In the quagmire ooze of daily trudge,
where the mire of monotony
clings cold, congealed in sorrow,
it takes only a spark of inspiration,
to transform an ordinary morsel
into a shimmering taste of sheer joy.
Echoes that entices, suffices.
I carry my sample bag handy,
stocked with my pet peeves in reverse.
Tiny things that you take time
to notice, and create space for,
that bring gemstones of joy shining:
The smell of rain, with storm's first drops.
The wispy waft of coffee, freshly brewed.
A rare bird sighted or heard, out of season.
A few chords of a beloved song.
Warm socks from the dryer.
A wink, glace, a tiny half-backed smile.
First touch of warm hands.
Fresh bread from the oven.
Noticing my things I placed in extraordinary ways.
A doodle scribbled on my notepad
Inspiring word or phrases recorded.
Doing things at half-speed, to spool like honey.
In all these little ways on long days
these echoes entice, suffice.
Lady with that undeniable charm,
falling for somebody too soon
can be a mistake that'll bring pain;
lovers look for joy, not harm!
I admire honesty before I greet beauty,
sadly, I sense a glace of uncertainty
from a lady with that undeniable charm;
come down from the throne of pride
Lady with that undeniable charm,
your virtue encompasses all the others;
it's a fine perfume that brings delights
on cloudy days awaiting a storm!
Who owns the nobile smile you express
with a sweetness far beyond devotion?
Other ladies, not as realistic, pursue dreams
that are too big in concept and ambition!
Lady with that undeniable charm,
no gold holds the power of deception,
no desire or ambitiion changes the norm:
you look forward to joy, not to delusion!
As a slip of tongue whip-lashed a pun,
The hurt begun, could not be undone.
The room hushed, smiles withdrew,
As sarcastic pathos turned its screw.
A simple phrase — at first glace plain,
Was en-wrapped in a double-meaning chain,
It landed soft, then bit deep to crush.
Its brush on cheeks, drew a crimson flush.
Though we laughed at the unintended.
The joke offended, the defiled lay un-mended.
With any apology and explanation upended,
By what was clearly needlessly intended.
Your smile and laughter were betrayed
By eyes that glanced away and strayed
To look down, downcast at the ground.
The joy, once flowing to astound, drowned.
Three sides to every story
The viewpoint depends on,
which side you are looking at:
the up, the down, or the sideways glace.
There's your side, my side,
with the truth perchance,
lying forlorn somewhere between,
always on the other side, twisted out of view.
But no one is lying!
No view is false!
For our perspective is biased and tainted,
by our background and context.
So what you and I see,
when looking at the same thing,
is different in innocent crucial finer details.
However, in our eyes,
our side of the story is the only true one.
The other sides are the 'lie', and the 'veil'.
When I look at all three sides now,
From up and down, and from all around,
Somehow, I know its only cloud illusions I recall.
For I really don't know,
what's really true at all.
Mangoes, the first of the season,
sit plump and shameless in trays,
their smooth skin tempting
a passing hand to reach down
and touch them, one cut open
sends the tongue into a spasm.
The market is a feast for the senses.
You need to walk slow
and take it in, catch the smell
coming ripe from the cheese,
golden blocks and creamy white
rounds speckled with mold
hang heavy in the enclosed air
of a stall. Salty, buttery, rich,
the nose lingers over each.
And further along, jams and preserves
rainbow their colors from jars stacked
high in pyramids and on a table,
trays of dried and glace fruit glisten
a sugary sheen in a sunlit glut
to the eye. Swelling apricots,
pineapple pieces and pear halves
bulge beneath clear plastic wrap.
It's almost overload to an old man,
stall upon stall of temptation,
offerings of pleasures banned
by the diet police with their edicts
outlawing salt, fat and sugar.
On this warm, bright Saturday
afternoon in October I say f… em !.
Let’s not make this so little mistake,
We don’t have to agree with Marie or Catherine,
To love a girl, she has other assets,
Her tantalizing lipstick, I think so much of her,
We don’t have to agree with him,
To keep a friend, Martin, or Gilda’s
Just watch ice hockey, or football
Just send your car to the next garage
Let’s agree, we don’t need to agree,
With everyone, or the lonely poet
Just look at the stars at five o'clock,
Just fish for large trouts in Idaho,
To becoming friendlier. Or listen to the warm wind.
