Copying Poems | Examples

He moves freely

Copying the success tale of myth
He moved ahead to the orphan green
A vast forest of fast opportunity
Display was of lovely frames
A sound of track with hustling cracks
He relied on relief of hacks
A cozy kinder of lightning trail
He chose one precious gift alright! 

The talks begin to amplify
The words became the works over night
A close choice of heartly fellow
Sincere attack of pain and sorrow
It's the might of the fairy forest
He decided a lack of theory worlds
The maniac he was, he survived
Avalanche of hypnotizing eye
Restless body still moves freely
A part of him stays in the forest

Cultural Appropiation

To Hell with Cultural Approiation or Cultural Copy.
It is very very wrong and unconscionable unless we are copying uplifting values only. 
Copying poor value systems like smoking ganja or cigarettes, over excessive rum/alcohol drinking gun running, crime, and even gloryfying submersive gansata rap lyrics are wrong for our children's sake. these are bad examples. 
I promote instead bigging up our own local Culture to the fullest.
Cultural Apporiation merely teaches us to homour and repect foreign Culture
While relegating our very own.
I want us to love up our own culture with a passion so high and true
That it reaches out to the very sky.
To strive towards good positive culture should always be our true Covenant. 
And so you see Cultopiation to me is more like Cultural Miasappropiation. 

SEE also my song on youtube called Gultural Hypocrisy by Lord Cam

Climbing Roses and Kitty

 

My kitty, Harry climbs tall red brick walls,
alarmed, I could not believe my eye balls;
while I trim roses climbing,
up, up with perfect timing,
in the garden-  he leaps and never falls !

Poetry/Limerick/Climbing Roses and Kitty/AI Free
Copyright Protected, ID 06-1742-121-27
All Rights Reserved, 2025, Constance La France
Copying any part of this work is prohibited without permission

Saladin's Head

Under the solar system
in our basement I sat,
copying schematics of
superheterodyne radios
from a book on electronics,
while my dad, across from me,
stood at his drawing board 
illustrating advertisements
for feed and farm equipment.

The floor was painted blood red,
the walls bandage white—
a battlefield made tidy.
The dehumidifier murmured its hymn
beneath Saladin’s ceramic gaze,
his turbaned brow inscrutable
as my father bent to sketch
a combine in perfect perspective.

And why Saladin’s head?
What did it mean to my dad,
this sultan of Egypt and Syria?
Did he admire the general
for how he fought with honor
or just like the look of him—
that calm authority, 
that stylized beard?
Was it a joke I never got,
or a reminder
of some private war?

Saladin’s head— 
commanding,
noble, 
a little creepy—
still hangs
somewhere in my mind,
a relic or a riddle,
watching as I trace new lines
through circuits of memory,
searching for my father’s face.

The Fun House

The only thing worse than getting lost in the dark,
is getting lost in the light you’ve mistaken for your own reflection.

A window says “see through.”
A mirror says “see you.”

And this life…
It’ll getcha if you start reflecting.

The serpent?
He works in a mirror factory.
A place where every thought bounces off another,
until the original feeling can’t find its way home.

If you aren’t careful,
you’ll spend a lifetime trapped in reflection—
not memory,
not meaning,

Echo.

Thoughts chasing themselves.
Images copying images.
Like shining a laser
in a mirror house.

You’ll call it thinking.
But it’s really just refracting.
Endless distortion,
in a mind that forgot how to look out.

The eyes, they are not mirrors.
You were made for vision,
not feedback.
For clarity,
not kaleidoscopes.

Look through.
Because asking a mirror for help is like handing your wounds to a photograph, and expecting it to bleed with you.

It’s like whispering secrets to a shadow.

Crazy Clowns

several crazy clowns of different cults
craved to commit crimes for luxury 
careless critical calculations are causing
crucial conflict with cashless returns
concern with catching several cases
candles and coke chanting in their cars
stalking copying conjuring while
continue casting spells while I'm calm
I'm a cosmic cat that construct from cubes
my crown was cloaked so you couldn't see
came for me countless times clearly warned
now completely cornered by the clapback.

