Long Abyss Poems
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God’s love is not a secret after all
His compassion never ceases to reign
granting eternal life midst mercy’s call
while supplying wondrous heavenly gain.
Along the Saviour’s love, surely divine
marked by pardon, always ready indeed
His forgiveness of sovereign design
brings repentance as heart from guilt is freed.
As the love of the Lord constantly glows
His faithfulness exudes radiant grace
manifesting abundant blessing-flows
that are for sharing against selfish brace.
Never a secret, since obviously bright
God’s love does shine well for mankind’s delight.
God’s love does shine well for mankind’s delight
expressing His goodness while bringing hope
vanquishing despair and gloom of sin-blight
with joy around reconciliation scope.
Exposing perfect care to the fullest
love from the Creator reaches each soul
drawing everyone to His blessings’ nest
through His gentle touch for fellowship goal.
Persistent to work for redemption bliss
love of the Almighty offers best gift
sure salvation from damnation’s abyss
paid by His sacrifice against hell’s rift.
God’s love, marked by longsuffering, so dear
reverberates sweet music to my ear.
Reverberates sweet music to my ear
is the genuine love bestowed by the Lord
melodious with kindness-message that’s clear
along generosity-practice chord.
That’s charity propped upon wisdom theme
building brethren for transformation leap
helping each one progress along love’s stream
as faith in the Saviour strengthens His sheep.
So may I pray for such love in my heart
to enclose me against greed, lust, and pride
conquering covetousness’ grievous dart
humbling myself before the supreme Guide.
This I declare, gratefully standing tall
God’s love* is not a secret after all.
*1John 4:9-10 In this was manifested the love of God toward us, because that God sent his only begotten Son into the world, that we might live through him. Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.
August 1, 2023
9th place, "No 1233 New poem only" Poetry Writing Premiere Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 8/3/2023
10th place "Secret Love" Crown of Sonnets Poetry Writing Premiere Contest Sponsored by Mohan Chutani; judged on 8/17/2023
I am grieving for our yesterdays
when your eyes spoke to me of love
when the moon still rose in the night
before its soft glow faded and died.
I've learned not to trust eyes that tell lies
and a tongue that spews illicit words
as if you were merely playing a game.
Your malice doused the flames of desire,
its ashes carried away on the wind.
I am sinking into the depths of an abyss,
miserably mourning and feeling abused,
tormented by the memory of you,
feeling foolish thinking your vows were true.
There are times I still hear your toxic words
haunting me as your acidic tongue drips venom
that drivel over me; lethal as a dose of foxglove.
How can it be that love seeps from curling words
into a floundering bloodstream inside my heart?
You called it love but that's a chameleon's lie.
Your deception wounds my body and scars my soul,
with an infection that leaves me mortified,
spilling tears I cannot hide or staunch.
I've traveled a thousand miles from yesterday.
Each one plunged me deeper into darkness,
wallowing in stygian shadows.
As I slip into the void of this endless black,
I lack the will and resolve to live like this
with your acrimonious venom flowing in my veins.
An asp you are to bite the one who loves you.
I'm left to wander in desolation,
unloved, unwanted and desperate for the destiny
that once I would have berated myself to seek.
No longer can I bear to gaze at starlight
or the glow of moonlight in stellar skies.
Celestial beauty holds no allure for me.
I yearn for eternal rest with stardust memories.
I do not hold myself to time trumpets,
no list of things to do schedule for me;
but I follow my own true north compass,
I am unconstrained and unrestrained free !
Facing each new day with rapture and glee,
perhaps you think my life a mishmash mess;
but I embrace life in each free will breath,
filling days with joie de vivre bliss.
My words written on white are God caressed;
joy- chaos of the pen and the abyss !
Because of no restrictions I have peace,
I am not enslaved to a list of things;
letting go of "must" and "need" a release,
and each dawn a new beginning it brings !
And my spirit, mind, heart and soul has wings,
you may think my life a muddle jumble;
that cannot endure and will soon crumble.
but truth, I never know what will sparkle !
Enjoying each "in the moment" tumble;
for in time- I will be engraved marble !
________________________
November 4, 2021
Poetry/Dizainx2/Unconstrained and Unrestrained
Copyright Protected, ID 11-1403-576-04
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premiere contest, Agendaless Exuberance
sponsor, Unseeking Seeker, Judged 11/27/2021
First Place
As Ring of Fire departs day's fray
Daylight lingers in bridled rays
Eclipsed rays through filtered haze
Filter through cloud's liquid maze
A cloudy fondue with sparks doth blaze
Blazing chemicals tinged with fluorescent glaze
A tinge of yellow into glowing orange, deeper red doth
braise
Singeing the horizon with colorful light displays
Singed elements melt descending from vaunted dais
Leaving a melted merengue of tan welts and lactic grays
Gray columns swirl into tidal wave submerging all gilded
pathways
Silver waves fold into miry abyss leaving charcoal malaise
Stephen Parker
contest: Wreath on the Flavor of Dusk
Date of poem: August 9, 2012
On the grand stage of the world, under lights of dreams and flickering charm,
We dance our illusions, beneath arcs of sun and mysteries fashioned through dreams vast and warm.
Freedom, a chimera of thoughts and rustling leaves lost in the ether,
Carries us on golden wings, as our souls transform into vapor.
Under life's curtain, lights dance in frenetic arabesques so febrile,
Illusions woven in the distance, with threads of moon and dreams fragile, under subtle lights so real.
