Best Wandering(A) Poems
He welds and melts, pours and molds
In his "Conversations with My Soul"
He smooths the rough steel of syllables
Into a "Portrait" graced by his "Play on Words"
Unrolling "Scenes from a Countryside" to "That Starry Night"
Whether "October Skies" or "In November" "Moonlight"
So, "If Ever I Don't Know"
which way my adjectives should go
when wandering "A Starry Galaxy"
I follow the "Sinuous Melody"
To cross the river and climb the boulder
While tapping "Gently on the Shoulder"
He finds summer in "A Piece of Winter"
As a friend, brother and mentor
He is welcoming, and when reading your poem
His comments are "To You Alone"
And if you come to say
"I Needed Wings Today"
He will weave lines in a "Distinct Ballet"
As if "It Came Upon a Prophecy"
And not from some stifled "Academy"
Dear John, please continue to "Compose"
Even when "Getting Old is Getting Old"
Without your gift
We are "Too Soon Bereft"
The "Verbal Miracles" you perform
Show how "All of Life is a Poem"
You have been my friend
my artistry sibling,
"And I Am Grateful".
12/20/23
To seek a twist that turns a soul, toward two open hands,
A street wise urchin scours the lanes, where likewise understands,
And so the circle quickly spins, back to the gutter place,
Where there’s no need of feeling, or chance of saving face.
This wandering a dreary trail, soon drags the body down
For these folks with daily lives, who’ve never known renown.
Where wayside stop agenda’s, offer nil but one day hope,
And little chance of learning, or a vision how to cope.
Of course the word of ‘open house’, is known and known so well
Amongst the fiery feel let down, whose marching’s been to hell.
So now the wish of life has changed, from down beat getting by.
Some choose to find a Christian peace. Then for God here am I.
Talking straight and being fair, through lessons soon decide,
The pendulum won’t always swing, to seek the other side,
So method swings to meet the mood. Find tracks thought overgrown.
Trust begins to grow in strength, and friendship seeds are sown.
Put to the mind are simple tasks, that most don’t even dream,
Like having faith in human kind, or be part of a team,
So not surprised the answer, from a simple questionnaire,
Would you rather have my wisdom, or be a millionaire?
Of course the answers simple, money buys the world for you,
And like you were in days gone by, do what you want to do.
But tell me were you happy, with what you did without this gold!
I’m sure you’ll find my wisdom, gave warmth to stimulate your cold.
I’ve watched your feeling’s change, for the betterment no doubt.
To see you itching for the world, and wanting to get out
To face the challenge’s on offer, with your heart set on tradition,
And honesty within your soul, for a lifetime of ambition.
Faith the timeless healer, once again has conquered all.
Where once a ceaseless tempest grew, is now a minute squall.
I know there will be tempting times, I’ve seen this all before
In the glow of being proud, there’s a knock upon the door.
No better child stands near me now, although the worse for wear.
‘Tis I that holds the privilege when, I’m offering my care.
It hurt’s to see old spirit broke; I must build on this chance,
For there are no bad children. Just bad circumstance.
Rebirth glides -
a bee balm ballerina
with dainty airs
sails soft upon enchanted wisps
of Spirit’s blown kiss..
wandering a nectar network
weaving amid shaggy blooms gilt-tilled..
a dancer in gold dust
her slipper feet
of light and peace
bring blessings of fruition
to wild-garden's frilly lavender fillies
I cannot stand poetic forms
I like them less than winter storms
they force me into ancient norms
of rhyming words in angry swarms
for I was frightened by Haiku
in darkened rooms -- I cried --- boo hoo.
Then came the metronomic tick
sez I: “what is this evil trick?”
now I must measure every rhyme
with tapping stick of metered time
I cannot…. will not, …..won’t ….I say
be forced inside the lines…..to stay.
For I shall dance….the poet’s dance
of shaggy hair….. of tattered pants
dance with those….. in tie and tails
rap with those….. released from jails
free demon words from fear’s cold cell
sing hymns resounding angels bell.
My crayons stray outside the lines
my words creation redefines
I am free to choose my words
soothing balm or cutting swords
to calm the hearts of troubled souls
as shovels digging dying’s holes.
And yet the verse is never Free
for it remains a part of me
wandering a poets hell
secrets it has yet to tell.
