Best Writer Poems
"Every story I create, creates me. I write to create myself."
~ Octovia E. Butler
____________________________
since young I have been writing . . .
I felt like a child in a concrete garden
frozen and forlorn, alone
but words like kisses set me free
in writing I could create a new truth
create whatever I wished_
words changed the blanket of my memory
that river that flows endlessly . . . .
I can now create beauty from teardrops
from those tattered curtains that stir old pain
and I dream silent verse and rhymes that glide
for words and writing heal the scars
on the roadmap of my soul
and though my life is weather-stained with years
I can create beauty from the decay
and create the story of my path
therefore, I go forward with hope and fear
into the wintry forest of life
to create words that reflect myself
on that road less taken by poets . . . .
to tell the life of a writer born
_________________________
October 10, 2020
Poetry/Free Verse/A Writer Born to Create
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1294-064-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, Quotable
sponsor, Regina McIntosh
First Place
Some folks smile when I say I’m a writer
Some smirk, suggesting I should get a job
My stories and poems make our days brighter
Fantasy often, and, occasionally macabre.
Some of my poems make your heart throb
They may elicit laughter when I am lighter,
Friends enjoy going out with me to hobnob
Some folks smile when I say I’m a writer.
Writing opinion, I can be a fierce fighter
A sarcastic line I have been known to lob
To meet a deadline, I’ve pulled an all-nighter
Some smirk, suggesting I should get a job.
My profession does not make me a snob
For I need your stories to write a nail-biter,
Just as history gave us Hugo’s Les Misérables,
My stories and poems make our days brighter.
I edit a great deal to make my writing tighter
Much time and effort’s required, I’m no slob.
I write a mixture of genre, I can be a compiler,
Fantasy, sometimes; occasionally macabre.
So, I pay little attention to the illiterate blob
To those who delight in being a backbiter,
Who are no more important than a watch fob
Spending their time in meaningless blighter,
When I say I’m a writer.
Written June 15, 2022
#33 on Best New Poems List
Poetry Soup
June 22, 2022
#36 on Best New Poems List
Poetry Soup
June 19, 2022
I sense and feel mystique of its appeal
In vibrant, verdant, blossoming spring,
Splendorous prairies undulating breeze,
Resplendent falling of autumnal leaves,
Glacial winds bemoaning a frozen sigh,
A cerulean terpsichore of ocean tides~
I sense and feel, yet can’t cage its wings.
Purposeful, evocative, musings unwind
When elixir of missives invigorates mind
In tears of joy glittering mother’s eyes,
Holding hand of father, an innocent smile,
Hungry bawls tearing impoverished lands,
Cheers echoing hopes of clapping hands,
Grievous calls unleashed by fate unkind,
An uneventful existence berating its grind.
Though I pretend to reign world of words
And impute resonance to songs of birds
And conjure kisses from lovelorn woes
And dare personifying feelings of stone,
I struggle in thoughts to stage my show
Striving to rhyme verses stubbornly prose
Dawdling daydreams of poetic meadows
Attributing forms to shapeless shadows
Clueless of the exit from wordless throes.
Ah! dear reader, the poet in you knows,
Much alike an eagle boundless in freedom
Flight of artistry I’m unable to control,
Passions of its symphony, I do not own,
Depth of its ocean shall remain unknown.
August 12, 2021
Enticed by his faceted aspects
Political points show his honour
Policies opposed, David contests
Left wing woke folk admonished
Rawness of broad topics examined
Cowboy stories of recent history
Scenarios derived from within
Issues which play contemporary
David flavoured, his firm essence
Infuses my little with his lot
I honestly struggle to explain this
... never missed what I don't got
.. A man who won't take crap
Shallow hits roll off his jaw
My bull wouldn't just lapse -
He'd bleed it dry, peace restored
Faceless man tells me myriads
Written by unwavered conviction
Marathon stamina poem olympian
I, willing victim to his inflictions
Dreaming of David, strange concept
- exclusive, by myself for eight years
It's a choice to remain alone, heart kept
Relic packed away, oddly he endears
Hard nosed refusal to enter this century
Old school stance pings my deepest vibe
Unreasonable, how much it means to me
To absorb the jib of David 's scribe
Around three years his senior
In virus time, located overseas
I fixate on his strong demeanour
In lurid choc chip fantasies
12th September 2020
Love silences fear,
Uniting hope, joy, peace,
Mingling lights, grace
Joining hearts in faith, together,
Stirring prayers, gentle psalms –
Harmonized when souls believe,
Jesus, inspiration for giving,
Meaningful beyond imagery.
