its bloody roots,
Dripping
In the air.
That is what a bomb, does.
She was a mother
An hour before,
Before she lost her shoes,
While she sat to the side, chatting
With friends
On a bench
As the Merry-Go-Rounds
Went round and round
And round
In the safe distance
And the painted horses
Panted
In the yellow dust.
The children stood in line,
Waiting their turn,
Sharing candies
From pockets and purses,
Checking time
From their phones.
The mother’s shoes
Were spooked
Away
Like fish behind a glass
At the moment
Of the hot flash and swish.
That man,
Yes
He knocked on the glass,
He knocked on the glass,
He pressed his narrow face
As he peered in,
Yes,
He knocked on that glass
Just before
He pulled the cord
Wrapped
Round his waist.
Oh, beautiful God
How could you allow this?
How could
Even the Devil
Do it?
Only a man.
Only a man
Of unfaith,
Of course,
Could smother the sunlight, like that,
Blowing to smithereens
A playground full of children.
Return Of The Tyke
Tyke, tyke, tyke' they’d chant to bait the bairn.
But insult hurled at Yorkshire folk is water off a back.
Take it, use it, grind it through the crank
As fuel for the fire, grist to mill.
Man as boy the tyke unwraps his bike.
Ride a mile, another ten. No stopping, pumping into the blood.
Cycle, eat, drink. Eat, drink, cycle.
Life’s biggest problem, darkest mood, cured in the turn of a pedal.
Through God’s own country
A yellow jersey pulls a golden thread.
Up fell down dale, through Yorkshire’s warp and weft,
It’s cruelest contours purled,
A bright new yarn weaves into the fabric of the hills.
Past mill, past gate, past pit-head dead, history’s milestones marked.
The ride is metaphor, the towns tell out my story.
Otley, Ilkley, Asgarth, Hawes.
Mum at factory, Grandma, The Black Bull - still standing.
The first sip of warm beer.
Mallerstang, Fleet Moss, Tan Hill.
Simonstone, that teacher, my Dad, Wensleydale and Granddad Thompson.
The Scar, the Cove, the Stang – part of us in every crevice, crook and corner.
Muker, Reeth, Masham, over cattle-grid, up the switch-back,
Buttertubs - Buttertubs - Buttertubs.
Suck at the air, tramp on the pain, tyres spit rubber, spit grit.
It’s all about the climb. Locked in battle against the gradient.
She’s out to hurt us, here to make us suffer.
In sickening waves her sweet call comes to quit, to quit,
To quit this spiritual ascent.
Up ahead, on the tarmac one by one, the giants of the fells swing into sight.
Robinson ‘55, Hoban ’68, doff your cap to Tommy Simpson
And Beryl Burton, she showed the lads a clean pair of heels.
I close the gap and hear them urge: “We too were once like you.
Ordinary.”
My own story is forced out,
Spat through bleeding gums and panted breaths it comes
“I’ll catch you, catch you, catch you.”
In Oxenhope and through Cragg Vale
Spirit generations line the streets “Make us proud son, make us
proud.”
We race by in a flash. As lives lived, as lives past.
One evening,
When final stage is done and life turns back to dust,
Take us back to the mountain top. Pause a moment as the weather turns,
Then set us free in the teeth of a gale.
I’ll call them on, those that struggle through the sleet and hale, soft and
strong.
As I myself, one morning, was called.
© Ben Hodgson 2014
You ask me now to sum the beauty in sun's eyes
And make of love the distinction that love despise
And all figures come only to my praise of the gift
God gave to Adam, when he unreplenished, adrift
Midst loneliness and impotence, found sleep blessed
To wake and find his rib enclothed with loveliness
Would you call the virgin mother frigid, cold
Who felt God's heat and furnished men his gold
Zeus too often imitate and did not once procreate
Beyond the fiction of the mind. All flesh fornicate
That cannot yield like Mary did to quiver and moan
To bear the first command to all; all pleasures groan.
The stigma then maligns my rib and cuts my breast
For only truth is beauty in all her virgin comeliness
Undemured, undefiled, stained by circumstance, and pure
The heart aches for beauty and found in Eve no cure
Just Mary Magdala, my passion's patient bride
Goddess of the penitent, queen of desire's tide
That like the moon brings sweet glow upon my bed
She copulates with the sun, and trees that naked shed
Themselves, like arthritic Simons, pay in rich spice
To luxuriate in the pleasures of her passion and vice.
What then her breached external form a little stained
The rich stream of heaven kept not disdained.
Measure this then against rebellious Eve, who crave
Man's pleasure but disdained to concieve; the rave
Of her autonomy to be as god, and provoked the earth
To crown an Astarte, Anat, Venus, Aphrodite as worth
To which some like Delilah or Helen made men bow
And worship in wine drenched mud the grovelling sow
Think of it, I never thought my mother panted or sweat
To shed a seed, for her purity repudiated such a threat
That I was concieved by the pleasure that first the pain
Mother is too chaste, and stainlesss all mothers remain
The mind rare permits sister or daughter expansion of gene
And yet unweb the stigma projected unto the queen
And where the stigma sits their lolls the brooding heart
Aflamed, the loins deep ocean longing to break apart
The solid rock that love strike to feed the egg athirst
The tongue languishing to bulge night's breast in verse
The hand to strip the curtain from the flesh, the skin
To meet as one, joy in joy, and love in love enmeshed.
I puffed and panted up the steps (and thought
about the novel Dracula, in which
the character called Mina ran up there)
and gasping, wheezing crawled towards the top
to look out over Whitby from the cliff.
