Best Photographed Poems
My worst enemy is not a stranger,
but the fears that turn my heart into danger.
I care not to make a home upon the knife,
too afraid of the demons that poison my life,
as reason fights the devil, and my inner flame thrives,
soaked in the perfume of faith that revives ~
for I am worth more than the burning blame,
I bloom beyond dust, no longer the same.
I buried the nemesis dressed as my sweetest nightmare,
found my remedy in rhyming stars, amidst despair…
O tormentor, the familiar doubt creeping in silence,
I defy the voiced viciousness of your violence.
I am the violet diamond, sparkling blue,
photographed in parallel peace, now seeing the clue
of how terrors stole the rose-beam colors of light,
blurring my sunsets, clouding the velvet ink of night…
So watch me as I fall into the warmth of deep devotion,
surrendering my quill to the secrets of the infinite ocean…
What is life without the trust of ache ~ if not a heart breathing love’s rhyme,
as tonight… the moon slips stars between our souls’ truth ~ sweetly touched by time.
I wish I was a fluffy cloud,
Puffy, white, glittering, glorious, majestic, perfectly safe, appreciated, loved.
A fluffy, white cumulous, floating around without a concern in the world,
Floating past meadows, forests, mountains, floating over oceans, smelling the salt.
I would not have a care in the world, because I would be of the world.
I would float around silently, in peace, oblivious to the mean things that happen in houses,
Carefree, joyful, exuberant, respected, well-loved, admired, painted and photographed.
Children could lie on blankets, and marvel at my pretty lightness, my slow, methodical movements.
Teenagers could shut their eyes under my watch, knowing there is goodness somewhere.
Grandparents could look up and smile at me as they play outside games with their grandchildren.
It would be such a terrific ending to a great life. I wish I was a fluffy cloud.
( This poem is about the ' Killing Fields' of Cambodia, 1975-79, where as many as 2 million people were murdered by the communist Khmer Rouge. I taught in Phnom-Penh from '73-74, and never met a people I liked more.)
They haunt me still,
the brown children laughing, always laughing,
the women voluptuous, languid,
their movement almost an invitation....
Even the traffic policeman:
crisp, clean, proud in uniform,
moving with ballerina grace
as hordes of cyclos and mopeds
and the occasional automobile
pirouette endlessly about him,
impatient bees made quiescent
by surreal beauty of white-gloved arms
cutting through thick tropical air....
Everywhere was grace, gentleness:
temples incandescent at dawn,
with ant trails of orange-robed monks
cradling their pot-belly begging bowls,
the patient women standing by the road
to lump rice into the begging bowls,
the monks always staring blankly ahead
as the women bowed low in reverence,
grateful their gift of life was taken....
And oh, how wondrous it was:
an accident in the street, yet no anger,
no bile--forgiveness, felt before thought,
thought before uttered....
How could such a people murder?
No, not murder-- slaughter!
Their mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles,
teachers, priests, friends and children too.
Change temples of peace into charnel-houses?
Schools of knowledge into abattoirs?
They photographed every butchered lamb,
like the devil's children on holiday,
and decorated the classroom walls,
a show-and-tell of horror and despair.
Why? Why?--
Why such pain on
such a gentle people?
Why did God hide His face
while the world turned its back?
Fifty,
fifty,
fifty
years
and still...
still they haunt me.
When I think back on the tattered pages of my life, I find so much sadness and
sorrow. But there was a time way back when life was truly perfect, before Susan
was killed by a truck walking home from school one winter day. She was six and I
was four and we were sisters who were loved very deeply. Our parents were
hardworking and wonderful to us. But that day changed everything, nothing was
ever the same.
I can remember quite far back, it seems amazing that I can recall being fed in a
high chair, the train was coming and I had to open my mouth. I can still hear
mother laughing when I got food all over my face. She liked to dress the two of us
like twins. I was big for my age and Susan was small for hers. We were adorable,
everyone said so. Many days we went for walks around the neighbourhood and
sometimes we played in this beautiful wooded park that had a pond with ducks
and swans. I remember we would put our feet in the cold water and shriek our joy.
