marigolds line the path to my outside home
it’s a cottage garden, which gives me joy
against the walls of my she-shed are tall pink hollyhocks
they look like upside down skirts with yellow bloomers showing
they are fuzzy if you graze them gently with a finger
there used to be roses, but they are gone now
a large potted fern waves a friendly hello as I approach
I feel loved here, among those I have planted and nurtured
Never knowing I had a green thumb until I retired.
The joy I derive from my plants cannot be put into words.
I sit back on the chaise lounge cushions and breathe
There is nothing as rejuvenating as country air.
Feeling refreshed. I am in awe of what I have built
apple blossoms above my head tease my eyes to the sky
I thank God for this garden.
My eyes are yours
From the depths of the sea
To it jagged rocky or sandy shores.
My cup is open ready to be poured into
Both me and you. Lets fill each other and feel
Renewed.
For you have my full support in all that you
Chaise to pursue.
My eyes are yours when you lose you vision
And you are unclear about your mission.
Indecisive on your divine calling so you waver on
Each. And every decision.
My eyes are yours when
you can’t see the ceiling from the floor.
When your soul feels unfulfilled screaming for more.
Let me be your eyes young one. Teach you all that I know
Open the flood gates and let you creative sense of wonder
Flow.
We plant these seeds of poetry's and with rains of wisdom
Watch your expression mature and grow.
Rise my dear hug my soul for the birds and I sing
To the sky beyond our realm for only eternal ancestral guides
Know.
The beauty of hope and joy renew every hope
And enjoy the rise of very new sunrise.
When my eyes become yours.
My eyes are yours
From the depths of the sea
To it jagged rocky or sandy shores.
My cup is open ready to be poured into
Both me and you. Lets fill each other and feel
Renewed.
For you have my full support in all that you
Chaise to pursue.
My eyes are yours when you lose you vision
And you are unclear about your mission.
Indecisive on your divine calling so you waver on
Each. And every decision.
My eyes are yours when
you can’t see the ceiling from the floor.
When your soul feels unfulfilled screaming for more.
Let me be your eyes young one. Teach you all that I know
Open the flood gates and let you creative sense of wonder
Flow.
We plant these seeds of poetries and with rains of wisdom
Watch your expression mature and grow.
Rise my dear hug my soul for the birds and I sing
To the sky beyond our realm for only eternal ancestral guides
Know.
The beauty of hope and joy renew every hope
And enjoy the rise of very new sunrise.
When my eyes become yours.
I may love you, once love is all I have;
someday, with tears I'll wash away your grave:
till then I curse you since you died at last,
leaving me broke, alone, going nowhere fast.
Despite young Cupid, I won't bring you flowers;
or bathe you in dripping-wet, sparkling showers
of worship; or grant you the gold of chaise,
that gilts your summit-peaking thrones of maize.
Instead, I'll bring you a wreathe of barbed wires;
flame it! like a thousand nuclear pyres;
hang it upon your cruel member, like so!
And watch it burn, then cauterize, it slow.
Selfish Lover! You stole from me life's measure
of passion and unfathomable pleasure.
For that, therefore, I've the evil delight,
knowing your digit stands no more upright!
The only ounce of energy I'll be expending today
is having picked up a pen to scrawl these lines...
"I have declared this to be Dolce Far Niente Day."
Enjoying the sweet life, doing nothing by design.
I'll be spending time as I desire lazing in a chaise,
pretending I'm vacationing in the hills of Tuscany
whose orchards are heavy with grapes I must praise
for the mellow flavor of the fine wine offered me.
I will indulge myself enjoying their sweet bouquet,
malingering while listening to Chopin's Polonaise.
It's my intent to hold an annual Dole Far Niente Day
and have it last 'til stars ignite the night sky ablaze.
I will enjoy pampering myself with nothing more to do
but gaze on the clear blue waters of the Ligurian Sea.
Nothing will be hampering my idle nor twist it askew,
for I'll pay no heed to misgivings while in this reverie.
No more writing for I've taken good measure this day.
Pool waters are calling me, where I'll float peacefully
as twilight darkens. I'll take pleasure as I gently sway
in a hammock, content to stare at the moon dreamily.
Heaven must be a library –
An acquaintance in boredom said –
With many open levels that are airy
And plush carpet on which to tread
With sliding ladders on the aisles –
Coffee on tap and a poofy chaise
On which to read the gilded titles
And infinite time to waste.
I replied I'd love to meet her there
To help explore the nooks and crannies
And she promised me she'd share –
To my surprise, spaces such as these.
That way, every now and then –
She could break from reading
And come find the alcove I'm in
To see how I'm doing.
I longed for it like other men;
I sought some sages, now and then.
They did somehow enlighten me,
But still I did not find the key.
I tried to search in all the books--
In mountains, dales, and murmuring brooks:
They all had joy to advertise
But nowhere near to Paradise.
My search brought me to different sites
From lowest lows to highest heights;
I tasted all the world’s delight
Still Paradise was not in sight.
So I came back all weatherworn
Frustrated, weary, and forlorn
I planned to spend my last of days
Just lounging on my favorite chaise.
Then I saw you and realized
How blind I was--and so surprised!--
Because you had always been there
The Eden that I searched somewhere.
Now I am wiser, this I know:
I needn’t somewhere else to go
For Paradise is just so near--
Right here, right now, with you, my Dear.