5/12/2016
submitted to – Get Your Dr. Seuss On – Poetry Contest
sponsor – The Seeker
Distantly wandering ~ a meadow-vast lake
Refusing to let the consumption of my heart break
Icy cold tears frost over my face & cheeks
Being lost for weeks and for weeks
Broken down ambition ~ too weak to fight
Suddenly she appears like an angel in my life
Opening the reality of a bond between girls
Determined to create a relationship that unfurls
Aimlessly waiting for years for her soul
And craving the right girl to rock-n-roll
Possessing her thoughts, body, and mind
I think I found you, baby, this time
Exhausted from search and it be nothing but fight
Finally found a woman as a possible wife
Golden and glowing ~ she inhabits my body
With limitless ways to make her happy and naughty
Be responsible to care for her ~ now that she's mine
It's been an unpleasant search ~ now it is time
To live by my side in a big world of us
Off the bat we've succeeded our series of trust
To hold her naked some days through the night
In my head bursting bright sparks of light
Kissing her lips and holding her waist
Feeling her warmth ~ memorizing her taste
Protection from the unworthy who will try and take my place
So many memories to create ~ not a second to waste
Spring still knows me
Out, about and carefree,
Wandering a flower bed
Nurturing the blooms ahead
Summer does not see
Very much of me,
Hiding behind the shades
Until the heat fades
Autumn knows me well
Standing where leaves fell,
Kicking them all around
Wherever I am found
Winter, too, will see
Little more of me,
Crunching on icy flakes
A million smiles makes.
~
We frolic through the scented leaves
aromas fill the air
Such beauty found as autumn weaves
these wondrous sights to share
Now wandering a winding path
while cooler breezes chase
For rosy cheeks the aftermath
is smiles on our face
With winter waiting in-between
we breathe the season’s spice
Of cinnamon and evergreen
and everything that’s nice
For here as maples line the way
with barren branch the view
Through scented leaves I’ll run and play
this autumn day with you
11/11/19
Written for the Scented Leaves Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Kim Rodrigues
when he spoke
words broke like glass between his teeth
14 minutes past 8PM 7 weeks after the red river
in his brain ran almost dry
he the acidic and sullen shadow of his youth
turned to me
(one side of his face a landslide of flesh
frozen into freefall
thus i won't mimic the inarticulate sound of it)
look after your mother
and my ten year old self nodding
wishing i were not there
then she who had married this man to protect her
plus one boychild from a condemning Catholic family
and a rabid priesthood
having thus become a widow at 37
being only 5 feet high in her pumps
also as slim as a whippet
turned to drink dying quickly of a gastric ulcer
never mind her failing liver
no wonder
i turned out more angular then an open razor
biting every hand that fed body and mind
thinking that same hand would one day turn against me
as it usually did
but i unable to stop my breakneck race to personal destruction
until poetry found me wandering a bitter earth
it entering my soul one turbulent night wailing like
a hungry infant which i fed and carried for years
not knowing i needed it much more than it needed me
and so
we ate broken glass together until
words bled into red flowers floating upon a river
that flowed through my brain
In the quiet of a morning
where sunlight spills over the edges of dreams,
I catch a glimpse of the lost-
a girl with tangled hair,
a heart wrapped in a paper-thin shell,
her laughter still echoing in the stillness,
suspended like dust in a sunbeam.
She wanders through hallways of mirrors,
each reflection a question,
each scar a story,
the fabric of her skin stitched with shadows
that whisper of battles fought in silence.
What does it mean to be whole
when the pieces slip through fingers
like sand through an hourglass?
Outside, the world unfurls,
a carnival of colors,
the pink of cotton candy,
the blush of cherry blossoms swaying,
yet she feels like a ghost
wandering a landscape painted in grayscale,
wondering if she is the canvas or the brush,
the artist or the art.
In moments of stillness,
the heart beats louder than reason,
and she gathers the fragments,
the shards of herself scattered
like leaves in autumn winds,
wondering if she can stitch them back
into a tapestry bright enough
to warm the coldest nights.
But time, that relentless tide,
pulls and pushes,
inviting the tides of despair and delight,
and she learns to cradle her imperfections,
each flaw a petal in a bouquet
that blooms in defiance of the storm.
Perhaps it is enough,
to stand in the center of the chaos,
to breathe in the cacophony of life,
to know that even the broken
can sing a song of resilience,
a melody woven from the threads of wounds,
the chorus of "I am enough"
echoing through the valleys of doubt.