Adoration lasting forever,
Resembling souls understanding…
Love like this convulses calm,
Lulling twilight,
Breathing shadows,
Feelings erasing storms,
Darkness hinders meaningful,
While wonders grow wings…
Enchant souls,
Souls enchant,
Wings grow wonders while…
Meaningful hinders darkness,
Storms erasing feelings,
Shadows breathing,
Twilight lulling,
Calm convulses this like love,
Understanding souls, resembling…
Forever, lasting adoration,
Imagery beyond meaningful,
Giving for inspiration, Jesus,
Believe souls when harmonized,
Psalms gentle, prayers stirring –
Together, faith in hearts joining,
Grace, lights mingling,
Peace, joy, hope uniting,
Fear silences love.
The candle burns down long into the night
Its life waning in a flickering flame
As I etch these ink stains of black on white
On pages that will never be the same
For I will fill this empty space with gold
Treasures - my soul now feels the need to share
Before the embers in this fire grow cold
I give to you these precious gems so rare
And when this candle dies and darkness falls
My pen will finally rest without regret
Left with the knowledge that I gave it all
My life in words until my dying breath
And in death I will live forevermore
For the pen is mightier than the sword
~~~~~
Written: April 15, 2011
Elaine Cecelia Geroge, of Canada
The Famous quotation 'The pen is mightier than the sword' was written by:
Edward Buliver-Lytton in 1839. Those words still live on today, proving that the pen truly is, mightier than the sword.
First place: Brian Strand's 14 line contest
First place: Razzle Dazzle Contest sponsored by Linda-Marie
the rain that drowned the sidewalks
dampened down the night-time heat
creating steam through manholes
from the pipes beneath the street
and set against this backdrop
of a vibrant city beat
swarms of taxis stung the air
with horns stuck on repeat
as a writer sipping coffee
staring from a café seat
wrote words for her 'bestseller'
based on when two people cheat..
"..married strangers and a storm..
arranged a covert meet..
..ran towards each other
in a way such lovers greet..
they kissed beneath umbrellas
in a manner so discreet
then stepped inside a restaurant
to flirt, laugh, love and eat
her big blue eyes melted his heart
her smile was wide and sweet
and he was rich, tall, cool and calm
and swept her off her feet..."
...but before the lovers' story
made it to another sheet
the writer came to from her thoughts
with the chapter incomplete
her big blue eyes and sweet wide smile
felt somewhat obsolete
on the poor, tall, cool, calm waiter who
brought change with her receipt.
Fancy that...
Being able to spend the whole morning
Writing a poem!
My mother's hands
Were etched in a network of tiny cracks.
Salt of the earth, the doctor said.
She thought it meant he loved her.
It doesn't matter whether
I write or not, I said...
Well, on one level it does,
Words whirling away into empty space.
A false Spring hangs in the air;
It's hard to keep from donning summer clothes.
He killed himself when he'd killed his wife.
(The tumor was malignant)
And the child sent away to some sister.
But his kind hands...My mother
Whispers again to believe it.
The typewriter clatters in a small room,
Closed door,
Soft light through the figured glass.
with plenty of pain
i seem to be comfortable
weeping in silence,
but the tumbleweeds
sway in the mist of spring,
and
i pray for a way to redeem
mother nature’s embrace;
for she believes in what i need to long for
willows weep for the loss
of their blades,
chestnut tears leave stains
on barren branches,
and here i am left alone in
a forest too green to see;
flashes of lightning scour
my deliverance,
for i am but a nonetheless
notion,
full of the kind of resentment satirical apparitions face
i crave bright smiles with
shiny white teeth-
ivory as strong as steel so
i can swallow the sore
syllables my lips have spoken
manic metaphors with a
caticalysm of undying rhyme; enough rhyme to ease my soul
for I am but a writer,
hungry for a way to let go
*****
January 17, 2020
I
If any writer here didn't like him --
If Souper One, or 2023, dislike Rico,
Please correct my notion: Rico made you smile
Even when you hated to smile or laugh
ThanX Rico for leaving your fingerprints here
More respectful than boot prints --
You tried to enjoy life, and people,
Even when people deserved less
Godspeed! I know you fought "mind control"
Free Spirit who wanted the best of GOD
Thanks Anaya (I am Anaya) for "epitaphing" well
Falling in Love with a Writer is a Faulty Design
We see things that other females
don’t pay a tuppence to.