Sometimes we went to the beach dressed in our blue satin swimsuits and
everyone said we were sweet with our shiny hair and of course, we adored the
attention. I recall going to a fair with games and rides. We had ice-cream and
candy floss and went on amusement rides. We especially loved the ponies. Once I
was photographed by the local newspaper with the caption, "tot enjoys the fair," I
still have that photo of me with a big candy floss in my face.
We had dolls and teddy bears and grandma gave us a real tea pot and cups to
to use for our tea parties in the back yard, she even made us peanut butter
cookies, oh, it was lovely. Dad made us a little table with two chairs and a cupboard
for our dishes. We would dress up in grandma's old hats and stuff and even invited
the cat, it is a beautiful memory. Then Susan died and I had two of everything
like clothes, teddy bears, dolls and toys. Life was never the same.
_____________________________
March 31, 2015
Poetry/Prose/The Beautiful Days
Copyright Protected, ID 03-658-687-31
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
For the Standard contest, Golden Days,
sponsor, Rob Carmack, Judged 04/2015
10th Place
If we were a beach
then you would be the sand, diamond warmth,
and I the shingle underfoot.
If we were a pen
then I would be invisible ink,
and you a permanent marker, fluorescent.
If we were wine
you would be the vineyard, the grape, the wine list itself;
I a bottle unopened, left corked.
If we were a theatre
I am the playbill of a show cancelled and unseen;
you, the stage in spotlight: golden, applauded.
I the tile and you the whole mosaic
for us as a Roman floor;
I a shattered pane and you the handle
with us in the shape of a door.
As clothing – you a shiny button, me a thread to be snipped.
As hair – you a photographed trend, I a ponytail clipped.
If we were a couple,
Then you would be blind.
If our love was a tape,
I’d forever record, pause and rewind.
If we were a cake
you would be the fingertip licked icing
and I a batter filled lump.
If we were a body
then you would be the heart
and I the blood you pump.
Empathetic Light
Lady Diana, the exquisite Princess of Wales.
A heroine now in hundreds of tales.
An accomplished pianist at Buckingham Palace.
A hopeful ballerina, a kindergarten teacher.
A radiant young woman who loved to dance,
A royal young activist.
A humanitarian princess with courage, not discouraged.
A demure beauty, dedicated to duty.
To replace fear with compassion, she modeled for the world charitable actions.
"Hold my hand, I’m not afraid”
whispering to a man who suffered with AIDS.
Her hugging and empathy never ceasing, her tender love always increasing.
A hospital president for sick children, her mission.
Cautiously walking through land mines, one scary step at a time.
Explosives in the ground, she showed their purpose no longer found.
Her little princes, one on each arm.
William and Harry adored their mum.
To normalize life at times,
Disney rides, McDonald’s fries…
Paparazzi hunted her for years, bringing danger and tears.
The most photographed woman in the world.
A wedding dress of 10,000 pearls
An elegant, humble golden girl.
One evening a tragic trip through a Paris tunnel.
Drive faster,
speed up,
turn them off
put them down
stop clicking
turn around.
Then a horrific shame, who was to blame?
Indescribable loss at a human cost.
God wanted her back in 1997.
The Princess Of Wales, was our present from heaven.
They say a billion mourned. The world’s hearts truly torn.
Memories of mummy nobody could take.
Two royal sons, their hearts did break.
Now fathers with children to love, new charities to support and take care of.
I miss her now and missed her then.
Your sister, my mother, her nanny, my friend.
She changed the world for nations until her end.
The lives she touched were made healthier and bright by
Lady Diana's empathetic light.