So she lifts her chin,
gazes at the horizon stretching,
the sun a promise,
the clouds a canvas,
and in that moment,
understanding unfurls like wings,
the weight of wonder
lifting her toward the vastness-
that to be imperfect is to be beautifully alive.
we see black as a sad color, and white as bright and happy.
but what is grey?
to me
its the in-between, obviously.
its the rope.
its timid
its the falling asleep at 9:30 pm
and falling asleep at 4 am
its light rain
its jumping in puddles
its coming home and smelling the fire waiting for you
in the fireplace
it has wisdom
it has been stuck in-between
the black and white
the right and wrong
the good and bad for a long time
its the soft smile.
its taking yourself out on a date
its wandering a city alone,
for a purpose
its being alone, but not being lonely
but, it can also be the lump in your throat.
or 5 am, but when you stay up, not wake up
its the sun and the moon trying to catch up to each other
a definition written
its expecting you to fit into impossible standards like a shoe cinderella’s stepsister’s feet
its a whole generation of cinderellas with no glass slipper.
its a poem with no end.
I was down deep in a dark dreamy dream,
wandering a wispy, winding wilderness, where
sounds stabbed at an eerie secret silence;
with roars, rumbles and the rage of riotous birds,
in trees unseen and in branches of twisted tapestry.
When I heard with heartbreak mother's heavenly voice,
calling in the caliginous, obscure gloomy forest canopy;
it was my name and I searched with a narcotic need,
I ran wild, rampant and rapacious wailing WAIT.
Until, I was worn-out weary and woebegone;
I murmured and mumbled- mother, mother . . .
Then, sun blazed like a bath into my bedroom.
____________________________
March 23, 2018
Poetry/Allitertion/Dark Dreamy Dreams
Copyright Protected, ID 03-1484-459-23
All Rights Reserved, 2018, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Alliteration Poem,
sponsor, Silent One, Judged 03/2018
Second Place
Submitted to the Standard contest, A Strand (1052)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 01/16/2022
First Place
I was down deep in a dark dreamy dream,
wandering a wispy, winding wilderness, where
sounds stabbed at an eerie secret silence;
with roars, rumbles and the rage of riotous birds,
in trees unseen and in branches of twisted tapestry.
When I heard with heartbreak mother's heavenly voice,
calling in the caliginous, obscure gloomy forest canopy;
it was my name and I searched with a narcotic need,
I ran wild, rampant and rapacious wailing WAIT.
Until, I was worn-out weary and woebegone;
I murmured and mumbled- mother, mother . . .
Then, sun blazed like a bath into my bedroom.
____________________________
March 23, 2018
Poetry/Alliteration/Dark Dreamy Dream
Copyright Protected, ID 03-1006-184-23
All Rights Reserved, 2018, Constance La France
Written for the contest, Alliteration Poem,
sponsor, Silent One, Judged 03/2018
Second Place
Submitted to the Standard contest, A Strand (1052)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 01/16/2022
First Place
Seductress ! wilt thou steal away my serenity?
For thine skin, a zephyr upon mine touch!
Mine heart, held captive, in thy talons clutch.
Is it the intention of thee, to shackle my love?
As in the cage of the purest of Doves.
Mine sentience wavers,whilst caught within your gaze!
To thee, I am trapped,as a man wandering a maze!
Were I to utter reluctance,my words perjured be!
Enticed by thee, by thy radiant beauty!
Where once sagacious, is mine perplexity!
Were you to perpetrate, thine will upon my soul!
Thee would take refuge upon my sentient shoal.
Mine zeal is now becoming, a tempest for thee!
Hence, my sensuality, turns surreptitiously!
I was down deep in a dark dreamy dream,
wandering a wispy, winding wilderness, where
sounds stabbed at an eerie secret silence;
with roars, rumbles and the rage of riotous birds,
in trees unseen and in branches of twisted tapestry.
When I heard with heartbreak a heavenly voice,
calling in the caliginous, obscure gloomy forest canopy;
it was my name and I searched with a narcotic need,
I ran wild, rampant and rapacious wailing WAIT.
Until, I was worn-out weary and woebegone;
I murmured and mumbled- mother, mother . . .
then, sun blazed like a bath into my bedroom.
Hast thou clouds? Hast thou storms? Which saintly light kisses and caresses the overgrown field. Such emblematic curves. Notions are not a daisy nor a blade of grass and a blanket can be created from branches. Yes branches. Is not a wandering a way of locating oneself. Ruins cam be rebuilt and reinventing can be obtained. Wishes are waiting. Willing is wanting. And watering is weaving. Creating calmly calamities causing chaotic caustic creative chops. Birthday notions of a dwindling pickle is rife when bathed in auric dew. Wonderful. Great isn't it? So upon reaching rubble take care when uncovering past missions. Swords dwell in ancient spires. And shells move slowly to the ball. Valour of the tableaux. And a linguistic king in a scarlet cape. Wise. Good. Goblets hidden. Dishes. Wine. Nothing is exact in a tourism channel. Houses historically hide. Heavens then. Waters glowing. Many caves. Globally positioned. *** archeological z