~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Under a weird, pitch-black moon,
the graveyard ghouls moaned a haunting tune.
Old Edgar’s ghost (a CPA by trade)
checked spectral spreadsheets in the shade.
The haunting rates, he hissed, are too low—
Only one faint moan per week? That’s woe!”
Gertrude, floating around in her cobwebby dress,
rolled her hollow eyes. Today’s kids! They're a mess!
Last Halloween, teens just filmed their TikToks—
They laughed at my chains! Ignored my death-knocks!
Her wail, once chilling, now nothing but a squeak,
like rusty hinges, dry and weak.
I could write of stellar
skies -- Really I could!
Could write of lozenge
moons~ of over-saturated
beams, arriving and departing,
concentrates of extra sweetened,
totally addicting, poetically
whipped creams:
(unfold, eerie immaterial, cobwebby
tightly creased seams, of long
seeming ever taboo gleams -- )
I could write...really I could!
compose glitter, like diamonds,
a huge, full jar -- Aladdin Stories,
fantastical adventures from romantic
afar -- I could strum a string strung
between, distant star and my near,
dear, sparkly guitar --
rather savor your toffee lips
chocolate licks like a Mar's Bar....
A cobwebby, antiquated and
moldy. Folded pages marked by
dried tears and pressed flower
from an unforgettable love from
former sweetheart.
A classical romance, aged and
lovingly kept in between the
layers and pages, with yellowish
color from pressed flower. A memory
of a deceitful stained sin heart, left
no traces in the midsts, except,
Old scent of love poetry book at times,
overwhelming the senses, the sweet
fragrance of staleness, haunting, the
old crispy pressed flowers, reminiscing
the nostalgic love, hanging in mid-air.
It tricks the sense of smell, mind
and heart, agreed that the old scent
of poetry, still swirling the fragrance
of a lost love, haunting a desolate
soul, still longing for him to return..
©aroque
All rights reserved
A clutter of wood and dust in cobwebby corners,
and dappled sun shining through dirty windows;
on his work table a drawing; a project in progress,
and tin cans and jars of nails and screws on shelves.
Tools on hooks waiting for hands that will never come,
I touch the old tools like they were the finest of lace;
and I cannot help thinking, who will want all this,
he was a simple man, my father, and I loved him so.
His death was fast, no one expected him to leave,
in a blink he was gone, and all I have are memories;
I linger there with the dust that floats in the sun,
and I weep and weep for what I have lost this day.
Then, I pick up his pencil and on his paper I write,
I write this poem of pain and it is the beginning;
the beginning of my writing with a true poet's soul,
I leave the child within me, and become a poet,
today.
_________________________________
For Father's Day
Poetry/Verse/Dad's Workshop
Copyright Protected, ID
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
swoosh of the vacuum
swipe of cloth in circular
patterns. climbing up step stool.
snatching away cobwebby art.
searching for spaces to permanently stash.
sensuous path of cleaning cupboards
and their concentric circle knobs.
the daily sway and swing of caring
for the darling home she occupies.
dressing before the eyes of the mirror,
mere steps before the date
with her sweetheart husband,
who's been screwing around
his loving home, hammering
alone, sweating with serious
thought, trying to ignore
the scent of her, the bounce
of her hair, the swish of satin,
delicious lips and palpitations
inside his muscular chest.
the shower with its glorious shine
rinses away his hard work.
he unhurriedly dresses,
remaining cool and charming.
keys jangle, industrious home locked,
engine rumbles in the chill of the night.
light conversation and cocktails.
home again, she stops
him from entering.
a pause, a kiss under the moon and stars
before he takes her to Jupiter and Mars
8/23/2018
Some conspicuous lice met once or twice
With white follicle mites who came out at night
And an upside down tick who did magic tricks
That entertained maggots who shared roasted haggis
With pole dancing worms who wriggled and squirmed
Under Chinese mosquitos munching burpy burritos
Chasing cobwebby crickets selling counterfeit tickets
To shows where no sensible grubs want to go
Warning churchgoing termites that these shows were a blight
On a class of weevil whose bite could be lethal
For marbleized moths drinking steaming Scotch broth
And sanitized beetles who had pins and needles
From sharing cold baths with nonsensical gnats
Watched by camp caterpillars strung out on painkillers
Sharing smokes with loud locusts who were very much focussed
On prostrate praying mantises with suspicious practices
Long-winged smoky wisps curling up
Now drifting like wind driven clouds
Then swirling like cobwebby curtains
Screaming sirens outside the house
Circling about darkening the hamlets
Outside the room shrieking of sirens
Windows seemed miles away
As he came near the window
All he could see was acrid smoke
Devilish red flames burning his skin.
Pitter patter of footsteps coming up
Making his hairs stand up all around
The knot of fear grew bigger & bigger
The remains were all black and smoky.
++++++
=======================
Date 12-10-13
5th place win
Dr. Ram Mehta
Country Music
Contest: Groove it by nette onclaud
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