Headspace Poems | Examples

counterclockwise breeze

                                        counterclockwise breeze
the fringe of Fall                          inside-out
                                             static headspace

A hop, skip, and jump away

I treasure the moments
when my eyes catch an animal
hopping through a field of flowers 
or even just a plain field.

In my headspace,
I metaphorically become both
the field and the rabbit.

Jumping through a field of flowers
feels like an intrusive jubilation
a sudden burst of hope,
a quiet sign that all will be well.

But a plain field speaks differently.
It feels dry. Unwell.
No bloom.
Lacking light.

And yet,
the rabbit is always there.

A blameless, alluring creature,
with a purity beyond human
comprehension or relativity.

Though the field may be plain,
and wary,
there is always hope nearby 
maybe just a hop, skip,
and a jump away.

But always there.

Drunk Dry

Fog unravels its gray threads to smother the sky
and numb the mind,
words slip away to find other mouths
to fall from.

Wallowing in a low funk,
enveloped by a dull dislike
of these sprawling hours,
and this gun-metal sky
shuffling along
as a ghost in carpet slippers.

Into a deep glass of wine
shrinking spirits sink,
listless lips sip mechanically.

Words wriggle away as if escaping a fire.
Idiom and phrase morph into clichés.
Too few words arrive
to pin down or hammer onto a page.

The wine has no taste
it was poured too early, drank too late.

A mist lingers in that headspace
where creativity slumbers listlessly.
Daylight grows old, the mist turns red
it's not the sunset painting these thoughts -
it's a sullen anger.

That anger began to grow around 3pm
with the realization that I really have been
unplugged from myself,
and that today no eyes will see
those lost or found words which appear
when I allow a white electronic page
to turn me on
and not off.

Song Without A Chorus

I'm a song without a chorus
And my mind is rather porous
Been down this road before
Questioning why I'm back for more
Words bounce around in my head
When for years I thought they were dead
For years I watched myself bleed
Ignoring the things I need
But it's a waste of my headspace
To fight gunfire with a mace
So here I stand one more time
Lost in the echoes of rhyme
Because deep down I love this
And the scene is what I miss
Green greed feeds the machine
With wanted posters asking if I've been seen
But I'm not Waldo, you don't need to find me
I'm here for all of you to see
With a pen that still drips with ink
It really has to make you think
If passion can truly come and go
Then what do any of us know
But I've paid my fine
And lost my place in line
But that's just fine
I'll carve it out with each new line
A subtle repetition in the flow
And maybe everything will glow
But I am not a gimmick to be written off
Even if I've fed from the trough
I'm just a song without a chorus
And my mind is rather porous
I'll just have to sing hard enough
So my words are good enough

A Painted Mind

There was headspace for thinking,
but the roof sagged low,
it restricted imagination.

Rooms stacked on rooms,
all boxed in.
The only way to hear
any other part of himself
was to drill holes,
in the dry walls of dead cells.

Nurses attended to his hands and feet,
he told them often,
that he felt they had been
nailed to a crucifix
he once found painted,
onto a public restroom door.

When dead at last,
his brain was thinly carved,
slices were offered
to a holy communion,
of private investigators.

A much-redacted report
failed to be widely published,
it could not be read,
not even between the lines.

the long game

We’re playing the long game.
We share things, we’re lovers,
we slip in and out of each other’s lives
like jackets hanging on the back of a door.

Relationships are like instruments,
they must be played, kept in tune,
the carnal and the corny balanced,
carefully, like sections of an orchestra.

Sometimes, I feel that I have to bring the energy,
BE the entertainment - and I can do that - in spades
but not forever - I’m not a tireless-giver - in fact,
I'm atavistically Parisien (we admit loving nothing).

I’m learning that when a relationship’s conducted,
at great remove, the basics - like punctuality,
dependability and preparation - become a big deal.

When I’m in an optimistic headspace, I think we can do it,
maybe, that we know what we want and who we are.

That we’re playing the long game

The Surreal Sight

Looking into the yawning chasm
trying to find the gem long lost
The shattered shambles of the sky
in the backscatters of the running river

The surreal sight:
throttles the medieval poet;
brings back unwelcomed nostalgia, 
a forsaken evocation.

In an attempt to fathom the waters
has she fathomed out a truth unwritten?
In her hand is the pen, 
but do the words listen to her?

