Best Under It Poems
"A Silent Song"
Mirror Mirror on the Wall
Blessed or cursed
Morning shave
Coffee please
Write a verse
Remembers last night’s dream
Grabs a napkin, spills his spleen
Shoves it in his pocket
Walks to work
Sits at his desk
Carries on as usual
Chats on with the new study,
he’s on a roll, softly flirts
Quietly, silently, it always works
Groundhog Day that’s the worst,
Where’s the breaker to dive under it all
Every now and then a Tempest is called for
A heavenly thunderous squall
Just to shake it up
Move through the strung out long day pall
Cover his mirror with her fog and all
All the while
He’s talking it up, little work day dramas
Meetings minute cutlass pen thrust
Business as usual, balls to bust
Still underneath it all he’s thinking the stories frame by frame
She whispers out of nowhere ethereal in his brain,
“The best story is yet to arrive, it’s only the middle of the day…
maybe some gold glitter, a Llama and a Toucan that sashays?”
Empath on his knees by midnight
He’s writing melancholic love songs
The words are tight, verses short
Not long, he’s thinking Turtle Doves and short skirts
That won’t work…
scrawls it out, writing’s gone with the wind,
The best words for the story don’t take too long
He listens to some music, thinks of her and sings a new song.
Mirror Mirror on the Wall
Dreams flourish dripping words
black on white her familiar screen
pounding faster like raging horses hooves and heart beats
bleed vibrant colors mystic legions of wars and lovers
a foreign sovereignty her mind and wily covers her pageantry
Her eyes the windows of her world
Wings beating flying free
Cages broken, horses hooves hearts racing
She follows him on another shore a dream by sea
Praying prophecies
Empath on her knees
Two very different minds
Free to be
(Lovejoy-Burton/Feb 2018)
Music/ Paolo Conte, "Sparring Partner"
https://youtu.be/tzjdY5rmpCA
Categories:
under it, imagery, romance, romantic, romantic
Form:
Romanticism
Walking deep into the woods we stumbled on an old abandoned place
A white and blue farm house with a wraparound dilapidated porch
Tall grass was overgrown and with many shade trees of oak and birch
Plant pots of dried up and decayed ferns left on the railings in disgrace
The black roof was missing shingles and caving in on one side
The front door a pale worn yellow with a climbing red rosette
I start to feel more anxious as I see a freshly discarded cigarette
We walk up to a large picture window to peek in, all fears aside
We see some old beautiful antiques covered in dust and cob webs
Below the wooden banister staircase is a beautiful tall clock displayed
I feel a chill up my spine as I hear the clock ticking, now feeling afraid
An old worn oriental rug lay under it in faded patterns of muted reds
We decide to try the knob to see if we can get in to explore
As I touched it I felt a shock and heard faint whispers
I quickly let go as my hand started to feel hot and blistered
I tell my friend we need to leave now I think danger may be in store
We walk towards the back and see an old woman weeding a garden bed
She stops what she's doing and turns around to ask us who is there
and starts slowly floating in the air and says to come in for tea if we dare
We quickly turn and start running toward the woods, screaming as we fled
7/13/2020
Contest: Decayed House Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Categories:
under it, horror, house,
Form:
Enclosed Rhyme
The last time I took Pop to the big lake, the wind was so strong,
it nearly blew his wheelchair over, I knew just where to stop...
at the top of the hill, the windiest place!
I left him alone, he just looked out on the lake unblinking,
rewinding moments, that made him who he was.
In days past.....
He told me the story of his best friend in high-school, who wanted
Dad to go along with him duck-hunting on that sunny, warm morning in fall...
1940, Dad had promised my Mom (not yet married!) he would go with her
on a picnic in the bluffs along the Mississippi.... so he declined.
From sunshine and 70... to freezing white-out conditions up and down the river,
many lives were lost that day, including my Pop's best friend....
the Great Armistice Day Storm lived on in Pop's heart...
Dad went to his friend's funeral.
Or the time.....
Dad took my Grandpa (Mom's Dad) on the first vacation he had
ever been on! Grandpa worked until he died...... the Company
he worked for had tricked him, letting him work 29yrs. 11 months,
and 28 days, then firing him two days before his pension would kick-in.
Pop took him fishin' for the first time in his life! bought him a straw fishin' hat too!
Dad kept baitin' his hook and Grandpa caught 6-fish before Dad could cast a line!....
Pop called him 6-fish Bumford after that! and us kids weren't allowed to touch
Grandpa's straw-hat from that fishin' trip..... Dad kept it on a hook in his work-room
in the basement, with the words "Six Fish Bumford...My Best Friend"
scrawled under it on the wall (I still have it)
In a while, I knew it was time to bring him back......he had finished
looking out on his life....
.......he was ready to go
Categories:
under it, fatherdad, time, dad, time,
Form:
Narrative
My husband won a contest
On a weekly FM quiz
To prove to all who listen
What a “know-it-all” he is.
