Best Stabs Poems
An almost stillness came about
as she strode into my door,
like breath itself refused to move,
fearful of touching her mysterious beauty
But her obsidian eyes betrayed her.
Sharp and gleaming,
with a silver sheen
she looked at me,
and I knew…
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Molten lava spilled forth from her mouth, melting our clocks—
eighteen hundred nightmares compressed in two hours.
Long hand moving forward, as the short hand moved backward
How can memories persist in such an acrid life?
She spoke of a beast in the guise of a man,
one who ravaged innocence with the flick of a click
A coward that collected milk teeth for hardened bones
of other horny beasts with no spine
That throaty tenderness when she spoke
sprinkled crystal seeds of frustration in me
She says he loathed him, denied she loved him
but her obsidian eyes betrayed her
There she was, a bud he plucked from the nuns’ garden
He grafted then he pruned her,
spreading her pollen, wafting her scent
yet folding her petals to himself
Caterpillars feeding upon her leaves,
she lets them devour her,
yet once they are wrapped in their cocoons to sleep,
she stabs them with her thorns.
Tears then slid down from her midnight lace eyes
and it was all I could do to catch them
She said she was weary of curtailing butterflies,
of tearing their wings before they can even fly
I had to ask, how many… how many winged gems?
She lifted her sleeves, and showed me her scars
One ugly mark for each innocent child plunged deep,
my heart getting slashed at least three hundred a beat.
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A certain stillness came about
as I strode into her door,
like fear itself refused to move,
letting breath touch her mysterious beauty for the last time....
Her obsidian eyes had betrayed her.
Sharp and gleaming,
with a silver sheen
I looked at the knife beside her.
Maroon-mapped sheets, a stunted womb.
Strains of Bon Iver’s “Flume”
flit past the sighing air like a butterfly,
and I knew…
08112014
His smile is like a white crescent,
but a murky sky is hidden inside.
Afraid to portray mourning's of his mind
nor describe sour sickness of his tongue.
Piercing pain constantly stabs at wounds,
but you can't see his bitter blood bleeding
nor the bonfires burning his burdened heart.
He is the master of the masquerade,
exemplary scholar of skillful silence -
a psychologist's worst nightmare.
Yet they flock to him to adore his words,
so they can feel the magnetism of his smile,
laugh at his childish antics, be happy for a while.
Greatest showman playing the great pretender,
but he's crumbling, stumbling and tumbling inside.
Despite an abundance of admiration and applause,
he finds no solace, so feels miserably alone.
Feeling like a snowflake on a rainy day,
an empty balloon battling against the storm.
Demons of self doubt mock his actions,
he shakes his head in disbelief - but they laugh,
he screams, but they belittle him further!
His stomach shrinks with a loss of appetite,
dark bags appear beneath his sleepless eyes.
Life is a whirlpool of fractured fragments of glass.
Wondering what is the blessings of breathing,
what is the purpose of another sunrise.
He aches to be burnt into ashes
Will they even miss him if he is gone?
Silent One
21 October 2020
This poem is dedication to everyone who keeps a smile, when their world is falling apart. Many will relate, this is not a bio.
When writing it, at first I thought about Freddie Mercury and the show must go on, but as I wrote it, Robin Williams came to mind.
Someone we all miss.
We never know what people are going through. Sometimes, I see someone smile, but I try to look beyond. Never underestimate the importance of reaching out to someone. It could make a big difference in their lives.
As poets we have the power to reach out to many people through our words.
Is there someone you have not reached out to?
Thank you for reading.
I used to like barbells, enjoyed pumping iron,
my Nautilus* gym was one happy environ.
Those posters of 6-packs and marbled biceps
inspired me to start counting carbs, pounds, and reps.
My trainer would coax, "hold as long as you can!"
Doing deadlifts I felt like a WAS a dead man
The kettlebell, medicine ball - hated those,
since dropping 'em both on my poor little toes.
My dad-bod and willpower soon parted ways,
after only 1 set, I was shell-shocked for days
My back hurt, my knees ached, I'd injured my hips,
after grimacing nonstop, I'd sprained both my lips.
Oy! The sharp pain that shoots
through my quads, delts and glutes...
Now my game plan is shifting
no more power lifting.
To planks, it's "no thanks",
I'm expunging all lunging.
I feel stabs in my abs,
there's a hex on my pecs
and my lats shriek like bats.
When I tweak my oblique
I am sore to the core...
and I want it no more.
The rowing machine is no longer my scene
I loathe those squats lots and I hate crunches bunches.
Do sit-ups or push-ups? Do jump-ups or chin-ups?
I'm more inclined now to do lots of "I-give-ups".
My doc tried convincing me I'd be less tired?
I'm questioning how that poor man's brain is wired!
I felt half exhausted just WATCHING staff clean
the ellipticals, treadmills, and stair-climb machine.
Then... I found when I stood on the locker room scale
That my plan to lose weight was a sad epic fail!
I'm done! I have finished my very last burpee -
I just want a hot dog and super-size Slurpee.
What happened to wanting to feel fit and well?
When it came to workouts, I was just a dumbbell.
