Rumple Stein lit a single
flickering candle, casting
long, spooky shadows across
the cold stone walls.
"High upon the jagged cliffs
stands the forgotten castle of
Blackwood," he told the
shivering children.
"Inside its drafty halls roams
Grimtooth, an evil ghoul with
glowing green eyes and
razor- sharp claws."
The wind roared outside,
rattling the windows as if
Grimtooth himself were
trying to break inside.
He glides through the castle
dungeons, searching for
intruders who dare to touch
his cursed silver."
Suddenly, a low, scraping
sound echoed from the
fireplace, making the children
jump in terror.
"If he catches you, Rumple
Stein whispered, leaning
close, "he freezes you into a
solid stone statue!"
He mimicked a frozen face,
his arms locked stiffly in the
air, making the kids gasp
loudly.
"Only the bravest souls can
outsmart his traps and
escape the castle before the
morning sun."
With a sudden POOF, Rumple
Stein blew out the candle and
laughed, "Sleep tight, little statues!"
Let me tell you a story . . .
After my beloved mother passed away,
I needed a place to live my life;
the problem was I had limited money,
and could not afford a modern apartment.
So, I was searching for something mature,
a refuge, sanctuary, retreat, harbor, hideaway:
then, I found her, not ancient but aged graceful,
I loved her character, mood, and mystique;
admit she was elderly and along in years.
I soon found out her windows were drafty,
her wood floors creaked, groaned and slanted:
not decaying, let's say dated and I loved her,
I had to hang my pictures crooked to look straight;
some doors are stiff but she has a respectable porch.
She meets my needs for shelter in every way,
my inherited furniture from grandma looks beatific;
and my collected treasures suit my shabby chic style,
I adore the neighborhood, the parks, and paths;
she is the idyllic haven for this girl to live her life.
There was a time when I felt loved and blessed
and shared the joys of family within.
With simple comforts, I provided them
a shelter, warmth, a place to live and grow.
My windows, sparkling clean, would bring a smile.
The porch and steps were swept of all debris.
Indoors, the cooking smells enforced for me
sweet happiness flowed well inside my walls.
But now the years claimed their sad toll at last.
More modern homes are sought in these new times.
My creaking boards and drafty window frames
have told them I am tired and need to go.
Oh, life was sweet, but prime times do decline.
I miss the things that filled my needy shell.
The sounds heard now are stormy winds and rain.
My vision's dimmed by windows caked with mud.
Perhaps I'll live through those photos they took
as they may reminisce in later years.
For now, I stand until the wrecking crew
turns me to splinters from the home they knew.
A chill breeze blows in the ghetto
radiators silent -- empty cupboards rattle
Raw hands wince from the sting of snow
a chill breeze blows in the ghetto
A mother huddles with her brood in a drafty room
no heat emanates from the ice-cold moon
Their cries die in the wind-swept snow
~ a chill breeze blows in the ghetto
(For all the girls in Gauteng)
The Rose of Rathanda
I am the ultimate ruby blush of Rathanda, so overwhelmingly fragrant the moon faints .
My petals, spun from stolen starlight, dictate the very tides of the Indian Ocean.
Kings forfeit crowns just for one blinding glimpse of my of my majestic, blushing, burning Rathanda beauty.
When I bloom, the world holds its breath, fearing the sheer, searing, staggering power.
I make the sun feel like a mere flickering candlelight in a dreary, dark, drafty hallway.
I am the eternal, ethereal, existential epicenter of all divine desire.
I am the Violet
I am a
But mostly, mental illness is annoying.
Like drool all over the place.
A drafty hallway.
Imparts a feeling that can be measured but no one tries.
Sweep up.
Piles of dust turn to more dust.
Drifting along.
Is like a torn finger nail except is emotional.
But mostly, mental illness is an oddball.
Joking around, with nothing.
Dancing as if there’s such thing.
Takes me away like ribbons of spaghetti.
But mostly.
Dry mouth.
Trembling awfully.
Monster drool and slime.
I don’t consider what’s happening a “storm.”
Memories.
Just this oddball reminiscing.
Like cleaning a bathroom with a toothpick.
Imparts a feeling that I tried to measure.
Stabbing feelings.
But mostly, mental illness-
Costs way too much for no reason.
What the Dickens! Santa ain't wearing knickers
well his pants got caught inside the chimney
now here's the kicker...
Little Joe woke up in the middle of the night
and gave Santa such a jolly fright
now here's the kicker...
It was drafty there wasn't any gas nor heat
Mrs. Chump snored upstairs like dead meat
now here's the kicker...
Mr. C was 5 feet tall and wasn't a Clause at all
he didn't know how to rob Peter to pay Paul
now here's the kicker...
The real Ms. C owned a solar panel, Oh what fun
gave it to Ming Ming who flew like a Son Of A Gun!
now here's the kicker... Eh !
He burned Santa's pants then laughed, giggled, scoffed
but as Santa danced around the sun poured in the loft
now here's the real kicker...