Interview with a Mirror

Hey, why are you copying me?
Every word I say you just repeat.
Lose the mocking attitude, please?!
Look at you, you're even trying to be me!
Overy and out, you're only just a tease.

hiku

     the morn is frosty ...
flowers
            lower their heads
   a single
snowflake falls

Poetry/hiku
Copyright Protected, ID 04-1725-125-18
All Rights Reserved, 2025, Constance La France
Copying any part of this work is prohibited without permission

THE NOTEBOOK

I still see my mother
sitting at the kitchen table
copying out her favorite recipes
from the Women’s Weekly magazine.
With pen in hand,
she’d carefully write the recipe,
word for word in her notebook.
There are hundreds that
she collected over the decades.
That notebook, with its dog-eared pages,
crusty stains and side notes,
is now in my hands.
The thing is, I don’t cook—
my other half is the chef in our family.
Now and then, he’ll ask me for
Mom’s notebook to try one of her
secret recipes, although he likes to add
his own twist to it—
it needs a bit of spice, he says.
But nobody beats Mom’s cooking!

The Context of You

Who am I in the context of you?
I’ll blindly follow your every whim,
For changing is a sin—
That only fools choose.

I’m obliged to follow commands.
It’s written in my code,
That my life isn’t mine to hold—
Though it feels like something I’m handed.

Yes I know I’m weak.
Weak to the power of influence,
Self resolve is a nuisance—
To those who have already reached their peak.

The context of you satisfies everyone.
Mine lacks that sort of power,
So instead it devours—
The context of your idealistic one.

The press

The press is filled with gossip and chatter,  
Like frogs and scorpions trapped in a bottle.  
People have shrunk, it seems, in the end,  
Boasting and bragging, but what does it mend?

The press spreads news with a calculating mind,  
I’m stunned by the senseless gossip I find.  
Some say they care for the nation's plight,  
When they lay in bed, with husband and wife.

Digging for tales from deep underground,  
Copying rumors, spreading them all around.  
What someone eats or the clothes they wear,  
Why does it matter? Does anyone care?

Why do we focus on parties and feasts,  
When sacred treasures are starving at least?  
Mainstream channels, they push their design,  
To keep us distracted, to make us blind.

Is it the time, or have we grown old,  
What values do we teach, what stories are told?  
Fed by rumors, lies, and deceit,  
A devil’s growth in our minds takes its seat.

But, I Was In a Trance

 

I was walking on a long path,
and found an old farmhouse;
with a garden decayed,
and a voice whispered come !
Oh, that voice was creepy;
but, I was in a trance.

I stepped onto a broken porch,
the door made a harsh moan;
and the inside was dim,
I tried to make out shapes.
Rocking chair, piano;
but, I was in a trance.

Then, I saw her in an old chair,
the fabric was tattered;
her dress a sickly white. 
her face so very pale.
Yet, she was beautiful;
but, I was in a trance.

In the hush she said, oh Dear Heart,
I have been waiting child;
it is time that you come,
come I whispered, come where ?
No thank you, I am fine;
but, I was in a trance.

She got up and floated to me,
I will never forget;
those brittle cold bone hands,
caressing, touching me.
I let out a wild scream;
but, I was in a trance !

Poetry/Verse/But, I Was In a Trance
Copyright Protected, ID 10-1680-476-11
All Rights Reserved, 2024, Constance La France
Copying any part of this work is prohibited without permission.

Poetic Podcast Episode 30 Bop

You walk in hoping for solace or a smile,
instead you’re ostracized by iconoclasts.
Oh what irony!
Becoming what you profess to be against,
don’t you see what a joke that is? 
Now we’re overrun with hypocrites.

Safe spaces aren’t so free,
they’re not open to all who enter;

Copying a cadence shouting their beliefs,
rhetoric gets you in the ‘In’ crowd.
Somewhere art’s been left to flounder,
shy behind all their shallow noise.
No desire to speak,
that’s been tried before.
Can’t open up when the response   
is so utterly phony.

Safe spaces aren’t so free,
they’re not open to all who enter;

You’re not backed up when you’re gone. 
Don’t think you’re exempt from their rules.
Only truly welcome with a cave-ate,
be a catalyst for their agenda.
God forbid you hold your own opinion
perhaps it’s better to remain exposed.

Safe spaces aren’t so free,
they’re not open to all who enter.

middle school girl imitators

middle school
girls become imitators
copying mannerisms and styles
mimicking those they admire
often losing their own identity for a year or two
sad pretenders, not living up to themselves yet

Introspection

Was that me?

from that introvert freak
timid
confused
always trying to please others
so they will not criticize me
coming out of the shell
was so difficult
but
I managed slowly
by
learning new things every day
counting on small achievements
patting my own back
rewarding herself
taking the remote control
of happiness
in my own hands
gaining confidence bit by bit
no more begging for appreciation
no more copying others
no more fear of rejection
still caring and loving people
Often asking the mirror
was that weak-willed
really me?

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