The view was simply beautiful, I found -
enough to take one's breath away (but I
was breathless as it was, and so I tried
to catch my breath!) I didn't want to think
about the trek that faced me as I left
to walk back down those steps...
Remembering a visit to Whitby & climbing the famous 199 steps
written 6th January for Constance's B 'Breathless' blank verse contest
In the beginning there was man woman and bird and then there was see
when the spirit of God moved inside them, they were all flown in for free
At the very start God gave His will full hand but then he released free will
some recognized their part in it and chose good will others chose to kill...
We are in a secondary world full of pain and confusion buzzing like busy bees
and most of us have blinders on , we cannot see the forest for the trees;
Time evolves the Angels watch us carefully, wondering when will we learn?
some of us have make the effort to awaken, some of us still crash and burn.
In the beginning the earth was quiet and the deer panted near the brook
some of us dig deep in our souls, but then there are others who never look.
How I look back with regret
At that summer long ago
A sultry sensual summer
A time of sexual awakening
When I was on the threshold,
The blossoming of womanhood
And how I curse the time
I wasted on you
All those hours in your room
Listening to your music,
Your creative juices at work
Your incessant toe tapping
And finger clicking
To your tuneless efforts
Played on the out of tune guitar
That accompanied your juvenile
Angst ridden ramblings
“The music of your soul”
Was what you called it
God you were pretentious
Even for a teenager it was extreme
You were self obsessed,
Self regarding, self centred
Self absorbed, self deluded
Egocentric and narcissistic
In fact if the word
“Narcissism” hadn’t existed
They would have had to
Invent it just for you
If only you had realised
I wanted to make music with you
Raw unscripted passionate music
An ardent duet,
Fervently reprised
I had creative juices
I had creative juices to spare
I had a song of teenage want
About a frustrated nymphet
In lust with a pretentious musician
Who would rather finger his fret!!
Well I had urges
And I was left unsatisfied
By your excruciating folk
And your mournful dirges,
You called me your muse
Like I should be flattered
I didn’t want to be your muse
I wanted to be your groupie
I panted at you in desire
I dressed provocatively
I hinted at my lusty inclinations
I suggested you play my body
Like an instrument
But the sexual connotation,
Like everything else, was lost on you
And I remained unsullied
That sultry sensual summer long ago
Said man killed by cops
No humanity in the way they came
Men of law like criminals.
Monsters.
shoved me to the ground.
Squished breathless,
pinned hands,
collapsing ribs
I panted,
I could not speak,
nor ask for air.
I couldn't move.
My hands tried to move
like those dying in strangulation.
I CURSED the monsters.
That instant my now bulging eyes
saw the white cop yanked out his Gun.
I heard the sound of death resonating in my chest,
my life pasted so thin,
it would flow out as fast as the bullet flew in.
A few winks and I was cold,
looking up into the faces of evil loitering over me.
These toxic shameless now plotting in-sinuous lie
As I lay alone
not enough a moment to vision my children
before dying.
Oh Mama!
bring me them kids mama.
let me hug them one last time
Oh how I now long a hug of my babies.
But no, these devil worshipers stood over me
watch as my eyes dim,
prevent my love ones from coming to me.
Just a last touch of my babies
and I would have forgiven them.
i was cold and alone
drifting into another light
Now only God can watch over them.
Charles Manson was hidden evil
this is public evil
leavening my children
without my warmth,
and in the dens of evil.
I might have been bad
but no one deserve this tragic ending.
© Al. Juman The "said" Poet 7/7/2016
he panted heavily
muscles twitching in his naked body
running frenzied, without looking back,
he shouted, “He is after me.... my life”
a rip roaring cry....!
the traffic halted
pedestrians stopped
people from shops came out
women through curtained windows peeped
children stopped their play
“so drunk”.... a man murmured
“A crack”.... someone shouted
“coming right after an orgy”
sneered, an oldie...
“pity on him...! Take him to an asylum”
one gentleman suggested.
he needs help, majority opined
‘nab this plague’, the moral police quipped
what is he running from...?
an assailant....?
corona virus....?
his own phantom...?
two sane men staying,
at a corner wondered.
they had masks on their face
“must be a health worker”..!
one of them said...
“yes, the subtle nuances of a cracked mind”
the other agreed!
as the scene on the road,
had grown into a high voltage drama,
dissensions grew and multiplied!
March.10. 2023
~Placed Second~
Cracked Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Anthony Biaanco
Her eyes changed and hiding what is flowing over became difficult to hold back-
no longer the woman I knew before a little different, a little gone, a little bit lost-
seeing what I see as she holds her head in her hands and breaths away the tears
her smile to far and few between her laugh seldom heard but why only too often-
at first glance you see what she wants you to see what she portrays what mask she wears
going through the day as if its what we should be doing not what she dose
last to bed as the days calling brought just enough, just enough to keep from going over
as morning comes to soon her first thoughts are today will be different, knowing it won't
a smile as she avoids the mirror that would ask the questions she refuses to answer
a smile panted on as the day piles on never once would you think...how hard this is
wrapped in one of the most beautiful person I have ever known I'll steal that moment
while I grab hold of her hand sneak a kiss or just to look inside at who she hides
I see what no one sees what no one could be I see a gift, a blessing, I see love
out of love, for love , in love she is what he intended it to be
I would be selfish to call her all mine knowing the life she lives
she is...and for that we are.
To my wife and the love of my life thank you for all that you do.