Best Sharped Poems
an orchestrated night glitters
to the wand wave of the maestro unborn
sweetness licks on liquorice sticks
fingered on silver keys
the moon melts like a honey drop
as sopranos sing
in harmony the coyote calls
base notes cajoled by passing horns
meld as cicada rub the reeds
legging each sharped phrase
with intonations of delight
The key to feeling loved—attention
sharped or flatted drilled or bored,
love demands attention that’s the score—
marry the compound emotions of gist and jest,
sing the song of sorrow serene:
lay lie Ophelia on the waves of death
but grab the stage please.
Separated, longing, faceless, safety falsely felt
instruments of creation writhe in amour
lipping candied words across a span of white
following the cursor through the long night
a bouncing ball while music
plays, lovers seek delight.
Age, an unseen pain does not betray the seeking heart
wrinkled countenance denied by purloined words,
heat self-fingered brings release percussed by tapping
indexes, moans cascade to vibrato trills alone
Attention to the tale, the changing platform of the frame
love unknown, unfounded, forms within the detail of the page.
Contest: The Pain of Night
It was too dark ,
Without a single spark.
The lonleyness biting you ,
Like a sharped teeth of a shark.
Leaving you with a frightful mark ,
Your heart shaking from the tears that bark.
Listen to this voice ,
That breaks through the sadness ,
Releasing you ,
From the tights of the madness.
You have been dragged to the bottom ,
For too long ,
Forgeting to remind oyurself ,
Captivation is what makes you strong.
Consider every exposed sight ,
Before bringing the thought ,
For what is right.
What of who has pushed you away ,
It is already becomed a passed day.
Where you want to stand ,
Is the current matter ,
Remark your place with determination ,
Is when it begins on better.
Sandy ‘winds roars, deadly Sandy roar ashore
As the night darken, the people screams no more! No more!
You Ocean whore!
Along the broad walks Hurricane Sandy barreled towards land. ...
Ripping two beautiful little angels from their mother’s hand
Cockamamie dwellers, fled from their homes
The high winds were no match for fowl, beast or man
Sandy winds roars, Sandy roar ashore
Leaving tons of sand;
On the main land
Roof tops, the barbed wire, with sharped edges were defeated
Mortal men lost again to winds of fate.
Sandy winds’ roars, she whistles; she roars ashore.
The long summer of 2012 became a dream
While our footprints fade in the sand
Our hearts ripped apart
We prayed in the dark. : For calm and peace
Everywhere she went it was darkness
Our hearts ripped apart
We prayed in the dark. : For calm and peace
Please, please! Sandy spared us please.
I feel i must breathe out these flames,
Wreathe it on a sword and fight out these things
Cascading down these chambers of my mind
Searching to refine everything searing on my mind
Something to salve and clear the mind of mine that is blind
You know your time when notes begin to rthymn
Forming for you these visions that allow you to look through
My eyes
It grows with time until the blades edge is sharped and fine
Unseal and reveal everything in with the hymns
Storm the emotions while thunder cries
short and tall paint brushes
paints pencils sharped sketch pads all waiting . . .
muse flat
_____________________
February 12, 2021
Poetry/Modified Senryu
Copyright Protected, ID 02-1328-098-12
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, All Yours (Feb 14)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 02/14/2021
Drifting in what
you say,
a chord like resonance
far away.
I can hear it’s stark
stance. The sad, sad
droopy glance
of you.
The darkness you wear
does not bear
to the bright of your mind.
I’ve gone blind!
sharped, then oblique,
like the poor weeping
meek.
Time is weak,
trickery of the eye
is all, when you
blink you fall.
And the jester that laughs,
the dreamer that cries,
both sit upon the spines
of sentences,
while blowing smoke like sighs,
through chromatic
images.
This is time:
The wall of
vines, of slick moss,
bricked in around
you pay the cost
on credit. Bad, corrupt credit...
credit chaos
is what plastic and deceit
create.
Innate,
minds need to
investigate truths.
Fire-engine
Now that it is autumn going towards winter
I often think about morbid things to avert this
I think of what I liked as a child.
The sound of the fire engine rushing through
the town; ran after it and felt heroic.
Often the fire was far away when I got there
it was too late; the fire had been small
rubbish burning in junkyard sot on a wall.
Firemen, rolling up their hoses, they
were called that, now they are firefighters
to make it more inclusive, mind you, I have
never seen a female among them, I knew
there were women at the fire-house.
I went there to have mother’s kitchen knives
sharped; they deftly wrote on typewriters.
I was going to be a fireman, they looked so
tall and tough, spitting manly.
Alas, a few years down the line, they grew smaller.
Poet will use all it takes
To travel our works all over the world
Meeting poet celebrities with handshakes
The ones figurative words twirled
Monsters of us flowing lakes
Our works will run connections in water
Illuminating the littles fishes, escape route
From sharped eyes shark hunting freshwater
Calmly steady in its hangry pursuit
But, for grace, we set in as an arbiter
To quench the supposed fruitful fire
Burning to capture the sweet corn
And fry in belle's pot off any release desire
Hosting bile duct(s) at morn
Now, left with no choice than to retire
Poets transcend above anointing
Of been referred to pastors
For the unction is beyond appointing
One a specific role of facing disasters
But our pens touch lives pastors keep avoiding
With or without money
Time knows hatred
How sweet is honey
Whenever bliss coexisted
To keep blood runny
And avoid the sand
To bury all living dreams
We paint our future's brand
Of lasting awesome themes
Test of time will certainly withstand
Even making her some teases in irony
Birthed out of culture to check her paraliepsis
And lay her presence low to my scrutiny
To balance the unexpected result; an equation of antithesis
Her waist shall turn me around in hyperbole
Like no other would cooking up imagery
My soul's eyes view colossally
To dwell in her secretive aerie
Gladly will I toast words
The day I put on the way to the altar
And put off the doubt of timing birds
Which could rent my pen to halter
Then find in my pieces buzzwords
Oh! When she shall finally accept
Our loves been one, may err
And we shall not be affected
Then poet's love for her
Till the end of time will never be defeated