The prize is a certificate
And maybe some acclaim
From the kith and kin tuned in
When Jeff*, the DJ, says your name.
A call came through soon after
For the winner’s home address
And Jeff playfully explained to us,
As if it would impress:
“Now when you get your certificate,
It’s valuable to you.
When you go out to a restaurant,
This is what you need to do…”
So we thought, free meal or discount,
But that wasn’t what he said,
Though he had us both in stitches
By what he exclaimed instead:
“If your table has a wobble
In one leg a little bit,
Take your prize and fold and place it,
Very gently, under it.”
Well, this “know-it-all New Yorker”
Learned just what his title’s worth
But it added to our day
With the injection of some mirth.
*Jeff Spurgeon, WQXR-FM, NYC
Categories:
under it, appreciation, humor, husband,
Form:
Rhyme
i write slam better than anyone around
i leave you screaming without the sound
no-one can handle my lyrical style
i outstrip you all by a country mile
spitting these words without restraint
with your blood the walls i'll paint
your head falls off when you read my words
more taboo than the bees and the birds
if only this site would let me swear
you'd be picking chunks of vomit right out your hair
because i'm sicker than a dirty joke
make no mistake i'm not an ordinary bloke
got a mind that can think in several dimensions
i knock you down if you have pretentions
don't even try and take me on you can't win
i'll send your poems to the bargain bin
my intellect and wit outshines all
i can build you up and i can make you fall
black and blue from verbal attacks
look theres a rock quick get back....
under it
if not i'll sunder it
i'll kick you to the curb
with a noun and a heavy adverb
i could go on and on and on
but i really feel like i am done
i embarass all who assail me
if you dont like it. tough. you cant jail me
my sparkling put downs will never fail me
so if you feel brave try and comeback at me
i'll make you get down on both knees
a slap in your face
you are a complete disgrace
Categories:
under it, peopleme,
Form:
Free verse
I often set out for a hike on a lovely day of roaming,
how I love to explore the forest and countryside alone;
going deep into the lush green woods under an azure sky,
I am mesmerized by beautiful flowers by a stone.
One day, I was lost in my thoughts when I found a bridge,
an old covered red bridge in the middle of nowhere;
once upon a time perhaps it had a stream flowing beneath,
but now gone as I stood breathing in the air.
The trees and foliage would soon claim it as their own,
I loved the reflecting sky puddles here and there beneath;
in fact, I walked under it to explore as it seemed sturdy,
it was truly a peaceful scene that I had come underneath.
My muse told me to stay a while and so I dropped my pack,
venturing over the bridge and then back again and again;
I really admired the blue roof and red painted sides,
but it had no purpose except perhaps as a beautiful lane.
And that got me to thinking and pondering about life,
yes, something can be quite beautiful no matter its age,
and it can have no real purpose- like this covered bridge
leading to nowhere, over nothing but lovely leafage.
__________________
August 26, 2017
Poetry/Rhyme/Covered Bridge On A Lovely Day
Copyright Protected, ID 08-933-702-26
All Rights Reserved, 2017, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, A Lovely Day
Sponsor, BJ Legros Kelley, Judged 03/02/2022
Second Place
Categories:
under it, nature,
Form:
Rhyme
Edge
The Edge,
or rather the Edgewood...
is a place, not a thing.
It is near the bridge,
but not quite under it.
It is quiet,
and full of only the "sounds",
that rarely choose to exist.
Bring a tablet,
a pen,
a paper,
a pencil...
colored markers,
an eraser... too, if you dare.
But be ready to take things down,
as they pass by,
captured only for their beauty,
and not disturbed,
but cherished for their
existence.
Come to the Edge,
and lien out,
but never step over,
without your wings.
Categories:
under it, butterfly, fantasy, first love,
Form:
Free verse
Trees fluttering in the wind
Whispering to each other
Secrets that they hold
Never to be spoken
Sturdy as it stands so bold
Strong, protecting never broken
Under it you reminisce
Of all things so soft-spoken
Childhood bliss, a lover’s kiss
Secret moments never to be woken
Categories:
under it, tree,
Form:
Free verse
I've misplaced one's muse.
It resembles a colourful cloud,
with ink pouring under it.
Normally responds to
'Lets write'
If you see it please be gentle with it
Put it in a jar and return it to me.
Thanks in advance.
Categories:
under it, muse,
Form:
Verse
There is new life everyway in the skies, trees and both in the earth and under it
Lambs skipping chasing each other then running to their mothers to suckle
Eggs cracking open in the nest chicks fighting their way out of shell mum tidy's up and beaks ever ready for food brought by dad as mum keeps them warm
Mammals barrel deep inside the warm earth born blind and often hairless.
Insects hide under bark, tunnel into holes while skin split and new forms appear
Eggs cracking wide open
lambs frolic skipping at play
split skin reveal moths
Categories:
under it, animal, bird, insect,
Form:
Haibun
An unusual thing occurred at our house Christmas Eve.