Did she ask to be born,
nor the river did ask to flow
How would she end the trifling fiction
the strings in the hands of the unknown?
The surreal sight:
its voice echoes in her headspace;
How would you end the trifling fiction
the strings in the hands of the unknown?

My Island My Land

I long for my island
Asleep in the sea
A perfect location
Made just for me

Far from the rat race
The fear and the dread
No shop for my cravings
No milk and no bread

I travel there often
In my mind in the night
When my headspace is full up
When I’m losing the fight

My island’s as real
As any reality 
My perfect location
Asleep in the sea

Journey, don’t travel,
If your roots are deep set
Your mind is an atlas
You can never regret.

My Darkness

Sitting eyes closed in the darkness 
suffocating a soft glow illuminates 
thoughts of a chattering mind;

As the chaos feeds on your mind
reveling in the solace of darkness,
you don’t know it illuminates;

Moonlight in a window illuminates 
there is prose within your darkness;
A murky headspace I don’t mind;

My darkness illuminates my mind.

One Morning When I Wake

I emerge, worn out
from the long hours
that stretched sleepless across
much of the night. The morning
reveals my work, a headspace 
of holes dug by the burrowing 
machines of thought, 
a few scattered bones
and a brain full of junk.

I spend the day repairing 
my inner plot, raking over
the holes, reburying the bones
and using the junk to make
a scarecrow I can hang
above my bed. By evening
I'm done.

One morning, when I finally 
get a good night's sleep without
being holed by the burrowing 
machines of thought
ploughing through my head, 
I'll probably wake to find 
the buried bones have taken
root and the scarecrow 
snuggled up beside me
in my bed.

Headspace

Why is this head so dark 
Inside, I can’t even seem to find a spark 
No movement or care
For it’s best to not be aware 

Of what’s really going on up there

November Morning

 
A mystical, heavenly, sacred place,
where the bare peaceful trees reflect with grace,
and the sky, forest and lake interlace,
in a gold, hazy, moody morning space,
a scene that is hard to ever erase,
the dawn fog is lifting to but a trace,
and I float in ethereal headspace,
the haunting gossamer view I embrace,
when the night, dawn and day come face to face.
_____________________
November 08, 2022


Poetry/Monorhyme/November Morning
Copyright Protected, ID 11-1499-946-08
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France

Rhyming verified on RhymeZone
10 syllables per line, 66 word count

Written for the Premiere $ contest, MonoMixoRhyme
sponsor, Hilo Poet, Judged  11/30/2022

A Quiet Place

A quiet place, to rest one’s bones 
by the stream of stepping stones 
Water trickles wild mosses grow 
and rushes on edge, gently blow

A quiet place, to forget about work 
Close ones eyes, escape life’s murk
Feel cooling winds caress our face 
and soft moments filling headspace 

A quiet place, where time sits still 
Lost are troubles amongst the hills 
At one with nature, no more cares
and if the world ends, be unaware 

A quiet place, has no need for hope 
everything fits nicely, here we cope
Seize these minutes to take a break 
and enjoy the dream, whilst awake

By David Kavanagh

Safe Space

All I want is a warm safe space  
where I can sit and unwind; 
Comfort can sometimes be a place;  

Put a slower rhythm in my pace
go where I can leave it all behind,  
all I want is a warm safe space;   

Disappearing without a trace
when I dissolve into my mind,
comfort can sometimes be a place;

Secured within a lover’s embrace 
it’s a feeling that cannot be defined;
All I want is a warm safe space;

Instantly in a positive headspace 
a cafe filed with the vibe ‘Be Kind’,
comfort can sometimes be a place;    

Wishing each night into my pillowcase
it cannot be that difficult to find; 
All I want is a warm safe space, 
comfort can sometimes be a place.

The Path

This is the true restart to where I'm supposed to be,
I had lost this path that I now so clearly see

The worst is in the past as I keep moving forward,
Uncertain of what's to come, what I am moving toward

Positive in my headspace that where I want to stay,
No matter what's thrown at me I know I'll be okay

I must say sorry to myself I wasted so much of my time,
I've finally learned the lessons, I've documented them in rhyme, happy to say I have found my way back to where every thing is fine, so glad that I could save myself and put myself right back in line.

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