We photographed this shoot
Against frosted glass
In the shape of hearts
That captured her class
Her long blond hair
Catches the light
Her curvaceous shape
Delights
Peachy skin
Immaculate pose
She looks
My love for her grows
White silk robe
In midriff drape
This vista, my view
I am left agape
Our shoot closes
The applause we take
As i turn to my Tink's
My darling, its you who makes
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/love-10.php
The young boy happy and contented in life
Sheltered from the real evils of man
Lost in his room with the treasures of adventure
Unbridled dreams tapestry serene summer days
Purity of youth’s innocence in soft blue eyes
This happy child lost in pages upon his bed
Never paying life a second thought
The realization that someday he would pass on
Oh, to be invincible again if only for a moment…
Years flitter by on the winds as they always have
Struggle reared up its eyes all to often
The imagination boy of unsullied venture
Began the transforming journey into the world
The crisp blue eyes of photographed youth
Now a hard gray reflecting scars of strife
The insatiable ardor for living in the moment
Becomes the bittersweet flavor of years gone by
Under the flushing candle his sword now a pen
He writes of looking in the mirror of whetted eyes
Wishing what he believed then, he could grasp now.
Oh, to be invincible again if only for a moment…
What the eye can see
or heart can feel,
we fondle nerves of the mind
to perceive. In a black and white
photo hanging bare, unframed,
received by my reflection
falling
from a beige-colored page.
Melding with shapes of sky
and curves of cool serenity,
a rainy day frozen in love
as clouds congregate above
and from umderneath street lights
in still drops of rain -
photographed and shared.
I feel haunted by this vision,
an artist’s gray eyes seep into my soul.
We, two, connect, our storm
fueled layers -
all black, white; the shadows between.
I make a wish here,
found in this moment,
pervious in timeless perception.
In absence of color, I see more
than storms in ominous skies,
I see hope in bold and fading
light, temptation-
heavens and earth
in beautiful discord.
What the eye can see
or the heart can feel,
beauty animates each part of the whole,
in every transparent drop of rain
every dark and light cloud
encircling our touch.
3/7/15
They were once fine,
long-fingered and aristocratic:
photographed resting lightly
on a model's shoulder
as she wore a mink
while clutching a Gucci.
In childhood they played
like all kids' hands play:
clutching, grabbing, throwing,
waving to unseen allies
while fighting to a gory death
hordes of relentless foes.
In manhood they sought
to caress a woman's flesh
rather than play throw and catch...
they explored the wondrous nooks
and crannies with hunger and hesitancy,
always joyfully losing themselves
in her eternal unknowingness.
They were mighty then,
the hands of a young god,
giving pleasure in equal measure
to its taking...
but now their skin lies cracked and
shrieking of seven decades--
the fingers are bending like old trees
succumbing finally to the brutal wind,
with knobs sprouting from joints
and a low pain taking up a permanent
and most uninvited residence....
How comes the moon to shine on high?—
a simple query, so it seems…
Yet though its glow can light the sky,
from where arise those silver beams?
Do we imagine gleaming rays
from self-illumined orb of night
still visible through sunlit days
as drifting earthly satellite?
Albeit a deceptive view
as Parmenides suspected,
mirrors may catch with brilliance true
even radiance reflected.
When Armstrong from Apollo probe
stepped out on ground with grayish tint,
we spied the craters of that globe
along with astronaut footprint.
The moon cannot give off the sheen
of all the sunlight it receives,
for most that falls upon that scene
its regolighic surface thieves.
And what about the face we see
during a lunar crescent phase,
while slivery as it can be
amidst its ever-changing ways?
The rest in ashen glow is lit
by earthshine to that orb we give.
So we spot more than glossy bit
through rebound rays from where we live
that then bounce back to us again.
Its far side, long a mystery,
was photographed on spacecraft, when
the Luna 3 made history.
This abiding lamp nocturnal
glimmers in the darkness dreary,
through our joy or grief infernal,
guiding souls forlorn and weary.
Moonstruck dreamers through the ages
gazed with wonderment up above,
filling endless lyric pages
with euphonious songs of love.
That pearly visage dear to us,
does science take away its thrill
by making matters clear to us?
So much is known already… still
with poesy of clair de lune
we mortals rhapsodize the moon.
~ Harley White
3/21/17
Is it going to be the low, high, wrong or right path?
