FOLDED PAGES FILL BOXES AND BINS
FINGER PRINTS STAIN WHERE SPIT
WAS USED TO TURN THE PAGES
MY NOVEL SCREAMS OUT FOR
RESPITES FROM MY TEAK WOOD
DESK MEMORIES FADE BECOMING
DIM ABRUPTLY SHINING A LIGHT
AT THE BOTTOM OF THE DOOR A LEAF
FALLS WRITERS BLOCK HAS GONE HOME
FOR A SEASON I SUPPOSE AN YET
I'M NOT WILLING TO PUT PEN TO
PAPER I'M NOT WILLING TO WRITE
I'M NOT WILLING TO TYPE WHY I'M
NOT WILLING TO LISTEN TO MY MUSES
CHANTING FROM AFAR AS BANGLADESH
DANCES COLORFUL CHIMES GEMS JINGLES
AS THE ELEPHANT CALMNESS ABODE STANDING
THERE STAMPING HIS FEET THE DANCE OF
A LIFETIME UNFOLDS MY PAGES ARE FLOWN
AROUND MY ROOM AS LEAVES THIS BLUSTERY
FIND MINGLING WITH MY MINDS EYE LEAVING
A RED DOT ON MY FOREHEAD MY GREATEST
NOVEL FINALLY SAY'S THEE END
“A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness; but still will keep a bower quiet for us, and a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.” (John Keats)
************
Grammy’s hands were porcelain monuments,
each finger a taper of borrowed moonlight.
She posed them on plush velvet, her wrists arched,
for cameras that loved their silent eloquence~
a beautiful ballet of knuckles and patience,
selling rings, lotions, and the illusion of grace.
Decades of lemon baths, lotion, and almond oil,
nails cut and buffed to crescent moons, never chipped.
Her knuckles, delicate hinges, refused the
swell of arthritis—time’s gift of a life well spent.
Now her hands rest, folded like origami,
still flawless, still waiting for the lens to flicker.
A banner flutters in miniature pride,
stars frozen mid-waltz, stripes folding
like gentle waves—
a tiny chorus of red, white, blue.
I imagine the seam of that paper flag,
its edges serrated like hopeful teeth,
waiting to bite into air,
to sail across neighborhoods on whispered wings.
Each star is a promise—
a small light in a massive sky.
Each stripe, a pulse:
resilience, unity, churned history distilled
into red—blood, courage, sacrifice.
At the bottom: FREEDOM—
a single word anchored in gray,
soft as ash and loud as a marching drum
pressed into one corner,
a vow to endure beyond the moment.
I see letters etched beneath fingers,
penned in midnight lamps—
love letters to mothers and soldiers,
invitations to lonely birthdays,
apologies and confessions sent
with trembling stamps of hope.
On this paper flag, we bind our stories.
It’s less about the pride of nations,
more about the weight of our words
and the silent faith that someone, somewhere,
will hold that flag
and read our hearts.
When this body, a shoddy tent,
Is folded and tucked away,
Of no more use, it’s value spent,
Only memories left as communique.
What remarkable gifts did it leave?
Did it accomplish any good?
Will it be known just for its ease,
Or did it do everything it could?
Was it an intense and shining light,
That helped others upon the Path,
Showing passage in the night,
To escape the world’s evil wrath?
Will it be known for moral integrity,
Compassion and solace to those in need?
How many in the sea of community
Will know any of its worthy deeds?
Did it stand against the storms,
Braving opposition that souls be served?
When flooded by nefarious norms,
Did it miraculously stronger emerge?
Each crease folded thought
Rounded stones upon a beach
Laughing at the surf
If I cared more, I would see the dream that should be,
Lanes wouldn’t be filled with worries,
Schools would cater to the educators well,
Institutions wouldn’t make graduates dwell.
Music is dull and paintings are monotone.
No voices are heard, and eyes are closed alone,
Where’s the compassion gone?
Folded papers were all done,
And forever it will be.
Fraud voices initiate to make hopeful people happy.
I care only remorseful late,
One wrong move and found each other a bate.
What color of a man makes a difference?
Leaders who seem to divide the countrymen.
Have we chosen the wrong shepherd?
Might be a carnivore who devours just to lead.
How many bloods let come to shed,
To attain the greatness country thought of ahead?
Wrote millions to catch an eye, people asked now, “why?”
Folded papers are now end up fried.