Christmas was a blast now little Joe C could finally be,
toasty as a glow worm in a house built for three.
Merry Christmas Everyone !
Love,
From Santa's Girl :)
Leaves now crimson red
Faded yellow and brown
In the darkness coals
Flicker like jewels on a crown
Sipping wine and cuddled up
I settle in for sleep
Dogs dozing cats as well
Birds nodding without a peep
Candle flicks to and fro
Drafty house propels its own
Bewitching shadows dancing
Ceremoniously on the wall
I fear conjured beasts
No sleep at all
I knew a girl
once who had
a clothesline that ran
across her kitchen.
When she would water
her houseplants,
she could never remember
how much
water each one needed
to maintain a healthy
green glow.
She said, “I’d rather them
leak than go
thirsty.”
She placed neatly folded paper
towels beneath
each young plant.
An hour after
each over-watering
she would
pick up the paper
towels, whispering
sweet words of encouragement
to each plant.
She would then stand
on a box of cat litter,
hanging each paper towel
up to dry
in the yellow, electric light
I loved her once.
The way those towels
hung, limp, shifting
in the breeze
of drafty doors
reminded me
of butterflies.
Arkham
Is not for me
I wish I were writing
But instead I’ve got guard duty
With serial killers and maniacs
Screaming, howling, crying
Joker, Two-Face
Riddler
Why does The Bat
Let these guys stay alive?
But I guess Arkham might be worse
With its leaky pipes and drafty windows
Gruel for every single person
(So I pack my own lunch)
Anyone who
Sees this:
We’re hiring
No wonder the villains
Keep on escaping this prison
We can’t take on more supervillains here
Batman! Send us more employees
If you want the bad guys
To stay put here
Alas,
Time to make rounds
In this cold and dank place
I don’t get paid enough for this
But at least they match my 401k
Only up to a percentage...
But I do get dental!
Uh-oh…Joker’s
Laughing
Prisoner mortally confined,
plotting your escape like Papillon,
conceiving freedom like a zoo animal.
Then dreaming on,
you meet a flying child in all your mirrors.
Nearly weightless, pulled in every gale,
lifted like a kite,
catapulted high over every trail.
Then dreaming on,
you are the drafty power of your path,
the easy elevation of your flight.
This embedded skill is never forgotten.
Deep within the hippocampus,
your winged Poseidon,
the flying child in all your mirrors.
Then dreaming on,
soaked in sleep, reverie’s seahorse.
Flying child,
free of worldly constraints,
free of torment and angst,
free in oceans and skies,
your tourist anima continues vaulting.
But then, eyes open in the dim grimness,
You remember this cell,
these sad limits of the corporeal.
Yet, how is it that your dreams know more?
Prisoner mortally confined.
Accepted for Publication: The Opiate Journal, spring 2023
I long to return to a warm June day,
Feeling the glow of sun on my face,
Watching clouds across the sky race.
I don’t know why I feel this way
But I’ve always loved the summer
For me, cold weather is a bummer.
Seems warmth holds my arthritis at bay
Less ailments, less pain, feeling good --
Of course, like a man of my age should.
Of all the months, June is my mainstay
Watching newborn life come to bloom
No more a prisoner in a drafty room.
I come alive in the beauty of after-May
Feel the sun on my face at high noon,
Actually, it cannot come too soon.
I long to return to a warm June day
I don’t know why I feel this way,
Seems warmth holds my arthritis at bay
Of all the months June is my mainstay,
I come alive in the beauty of after-May!
Written September 28, 2022
[a Constanza, a poetry form invented
by the late Connie Marcum-Wong]
Living in a house very old,
it was always drafty and cold.
Metal stairs to the basement lead,
from an old pirate's ship they said.
Was this story really told?
On the ship many were sick~dead,
did they all walk the plank in red.
Those metal steps brought real fear,
a bottomless pit was so near.
Dark and dusty I must now head.
The washer~dryer were in here,
clean clothes I needed to appear.
I headed for the metal stairs,
a voice was calling in the airs.
Where are you now going my dear?
Date Written:6/9/2022
HowManySyllables.com and RhymeZone
___ ~~ ___
home for me is in an
old building
that is quite drafty
with floors crooked
but it has huge rooms
that one seldom gets these days
oh, all the windows stick
but have flower window boxes
and there are some strange creaks
and groans in the quiet of night
still, I love my apartment
in this old building
for it is full of character
and I call it home
______________________
March 25, 2021
Poetry/Verse/this old building
Copyright Protected, ID 03-1341-547-25
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, All Yours (Mar 26)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 03/26/2021
Dismal dark dreary purposed poised
Winters breeze rain icy snow blows
Doused dusting dead driven snows
Bitter colds biting drafty bleaks
Intensifying ice- kissed cheeks
Body armored flannel-fleece
So Winters animated life
Frozen senses desires light
Benign appeased nature's wife
In the Northern Hemisphere
Make sure you shiver make sure you go" blurr"
Coldest season of the year
For Contest Attention: To Detail Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Rob Levasseur
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