Something I've grasped
You can't get any time back
Days and nights just might pass
Quite fast
The weather and intentions of people colder than ice packs
Humans kill and fight over cash
Just like that
In more or less than five flat
How quickly some will put a knife in your back
Trying to set you up in some kind of trap
Regardless of if it leaves all ties slashed
Too many have little to no regard for life and laugh
And it is not by chance
Sometimes due to a leak in a line of gas
Explosions caused after one striked a match
Usually causing damage and a bright flash
Medicines made by plants
Occasional ocean waves with white caps
Vague and very well defined maps
Crude and fine crafts
Dotted, single colored and striped hats
Near and far from spice racks
As well as any spyglass or wine glass
There was different types of bats
Inside a mineshaft
A sack of rice sat
Ending up becoming a nice snack
For several sighted or blind rats
A house with orange, grey , black and white cats
And nine mats
Several windows ajar so there is a slight draft
In the sky photographed
Another unidentified craft
Not going to give this a timestamp
While using a stihl trimmer to slice the grass
By: Dalton Ogletree
If I were to swagger off the streets
Some gangster as I perched the skulduggery
Of my litany in glitter and smoke
An ageless vandalism to linger unknown
While I sneer from the lounging corner of your TV
Would you recognise me
Though I slide sheathed in the flags and banners
Barking and whining with the malaise dogs of freedom
Still with the coils of bright subliminal stars
With the cool smoothing glass of my poison
Throttle every whisper in the eyes of your children
Would you know me
Should I sink in bitter teeth this Nospheratu gift
A mechanical mayhem of guts and blood
In impassioned exaltation choke the anthems of liberty
Should I scream dank from the cellar
Beneath the rubble litter of such celebrated and hollow victory
Would you hear me
When I dally in the mall smile Muzak ghost of neon
And peddle from every crisp clean rotting shelf of starvation
By coat-hanger noose dangled so footloose
Breathes it’s monoxide pull into your lungs
Better for the fashion this fashionable becomes
Do you recognise me now
As I secretive polished in slick glide reflective coercion
In the vaunted line of the halls of my fathers
Where this iniquitous trail of fiddling crumbs
Lay their poor morsel under the boot of my banquet table
I dine on metal and speak with weapons
And faceless electronic the vendetta of surveillance
And twisted media to quell every utterance
I hide this honed blade skulking behind you
Chill grip to the spine in bright sunshine
I haunt you
You ….. photographed
Are ….. stamped, filed
Mine ….. and numbered
Picasso painted me ugly.
Two lips slung over a rusted hanger.
One eyebrow burnt for attention's sake.
Let's tell Grandma how much fun we had today.
Picasso is still at work.
Monet swallowed your stupidity.
Five teeth missing and nary a barbed retort to bend.
One un-photographed smile was left behind.
Let's tell Grandpa his prized lilacs are in mourning.
Monet is still at work.
Seurat poked your larynx.
The roses in your hands may be the thorns in your side.
Ivy and Sumac spice the teas I serve the unfortunates.
Let's tell Auntie June her parasol spikes are dull and snapped.
Seurat is still at work.
O'Keefe smears one simply.
Stamens and pistils shoot the misanthropes dead.
A spare will be guarded for the one's I've missed.
Let's tell Uncle Ed the lessons you've learned today.
O'Keefe is still at work.
DaVinci played baccarat with Stalin.
Swelled hands made it difficult to paint distinctly.
Dirty tongues are as useful as frayed dishrags.
Let's tell no one anything.
Let's tell no one nothing.
(naughty, bastard boy -
using double negatives in one sentence).
Pay one tuppence to the tillerman
and remind the collected town criers -
I'm at work.
We're all
at Work.
His logos, oh, God had photographed
and made young Jesus his negative!
That, for us to see, to paragraph
it in life, so our souls, be received.
But what’s faith does to my biograph
that my blooming illusions believed?
His logos, oh, God had photographed
and made young Jesus his negative!
Faith is like snowflake, a calligraph,
on fingertips of my thoughts that give
a paragon of virtue to live,
a subjective plot upon a graph;
His logos, oh, God had photographed
and made young Jesus his negative!