I've resolved now to walk more, or swim a few laps
maybe jog, ride my bike, play some tennis, take naps.
That's right, getting plenty of rest seems so plain,
it appears the most challenging muscle to train ...
is the brain.
* Nautilus is a brand of gym equipment
written 2 Oct 2022
This Life
From a child taught Catholic creed,
drilled, drilled into me by school nuns;
those teachings will never recede,
but, since those days I have lived tons.
Spirituality, is life,
I found this on my long journey;
and when life stabs me with her knife,
I seek the deep green and ferny.
In the silence of a forest,
I contemplate all chosen paths;
in the peace of a birds chorus,
yet, still I feel the sting of wraths.
With a mindset of courage, strength,
and a moral way of thinking;,
and a soul with great depth and length,
I just face this twisted life unblinking.
My Next Life
I can see a girl in shadows,
she looks like me but is not me;
I will find her in death's repose,
and will awaken as this she.
In afterlife, I am reborn,
to a unique language spoken;
odd rituals to welcome morn,
I find symbols of God broken.
My past life is gone and erased,
I have no emotions at all;
there is no sorrow to be faced,
no friends, no lovers to enthrall.
This new life a bottomless void,
I wonder for this place called Earth;
for here I am a humanoid,
maybe, maybe on my rebirth.
As Our Breath Flows, Here and Now
So, having considered all this,
I think I will embrace living;
seeking serenity and bliss,
total acceptance and giving.
I am okay with the fast pace,
and will be the best I can be;
for the Lord will provide me grace,
life a puzzle given to me.
I will weep and mourn when I must,
will hold to my heart memory;
write words to release as stardust,
and treasure each sweet reverie.
And when death comes to claim this girl,
let me repose deep in my grave;
beneath blue sky where the clouds swirl,
and lay roses like a red wave.
________________
December 8, 2021
Poetry/Quatrain/Doublethink Beliefs
Copyright Protected, ID 12-1411-921-08
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, Doublethink Beliefs
sponsor, Unseeking Seeker, Judged 12/31/2021
First Place
...carries the wilted weight of autumn
in its broken beauty
with fields of brown stalks,
unharvested pumpkins that rest like mislaid dreams
patient where they are
November, detached from the moorings of green
when golden leaves, sparse, cleave to skein branches
to thwart the creep of cold
the leaf brown baggage below curls at its edges
like fickle affection
and yet,
the busy abundance of harvest
foretell platters of gratitude
Thanksgiving
a mix of deliverance and charisma
tangible
like the elation of coming home
month of nocturnal stabs of frost bring foliage to weeping
L i s t e n
L i s t e n
to what murmurs beneath half frozen furrows
fields that know what pushes through seasonal loss
radical roots
stored in darkness
a spring-to-come growth
thronged with voices
that never lay
far below
the surface
Poem written November 6th, 2022
RODIN’S NEW ICON
Should Rodin live today would he be inspired
To sculpt a marble sequel to THE THINKER
Modern ethos means fresh image is required
To become an old to new generation linker
[Perhaps in stone less pale, a little pinker!]
He might witness casts of posture stereotypical
And find there inspiration for his art
With perceptive focussed eye and viewpoint quizzical
An image would develop in his heart
Of a body bowed, head inclined toward hand sinister
While index digit stabs from aspect dexter
Then with his hands he’d clay or stone administer
To create a new iconic symbol; and name it: THE TEXTER
Snowy tombs
quiet grace
angel
w
e
e
p
s
agony stabs heart
t
e
a
r
s
misty . . .
r o s e s
azure decay- words twine
Mommy
_____________________________
December 19, 2017
Poetry/Free Verse/Death
Copyright Protected, ID 17-9741-91-0
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
_____________________________
Poem of the Day week of December 10, 2017
I am very pleased to present a third collaboration with Robert Lindley,
an extraordinary poet who inspires and humbles me with his pen.
A Collaboration With Robert Lindley
27th October 2018
The root of the melancholy
he has not always known,
and perhaps, with strangers
and with unknown strangeness,
he has embraced its love
and loved its hateful wounds.
He prides the strength resting his bones,
the iron-glove that wields power grasped
in his haste to taste its honeyed glow,
anticipation seeds ever greater destruction
as horrific night dreams eat into oblivion.
The root of the melancholy
she has occasionally known,
and surely, among bitter foe
and boon companions lost,
she has lurched painfully from it
and pained herself yet more.
Blind to the curse, she begs for more
sharpening blades to spew the red,
eager for battle yet fearful the result
she prays dark gods lend power, not gold,
as dawn awaits its inevitable relief.
The wounds of devils not false
but gods surely true
persist within the marrow
of abject, seething, mortal slaves,
and morbidly caress and torment,
and the leaves are bitter as the root.
For in realms of dark - thirst so consumes
that even the chaff born from regret,
this the black seeds do replenish;
ever deeper moans from heartache and woes
resounding echoes from piercing stabs.
The hex is feverish as its birth.
