I was gently awakened by euphonic cooing
of mated doves perched on aspen branches
whose golden leaves rustled sweet silver songs
I rushed to open my wooden dormer window
and hum a greeting to their soft morning trills
With hands splayed on the ancient stone sill
my face welcomed the sun's auroral warmth
I felt the chill of Autumn's breath biting the air
and exhaled in contented sighs of appreciation
for the stunning beauty of this mountain valley
To paint nature's colors without dreary compromise
would require a far greater artistic hand than mine
While gazing from my cabin's primitive casement
I descried a canvas stippled in blazing pastoral hues
framed by the rustic charm of my bedroom window
My bed is a vintage and very old
I adore the swirled black metal
nice to behold
so delicate each created petal
I inherited it from grandma long ago
and can never let it go
The mattress is not to everyone's taste
perhaps a bit lumpy and soft
with pillows placed
a perfect bed in my open space loft
oh, each night I lay caressed by my vintage bed
under a down bedspread
The bed is close to a window dormer
it looks really beautiful there
nothing warmer
in the sunshine the best bed anywhere
so cozy to just lay and soak up the morn' sun
before day has begun
_________________________
February 28, 2023
Poetry/Ode/Ode to my Bed
Copyright Protected, ID 02-1528-594-28
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Write An Ode
sponsor, Jeff Kyser. Judged 03/08/2023
Second Place
I have seen people so kind...
And their stories rewind...
It is hard to remind...
The thoughts that unwind...
Strangers turning warmer...
Past becoming dormer...
Every day goes faster...
Making me a master...
Feelings unsaid...
Words unheard...
I strive into the unknown...
Turning the tables all alone...
What is life...
Other than a piece of our mind...
One not to strife...
Let it go and be kind!!!
It's winter as I view the merging between night and dawn
Frosted dew crunches underfoot as I stroll across my lawn
Around me the world is hushed and a fading star still shines
Virgin snow fell overnight, settling like blankets on the pines
I glimpse pale light on the horizon this frozen January morn
Shadows are being cast over the hills as another day is born
A spectrum of pastels is painting the sky in such colorful array
The sun's golden beams resemble swords making way for day
On a morning walk, my breath turns into mist in the frigid air
There are paw prints in the snow, and tree branches are bare
Water slowly drips from icicles beneath each gabled dormer
A hearth fire beckons me inside where it will be much warmer
January 13, 2023
12 Lines of Rhyme - Winter Nature Themed Contest
Sponsored by Tania Kitchin
it’s 2 am in paris
and we have locked arms
as we walk-run
down the rue des rosiers.
the soles of our shoes
smack against
the eight hundred
year old cobblestone.
we hurry
to an unknown destination,
desperately searching
for a room
for the night.
on the dim street corners
desperate men leer,
as they do,
while we huddle into ourselves
in an equally desperate defense.
we are fourteen
and lost,
in every sense.
we walk for most of the night.
i begin to feel as if
i’d always been walking,
as if i would never come
to a stop.
when finally we knock
upon a paint-peeled door
and are offered a room,
we collapse
onto the bed
in a heap of exhaustion
and exhilaration.
we open the dormer window,
allow the traffic and
the ceaseless midnight chatter
of the eighth arrondissement
to wash over us like
dandelion seeds on the wind,
and you begin to sing.
my voice raises to join yours
and we lie in bed,
singing ourselves to sleep,
utterly unaware
of the time and beauty
and youth
we’ve been gifted.
Billy
Saturday night in another winter,
The time was 8:00, and I remember,
Icicles were hanging from the dormer windows,
Arc lights wore halos as I waited for you.
My new red dress was wrinkling,
As were the corners of my fretting eyes.
Tears were forming tho to no surprise,
The phone rang, you were kind but gone.
Arc lights wore halos as I waited for you.
I. Beyond the open dormer, high boughs of trees stir.
Your voice is in the green leaves,
In the mingled limbs moving, stirred by fluid air
Flowing past the casement, touching eyelid and cheek. Shoulder.
Caress of ephemeral particles which only perhaps, yet in my mind
Brushed across your own skin at some previous, unknowable moment.
II. Rain comes.
How many drops were condensed from your sea,
Sent onward from spray of plunging bow, delivered by the wind?
Blurring sight turns out past distance, through time,
Patchworking visions real, desired, remembered, imagined.
The very scent of the air is as bracing as your mind
But its touch is as gentle as your hands.
Stranger things happen
Than what's just happened to me!
Walking past a house
I saw an image there
In the dormer window looking
I noticed the burn of her stare
As I stood to take a look
She just vanished in thin air
The windows blackened up
Anyone could see that no one was living there.
The building tempted me to approach
But I just didn't dare.
I knew something was there
By the atmosphere of the air.
As I moved away the image faded back
Only half seen.
Like she was holding back?
I turned my head sharply with a focused track to catch her looking at me.
She smiled and disappeared
I smiled an inner smile, I acknowledged that I was still free.
By not turning that key, I'd stayed away from what would be to me a dark insanity.
Esther Shugg
1833 – 1908
A woman’s heart forever resides
In the glowing hearth of her humble home.
Come Earth dwellers. Come Earth survivors.
I invite you to my warm and cozy house.
There, on the southwest corner
Of Mar Vista and Pickering Streets.
Venture, if you will, to the little white house
With the lace curtains in the front dormer windows.
Peer, if you will, through those simple curtains
And you will find happiness and priceless joy
Embedded on the paneled papered walls there.
Peek, if you will, through those transparent glass windows
And you will find sadness and hopeless despair
Enmeshed on the slatted wooden floors there.
I married James Shugg in 1855, and
Found rapture on my third finger.
I lost James Shugg in 1882, and
Found heartbreak in his bloodied handkerchief.
Come Earth dwellers. Come Earth survivors.
Come to my little cottage on Pickering Street.
Look to the old open window there, and
You will see James and me, mere ghosts now,
Waving from within,
Waving with friendly testimony,
To a life of steadfast love
And melancholy loss.
The Window...
Here
looking out
looking in
through
my
self:
a transparent orb
stilled in fragile strength---
Here
looking in
looking out
through
my
self:
a quite dormer
revealing and concealing;
a pawn broker
of secrets.
Here
looking out
looking in
through myself.
Every day I pass it by
This house of solid wood,
I would like to go inside,
If only that I could.
It has a large veranda
All across the front
And lovely dormer windows
Where the occupants look out.
Each time that I walk by it
I feel the warmth inside,
It makes me want to run away
From the outside world and hide.
The curtains on the windows
Are made from pure white lace,
I have to stop and stare awhile
And wish this was my place.
There is no pain or sorrow here
They're not rich, nor are they poor,
Only love, and solitude
Behind the white front door.
I know it's hard to understand
No problems.....not a trace,
This house is not on any street,
It sits on my fireplace.
You see it's just a doll house
Not real in any way,
But it gives me inner peace
When I see it every day.
And sometimes when I'm feeling down,
And have lost my faith within,
I look behind the white front door.
Perhaps they'll let me in.
Lynn Barany