God search a game of hide and seek
We’re handicapped by lower mind
So rest thought, to get a sneak peek
Leaving ego spawned fears behind
Before folding hands in prayer
Let this be our affirmation
Proclaimed by us, God’s soothsayer
Our joyous heart in elation
The left palm holds our ignorance
Whilst the right, divine love and light
When both hands join, in innocence
Our soul’s luminescence shines bright
22-January-2022
Sometimes, I am like a folded red rose,
in deep sadness I wrap my wings;
and safe I linger as rose petals close.
where all my grief in my heart clings.
Though, a rose is quite divine- the scent blows,
and thoughts of funerals it brings;
the sweet smell speaks to me of death's repose,
with each death my heart sadly sings.
But, there are days when I can leave my throes,
the petals opening to things;
and I am able to dwell with shadows,
finding birds still sing like harp strings.
"I hold a velvet red rose to my nose,
for life is like a thousand violins. "
____________________
November 15, 2021
Poetry/Rhyme/Like A Folded Rose
Copyright Protected, ID 11-1406-655-15
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Rose
sponsor, Robert James Liguori, Judged 11/17/2021
First Place
A Twilight sky folded like a silent prayer in my hand
Whispering a mystic verse of one true, graceful end.
A canvas of returning birds and layered clouds unfold
A dying hue, casting a spell of love, an enigma of gold
Tranquil water reflects these rays of a divine carpe diem
Nothing persists but a safe return to one cherished name.
I dwell within myself like a folded red rose,
lost in serene tranquility of the gallery;
and I roam the many rooms of art- a girl alone,
among the glow of the old masters;
with color pigments and brush strokes beautiful,
and painted images and scenes inspirational.
________________
August 3, 2021
Poetry/Verse/like a folded red rose
Copyright Protected, ID 08-1378-474-03
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest Bite Size Poem No. 16
sponsor, Line Gauthier, Judged 08/08/2021
Second Place
If i was to compare my skin
To sheet of brilliant white
I would say is closer to the blue
Scotland my land of birth
where sunlight never seems to disturb
where sheets of rain
are folded by the gusts
She folded, quit, shut down, bled out
In a horrible, end-of-life way.
With pills
And lots of them
Never fulfilling her dreams,
Never finding her hopes.
Never traveling the road that would have led her
To a purpose that would have saved her
I had not reached out
Because she was on the fringe of my friends
A beautiful woman – glorious brown eyes.
Gorgeous black curly hair.
She was a goddess,
But she did not know
Some had told her but she had laughed
Not liking herself at all, plotting her demise
The cure of the fold
How easy it is to fold
To damage yourself and others
Through suicide
Never fulfilling her purpose
Never finding her dreams
Never traveling the road less traveled
The one you believe in and pave for yourself.
His role, sadly, that of “The Little Prince”**
tending to a long forgotten rose
preserving the truth of memories lies
her beauty in a folded crease repose
His love a trembling finger’s gentle touch
of longing etched within the silent eyes
alone within the dusty grip of past
touches the curling edge of timeless sighs
turns pages of a life slow edging black
nurtures each fading petal in retreat
collects every shallow dusty breath
enfolds them in a moment’s mourning sheet
He carries her – his long forgotten rose
love’s beauty in a folded crease repose
(**The Little Prince” – Antoine de Saint-Exupery)
©7/27/2018
for the Not Just Any Old Rose Poetry Contest
NOTHING HAS CHANGED
IT'S STILL THE SAME
AS BEFORE YOU WERE HERE
YOU WERE A LITTLE LIGHT
BUT THE BATTERIES DIED
AND I
IN THE NARROW REALM
OF UNCERTAINTY
AWAIT YOUR DECISION
A DEPARTURE
WITHOUT QUESTION
I'LL GO
BUT I MADE A LITTLE SUN
IN YOUR DARK SKY
GUESS I BLINDED YOU
WITH THE BRIGHTNESS.
Left With A Folded Flag
Have been at wall with all of the enemy,
Including one that existed inside of me;
Have begun to prepare myself for war;
On ship as it approaches foreign shore.
Fearlessly landed and sand was flying,
In the air and many soldiers were dying;
Some seem close and others are nearby;
Soldiers that did die are in our each eye.
Blood did drip down upon grungy ground,
And a horrible new home we have found;
Waiting for us approaching growing near,
Which was with so much sorrow and fear.
Harder and harder have to fight and fight,
And would appear with dawn's early light;
Heard weapons fire with bombs exploding;
Up more ammunition soldiers are loading.
Officer dropped by and he now is with us,
With so much sadness heard him discuss,
About or modest son who would not brag;
What we found left was a single folded flag.
Jim Horn
Not sure about either how or
which contest to enter my poem
into. Someone can for me if they
want to. Maybe I can get the next
door neighbor to help me like in
the commercial. Of course you can
do everything for me if you choose to.
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