March 27, 2023
Among 1st Place
Writing Challenge - ‘P’ Words Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
She sat on a chaise longue waiting for the big revelation
after years of therapy she still hadn't healed that part of her
that was unconsciously broken beyond repair;
A lifetime of failed relationships and abandonment
had taught her not to trust her feelings nor her choices.
In this darkened room what did she hope to attain?
a semblance, a re-enactment of her past life, perhaps then
she would finally break the mirror of deceit and discover the truth.
He sat there talking to her softly, guiding her deep into hypnosis
noticing the way she wrung her hands as if trying to endure
Upon deeper inspection, he noticed red marks on her neck
when she told him about the gallows and how she was hung,
from a Dule tree long ago in Great Britain;
Past life regression is not easy, nor is Re-integrative Therapy.
When she opened her eyes he whispered softly,
"Anne, I'm Sorry"
March 9, 2023
I often find myself lost in a daydream like trance,
for it has always been my wish to travel France;
to Paris, know to be the city of culture and romance.
Escaping reality, I walk crisscross cobbled streets,
stop at a terrace for cafe and croissant treats;
go to the opera and mingle with the Parisian elites.
In my daydream, I am floating down the Seine river,
wandering the Louvre and at the top of the Eiffel, I quiver;
gazing at Paris, so beautifully lit up at night, I shiver.
I want the bookstores, outdoor markets, the wine,
the architecture, and on delicious French food dine;
and at Pere La Chaise Cemetery among graves twine.
I will never let go of my Paris, France daydream,
oh yes, my daydream has a recurring theme;
it comes to me in a vintage gray color scheme.
______________________
November 21, 2022
Poetry/Rhyme/Don't Quit Your Daydream
Copyright Protected, ID 11-1503-797-21
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Entered into the contest, Don't Quit Your Daydream
sponsor, Craig Cornish
Nude draped across *Chaise Longue like a pharaoh,
Stained with cheap coffee from the expresso,
Take-outs growing mould beside my cello,
It reads ‘Buyer’s Dream’ on the sale memo,
Landlord shrieks for rent in high *falsetto,
“Maybe next week”, I sing back in *mezzo,
I pour a long-cracked mug of prosecco,
Next doors jazz flows, Nina Simone’s echo,
That paints the canvas bright gold and yellow.
* Chaise Longue – A long chair
* Falsetto – high-range singing voice
* Mezzo – ‘middle” in Italian (middle range for female singers)
07/11/22
Monomixorhyme and Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Hilo Poet
Syllable counter: howmanysyllables.com
I’d like an hour with a psychiatrist
To discover what I already know
A deep releasing conversation
Go places I dare not go
I’d lie back on a chaise lounge
I don’t care if it’s a woman or a man
I’d go deep into the recesses
As truthfully as I can
Maybe then I could sleep peacefully
Though I confess I’ve done nothing bad
I would understand who I really am
A piece of mum and dad.
My inner thoughts and fears
And all the things that scare
Maybe I’d burst into tears
Maybe, there's nothing to repair?
David Cox 01/07/22
When it’s dark and gloomy in the middle of the day,
I am inclined to go back to bed and sleep it away
But then when I awaken it’s already dark outside,
I should live in the Land of the Midnight Sun, I sigh.
Obviously, I much prefer bright, sunshiny days
Where I can hike in the woods or relax in my chaise,
Clearly, I’d be most happy living in a tropical zone
Better still, on a forty-foot yacht I can call my own.
written March 7, 2022
Home from a chemo session, uncle lights up
a cigarette and collapses
to the slick plastic that covers your chaise
lounge, auntie. He thumps the upholstery
with his legs and elbows for blood
to circulate again. A flake
drifts. Dehydrated lips, uncle
inadvertently kisses ash. Cushions
puff up, deflate. Uncle floats
smoke rings to prove he still has breath.
Your bulbous urn ruptures his rings
on contact where curvature
casts uncle’s warped reflection, all mouth and smoke,
as he would rise to reach your urn on the mantle.
Uncle slouches back, watches his sports channel.
I head out with his hamper
and forget to check pockets before washing clothes,
his soggy receipts - - once grocery lists? - -
and tissues, torn apart, clumped up, fake snow
I have to scoop out of washing machines.
Absent-minded tasks at the laundromat, auntie,
where you’d bend in pain. Lint trays reinstall
fluff. I snap
and snap airborne dryer-flakes off towels.
When she retires,
she'll buy a private tropical island
and build herself a little house with furniture of wicker and bamboo.
Only those who she invites will visit her there.
She'll have five cats who will be free to prowl the island,
safe from traffic or coyotes.
Her days will be filled with the scent of salt and hibiscus,
the sounds of ocean and wind chimes.
At night, the cats will join her on the pillowed chaise
on her patio,
under a spattered sky.
Her fingers will rake lazily through their downy fur,
purrs rumbling as she counts the stars
and names the constellations.
In the morning,
she will eat sweet, fresh mango,
picked from the mango tree outside her kitchen window.
She'll swim in the limpid blue cove, cool and sacred,
and walk along the shore,
her toes kneading powdery sand.
She will find pink, coiled shells to add to her huge glass jar
and write poems in the afternoon—
after a nap
with her cats—
when she retires.
Have any of you experienced one of those days
When you just want to stare at the sky on a chaise
Let the world pass you by
Sing a sweet lullaby
Till you're off to dreamland in the afternoon haze
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