Stamens and pistils
delicately poised
Shamans and pistols
making too much noise
Soft buzz preferred,
a silencer’s desired
Pollinator’s sense
the triggers just fired
Nectar brings balance
agape open wide
Willing the seeker
to do laps inside
Comes with a snag
also stitch in the side
Fulcrum of a rose
the thorn realised
My soul’s not a flower
just gives and takes
Wants what it craves
accepts all, even fakes
Opens too early,
closes far too late
Can’t tell if I’m full,
yet knows when I’m sate
Possesses a thorn,
and stabs by design
Fulcrum of my soul’s
human not divine
Protects at all costs
only thing that’s mine
Not pain or loss,
just my life to define
Knotted in the torsion of a tempest’s mood -
the barrage drains the sun and overwhelms the dusk
ire’s flash stabs the night.
Susan Ashley
April 6, 2019
~ Second Place ~
Contest: Favorite Poem From Last Week (March31 - April 6, 2019)
Contest: Lu Loo
~ Third Place ~
Contest: April 2019 Premier (3 Line Max)
Sponsor: Brian Strand
This faded memory sleeps in my mind
covered with years of gathered dust to shield
the pain remembering brings to my heart;
but even so, the hurt has never healed.
Sometimes the gathered dust that shields my pain
is swept away to bare this hurt again.
The Nursing Home
1978
Like faded photos lying in a drawer,
so tucked away from sight of mind and eye,
the memories of which bring pangs of hurt,
this one I love, she waits her turn to die.
To join the mournful displaced of old age,
from home and family, she had to part;
she does not see the pain I also feel,
as loneliness stabs deep her weakened heart.
Oh dear Grandma, I once laid in your arms,
I was your pride and joy, your dream come true.
But life does balance joy with darker hours,
and sometimes there is nothing one can do.
I cannot bear to see your tear-filled eyes,
your robust figure turned to bones and skin;
your pleading hands that yearn for yesterday,
the smell of death and dying there within.
And though I know I'll be with you again,
throughout the time between, I choose to keep
you tucked away from sight of mind and eye,
safe in my drawer of memories you'll sleep.
Today that gathered dust that shielded pain
was swept away to bare this hurt again.
February 28, 2015
~1st Place~
Contest: Memories
Sponsor: Nayda Evette Negron
Judged: 05/06/2016
~1st Place~
Contest: Gathering Dust
Sponsor: John Lawless
Judged: 03/15/2015
this sad heart
broken heart
heart aching
heart delicate and weeping
weeping lost love
weeping to God
God Almighty
God can you hear this girl
girl of sadness
girl of love
love mine
love like a sword
sword that stabs my heart
sword of love's memory
memory that comes in dreams
memory and family secrets
secrets hidden
secrets from the past
past buried
past dead with the beloved
beloved that lay in death
beloved family husband and baby
baby who never saw the sky
baby oh the love
love locked within
love that inspires me to write poems
poems from my dripping pen
poems of love
love and sorrow written in blood
love has made me this poet
poet of painted words
poet of rhyme and verse
verses of love
verses of love flowing
flowing and floating for eternity
flowing with love and forlorn beauty
beauty is poetry
beauty in natures scenery
scenery to take your breath away
scenery down a beaten path
path winding in a forest
path to love
endless
endless the poems of love
love and love
love of a broken heart
heart bleeding
weeping
bleeding . . .
___________________________
May 18, 2015
Poetry/Blitz/This Weeping Love
Copyright Protected, ID 15-696-418-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, Best Love Poem #2,
sponsor, Skat
Third Place
The lunchroom fart
of turbo pasta
scatters garlic teargas
laced with meaty mystery
without mercy to
flatten cubicles.
Chain-reactions
of Tupperware battles
erupt to devastate
once discerning pallets
until hobbled by stabs
of shrapnel to the gut,
prompting an exodus
of mournful bodies
propelled along that cloud
of processed misery
to wander, ashen-faced
along the concrete void.
The House is "SHAKING"
Hell's Angels are attacking it
The black Sky is "ACHING"
Stabs...Strike Lightning Quick
A Great Thunder's "Rumbling"...
In the battle of Devils cried the Stars
Ghost magically appearing
to scratch and scar the night
Voices Scream out "HELP ME"
Echos terrorize your head
Who's the Spooky creature
Is it underneath your bed
Check all of the windows
I hear footsteps down the hall
If it's a "HALLOWEEN PRANKSTER"
We'd better make a 9-1-1 call
Remove blinding covers
Be gone "Veil of Eyes"
You will see "DAILY MONSTERS"
Creepy Shadows in disguise
Don't underestimate
The wicked Warlock or "tempting WITCH"
There's EVIL at every corner
Even DEATH by "A HAUNTING KISS"
Exotic eyes stare back at me
a huge Heffner begging
for the attention of her musings
she dances and sways
in the darkness, the streetlights
highlight her deceptions
she thinks she stole my heart
blind, I see the meaning of true deceit
my wallets disappears between the sheets
she thinks she is silent
I hear every click
the credit cards makes
sadness stabs me
that the even the sheep are fake
kindness is a mask
on the canvas of life
make sure to paint the truth
Inspector Clouseau
has confirmed
the infidelity of it all