Ne faisons pas cette petite erreur,
On n’a pas besoin d’être d’accord avec Marie ou Catherine,
Pour aimer une fille, Elle a d’autres atouts,
Son brillant rouge à lèvres, je pense tant à elle,
On n’a pas besoin d’être d’accord avec lui,
Pour garder un ami, Martin, ou Gildas,
Il suffit de regarder du hockey sur glace,
Il suffit d’envoyer sa voiture au garage
Soyons d’accord, on n’a pas besoin d’être d’accord,
Avec tout le monde,
Il suffit de regarder les étoiles à cinq heures,
Il suffit de pêcher la truite dans l’Idaho,
Pour devenir plus sympathique. Ou d’écouter le vent.
visit Rue du Faubourg
culturally diverse Parisian Street
culinary delights every direction
croque monsieur
marron glace’
la malbouffe’
follow the locals they know where to eat
savvy street smart foodies
Marquise
Cinque linking
Amaranth medallion
Allows a diamond star to form
Immaculate teeth, glace cherry smirk
Swinging on invisible link
Sheriff starlight centre
Spikes squeezed between
Marquise
14th July 2022
Written for Contest; Radical Rictameter
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
The man standing like a rock
Being the old clock
Time is passing slowly
It won't be easy
The bed seems to be alive
But that is just a lost dream that will arrive
my mind so deep like the hall in my glace
Maybe I found another resting place
The echoes of the he's sad resonate on is heart
Peaceful and quiet when he will sleep
For ever he will find the joy he never meets
I wandered round the lonely graveyard.
The few mourners did not bother to look at me.
I ought to know the paths so well
Ah there it was, unembellished as I had left it.
Silence reigned everywhere, except for some bugs
I began to wonder what I was doing there.
Then a small group of mourners appeared.
Four bored men carried a coffin, plain as can be.
The burial took very little time to carry out.
A priest mumbled a few prayers and all left.
Except for a woman all dressed in ebony black.
She shed no tears nor mumbled any prayer.
And then she left without one glace at me.
There on the slab someone left a picture frame.
Curiosity got the better of me and soon I saw
It was a picture of me. The slab opened
And I just entered my place inside and all was calm.
Fiction, just a ghost story
I woke up early one cold winter's day,
A ray of light had roused me from my sleep,
And gazing at the blush of dawn' display
My eyes excitedly began to sweep
Across the frosted landscape to the deep
Soft bed of snow on fields and hillside steep.
The world had been transformed beyond compare.
A pristine blanket clothed the frozen ground.
As sunlight filtered through the frosty air
Such dazzling brightness shimmered all around.
Soft flurries of light snow fell without sound
And silhouettes with crystal glace were crowned.
A stunning transformation to behold
Of origin divine and imprint bold.
13.01.22
Winter Wonders Within Nature Poetry Contest
Sponsor : M.L.Kiser
She sponges her face to brightness.
She has been depressed before
but this trench her mind trudges through
is full of a clinging dark mud
and she can't get out of.
At work she has to teach her hands
to do things she has done a thousand times before.
Then there is the mirror,
she cleans and wipes it constantly
but at each glace she sees her face blurring
as it leaves for nowhere.
She eats alone, the restaurant erupts
with an air-conditioned laughter
that makes her head spin.
Back home she drinks and drunks.
Her friend calls:
"That guy in Section D,
wants me. Last week still hurts.”
“This morning I almost didn’t.”
she replied.
There is a long pause,
duct tape holds together the center -
just.
Kilts.
So eloquent and beautiful.
Each thread woven with a ravishing tale,
every glace brings back memories.
Kilts.
The alluring tartan fabric flowing and
draping around the waist, reaching all the way down to the knees
Kilts.
Each one worn with pride,
to celebrate such a delicate culture
a symbol of confidence, a trace of your past and your county.
Kilts.
Plaid thick fabric that contrasts beautifully with the strands of your thick or wiry hair.
A red fiery waterfall of textures and lengths.
A battle scar that is embraced by the warmth of your community, and though often shunned by others, you stay strong.
You stay strong and you stand proud with your kilts/
Gentleman muffin wearing monocle
My mustache never been out of fashion
Never thought bringing out my chronicle
Jockeyed searching my perfect companion
I dreamed becoming morning glory muffins
Howbeit fate is in the hands of the baker
Throws old ingredients, I’m huffing and puffing
Bread maker made me sweeter, ampler power
Window dresser puts me on display case
A lonely bun lying in wooden racks
A glace domed cake, no one blowing my face
With nightfall comes, only got aching back
Can I still witness my dawning rapture?
With people lining up to shoot my picture
16 September 2020
(Sonnet - personification poem)
A black dog has got hold of her again.
She sponges her face
to a more rigid mask of brightness.
She has been depressed before
but this trench she trudges through
is full of muddied water
and she cannot find a way out.
At work she has to teach her hands
to do things
she has done a thousand times before.
Then there is the mirror,
she cleans and wipes it constantly
but at each glace she sees
her face blurring
as it leaves for nowhere.
She eats alone,
The restaurant erupts
with an air-conditioned laughter
that makes her head spin.
She drinks alone,
then fills the empty wine glass
with salty tears.
She is not sorry for herself,
she is sorry for the black dog
that slinks in and out of her mind
looking to be fed,
but she will not feed it,
she must watch it starve
while she slowly climbs
up and over
her own daily bereavement.
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