Like a half-burned cigarette tail,
Your osculation of deep, dense rouge—
A secret trusted only by two.
With our own hands, we mimic time
And manipulate the world you once knew.
Falling in love with a writer is a faulty design.
To your heart, we assail
With words plunked to a tune;
In your soul, with great force, we impale.
From a love-front angle of view
You might feel a tad misconstrued,
like a poorly mixed cocktail.
Ricochet from baseline to fault line,
But every time you pull through ‘cause you knew,
That falling in love with a writer is a broken design.
When we close our eyes and slowly inhale;
We hear the laughter of a family in an empty room
And unveil the retold, recycled tales.
Picturing why the dust rests less heavily on one broom,
And can smell the meal Ma cooked when they came home from school.
From the underworld and past the skyline,
We scour everything down to its last detail.
Falling in love with a writer is a grueling design.
To us, your eyes flourish like flowers in June
With lips– silky like cabernet wine.
And although sometimes we forget to say we love you,
Remember that falling in love with a writer can be a beautiful design.
"A writer must use ink from their heart for their readers." By Poet
Even as a creative "Ghost" writer,
we need "Heart" as we pull an all-nighter.
What will our muse want to "Deliver,"
maybe happy or sad or be a forgiver.
Words can sometimes be very "Tender,"
other times be bold and an offender.
"Erase" is one of our many tools,
no writer wants to be put in a group of fools.
Words are like paint painting the weather,
from days with flowers like pretty heather.
Summers can be really hot and bold,
then we cool off to a winter of "Cold."
They say our blood is really ink,
not red but a pretty pink.
Like anything
There are two edges to this sword
The ragged one has, for now, cut too deeply
The reality of its cleaving
And the intent of the hand it is wielded by
Thickens the blood that weeps from its wounds
To collect in a puddle of deep discouragement ... and frustration.
The keen, clean edge shines as always
Kept in precision by the kindness and friendship
Of those whose genuine caring and appreciation of my work
Has been the true motivation of this journey
From the first moments I placed my feet on its path
And I shall treasure it always, held close.
But my weary eyes must turn from the darkness and animosity
The nefarious creatures that move in the shadows
Wend motivations that are contrary to my beliefs and cares
My gaze seeks a bluer sky in day - a more dazzled vault in eventide
A brighter reach to glow and call and stir within
One with hope and encouragement and appreciation
And perhaps, dare I say?
The opportunities of publication and true craft.
Perhaps it is a dream, that
But dreams are what keep us young
Dreams are what push us to keep searching for the righteous path
And striving for the brighter meadows ... the truer stars.
Oh, I will yet be about - a poem here, a contest there, a comment-or-two
But only as the dancing ghost that I have become of late
That I have been told - by indirect fashion - I am
No longer a threat, competitor or antagonist
But a friendly phantom, a role I much prefer ... and affirm to
For after all, ghosts are never missed
Nor are they needed.
Blessings, Dear Poets.
Submitted on February 18, 2020
To the "Strand Select T Any Form Any Theme" Poetry Contest
Brian Strand, Sponsor.
Andrea is my favorite poet
She writes in a way that reminds
Hearts to breathe and just know it
Is beauty so bright – writing all kinds
Natural verses that always spellbinds
Jan is a writer who I adore
She writes little verses so fun
Reminding us laughter is not a chore
It delights each heart and everyone
Loves to read the delights she has spun
Constance pours her heart out
She writes in a way that I can praise
With poems so gentle and devout
Leaving hearts fulfilled – elated always
Delighted in her verses that truly amaze
Who is your best PS poet or poetess Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Sotto Poet
December 4, 2022
Don't corner the writer – put
him in a cage and poke; you
like Shakespeare...then read
Shakespeare! And let the writer
be his own rhyming or ill rhymed-bloke.
To me, mistakes, imperfections –
spontaneous glitches, as I prefer to
call them – send me into joyful stitches;
a fresh exhibition of relatable nature –
the transformation of perfection into
Human Interest. So, let the writer
be his or her own protagonist, or Free-willed
blessed Nemesis. Write and read whatever
tickles you pickles you...and let Mike be Mike,
and Jane
be a literal-pain
to her personable like.