It caused us anger, it was enough to make us grieve.
We waited to the last minute for a live Christmas tree:
A brimful tree of precise size, with perfect symmetry.
On Christmas Eve, we pulled it inside the house to trim.
As we tugged it through, we discovered something grim.
Although the tree was green, it was dead as a doornail.
As we carried it in, pine needles rained down like hail.
It was too late to find another tree, the problem to rectify.
“We can’t have Christmas without a tree,” I wanted to cry.
Long gone the days to trek into woods & chop one down.
I wanted to stomp my foot, I wanted someone to crown.
Not only was there no tree, we vacuumed piles of needles.
“Honey, we need an artificial Christmas tree,” I wheedled.
‘After Christmas sales,’ afforded us a great opportunity.
Now, I can decorate the tree each year, with impunity.
No worry about limbs drooping, no watering to do. I
like the convenience. I like the look of it too. After
all,
it’s
not
the tree
that counts,
it’s what’s under it.
Don’t you agree?
Categories:
under it, christmas, tree,
Form:
Couplet
Window covered by a sycamore tree
Constant friend of my snowy Maple days.
Memories spring as insects on a tree
Turn my gloomy days in glorious days
Hippocrates got his inspiration
for search in medicine he began.
Buddh sat under it for meditation
and enlightenment of mind to attain.
Desdemona sat sighing under it
in agony to hear willow song treat.
Flying to Egypt Mary stopped a bit.
Crann ban “Money tree” in Irish spirit.
To demystify health, to personalize,
To me sycamore is to poetize.
+++
December 2, 2014
Form : Sonnet {Iambic Pentameter)
Dr. Ram Mehta
Sixth Place Win
Contest: Structured Forms by Georgio V. Venetto
Categories:
under it, memory,
Form:
Sonnet
The village where my father was born.
After many years
Still has not changed
Except that electricity has arrived ,
The road blacktopped has deteriorated,
And thatched-roof houses are hardly seen.
Yet what I wonder is
As I saw in my childhood long ago,
The village road today is still lonesome,
Cactus and wild bush plants ,in that quietness
Are still growing here and there by the roadside.
And the sprawling paddy fields are as calm
And beautiful as they were seen from the road long ago.
The aged banyan tree standing in the meadow
At the roadside is still in its grandeur.
Under it, I saw my grandfather cremated,
Consigned to flames
When I was a boy of about 10 years old.
My grandfather during his youthful days
Sometimes might have been resting
Under that banyan tree
Tired of wayfaring or working in the paddy field.
Sometimes he might have been waiting
For somebody he loved beneath it
Wearing kurta ,dhoti,and clogs .
My father died six years ago
And I today am an old man
Yet whenever I visited the village
And see the lonely old banyan tree
I remember the days I spent there during my childhood
Particularly the day my grandfather died
And cremated beneath it.
The old peepal tree ,
Growing at the gate of my residence
By the busy road ,
Often I collect its fallen leaves with a broom
In the winter mornings and burn them.
Yet never ponder about its long past.
12th August 2012
Categories:
under it, nature, remember,
Form:
Free verse
Old Jake lived a mile or so below the falls.
He wasn’t a hermit, or any other sect or sort.
He was just an old man; though always alone.
Well, except for the critters.
They were not remarkable, just - - -many
and they all adored old Jake.
He didn’t even have to feed them.
Only gave them what they needed most---love.
Oh, the whole crowd needed companionship!
Or, so it seemed.
That one small cabin?
A six hundred pound bear is a bit much!!
least in my humble opinion.
Then consider the raccoon !
The sucker fusses and complains
all day, all night twenty four-seven.
The covey of pigeons were good about cooing him to sleep
but ‘twearnt worth NO dad gum roosting on the porch rail !!!!!!
Geez!! The hose is not long enough
to drag around to the front steps;
much less scour that whole rail “on and under it”,
the whole width of the house--every day!
That fox!! Slick as a whistle and he will lie
in a skinny minute--
And we have yet to find any sign
of the gone gosling !
Who else would do such a thing?
I know every family has problems, but most can
be fixed with a little think through:
common sense and resolve.
Let’s all work on it----who knows?
One might find, that the powers which be, can take a hint from
the common man for a change.
‘stead of vice versa.
Categories:
under it, parody,
Form:
Prose
Once, the fairy tale vein do I embrace,
once upon a time
in the past not mnemonically distant,
were we the two poles of a magnet-
if you be the South,
me the North Pole.
If I be a flying matter,
You were the gravitational pull.
If I be the water,
You were the wave.
If I be a bridge
You were the pillars under it-
Yoking stasis to dynamics.
Now, as stasis and dynamics are unyoked,
I am all water under the now defunct bridge.
Categories:
under it, lost love,
Form:
Prose Poetry