But when the price rises like silver spears illuminating the entire earth,
The curtain lifts, and truth becomes hungry, burning like the very word.
Then, under lacy shadows, the decor shatters into waves of broken illusion,
For the magic of profit falters on untamed and warm crystal shores, a mere delusion.
Chairs and tables are ghosts, vanishing in an instant, nebulous illusions falling apart,
And the brick wall gazes at us with a truth unclear, mysterious like shadowy art.
Under the veil of deception, the moon spreads stardust from celestial heights,
Dream puppets wearing heavy, sad masks, hiding their faces beneath silent rites.
But when the spell fades and the light becomes bitter, cold as the lost dream,
Truth grips us like a river rock, silent yet unwavering beneath the mute word's theme.
The curtain rises, and fictional whispers evaporate like clouds of dawn,
Under the sky's cross, illusions die, memories breaking at dawn, fraying in an hour gone.
In the abyss of the stage, the wall watches us with granite eyes in secret shadow,
We, the dreamers, become wanderers through a finite tableau, wax-free, hollow.
The stars ignite for the next act, the moon retreats into its spherical penumbra,
And behind us remains only true wisdom, fleeting eternity, a dying stanza.
Without sets and masks, only a deaf and smooth truth beneath the clear gaze,
Under the fallen veil, we become part of a preached tale, never to be phased.
Thus life carries us, in shows without ends, devoid of ephemeral beauties,
The illusion of freedom, enchanted and lost in foreign ruins, brings breezes.
But the walls speak, in their silent stone's forever changing tug,
And we, wanderers, forever seek the light in the night, like fog-bound ships in silence snug.
Splitting wide open
the rough rocky ledge in my garden,
at the edge of the broken slope
a sapling grows unsighted,
soaking the new-found sunshine.
A lone bud blooms unnoticed
with the color of spring
within my agape heart,
the void is filled with the patina
of the unfurling petals of love.
You waft past me
on the wings of zooming zephyr,
a sensuous storm of emotion
blows enticingly through me,
saturating my emptiness with fervor.
I hold the ruffled petals
close to my heart, open to yearning,
lest they fly away discarded
from the withered flower,
getting lost in the abyss of obscurity.
________________
June 11, 2022
Title chosen : Split Wide Open
Contest : This Or That, Vol. 12
Sponsored by : Edward Ibeh
Sandpiper Pausing...Again
What times are these
where hearts run hot and cold
ceaseless conscience alerts
remind us of steel girders fallen prone
entombments sealed
their distant voice remembered well
Compassion's lens peers through
this fallen metropolis of micro-flesh
this glass transparency
engulfed by forsaken smoke
knowing today's ethereal
descends as heart's residue
embracing darkness recalled
clock hands stopping
media rushing to air-time
yet never to be out of date
Silence remembers
fused tragedies
crumbling worlds
bodies falling
hearts broken
Yet
learning comes hard
More violence breaks the silence
cacophonous pandemonium
empty shell casings bouncing
pop pop pop pop pop
children's pleas
teachers' bravery
first responder's sorrow
parents traumatized
grievance everywhere
Sterility reigns
Washington defers
barbarity's extended abyss
the next tragic moment to define
insensitive that irresponsible behavior
will spawn new memories
destined to awaken vanquished yesterdays
Like a video game of archaic gulosity
certain chameleon passions remain insatiable
indecisive apathy-driven appetites
fuel congressional obstruction
While at the shore
A sandpiper pauses
beneath remembered ash
echoed violence
unredeemable screams
floating atop societal trade winds
seeming to be never forgotten
Like other creatures of blood that flows
eyes that see
ears that hear
hearts remaining conscious
knows not cowardice
Even a bird understands that
And so...
Even as the sandpiper probes away
its discovered sustenance hard fought
its needs remaining small
congressional appetites of power and greed
continue sated only with constituency expectation
indulging in anticipated 2013's gluttonous reward
thinking the next tragedy but finger food
the next gun sales windfall a payback for re-election
answering the next challenge of moral impotency with...
Not a problem
Not a problem
We stand on ice that feels much too thin,
six feet suddenly feeling like miles.
Our footing is loose on this shaky ground,
and the cracks can be heard all around.
I see the fearmongering, the conspiracies,
the boredom and the sadness of separation,
the blame and the vitriolic remarks -
yet amidst it all, I also see sparks.
They reside in the eyes of the kind, the saints,
they light the fires in our heroes' hearts.
They shocked the minds that took this crazy race to space,
and they'll carry us out of this frightening place.
They kindle the muse in the artists,
keeping everyone as sane as can be.
They ignited that burning midnight oil
that fuels the healer's noble toil.
There they are, surrounding so many hands,
touching but for the pane of glass;
there again, glinting on that man's flag as stars,
shining for those in the passing cars.
On our media they jump from post to post,
from puzzles to videos, to jokes and "I spys",
from pictures to chatting, and all in between -
living in smiles passed through a screen.
Yawning before us is this chasmic abyss,
but we have what it takes not to fall.
Hope is in those sparks, our humanity, our drive -
let them burn, let them spread, and we will survive.
Written: June 24, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Natasha L Scragg
Quote: "If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to
man as it is, infinite." By William Blake
"Note: If we define perception to include transcendence, intuition, and the process of abstract meaning, we ultimately consider Spirit as the human sixth sense"
******************
Sight
The sky soars over sycamores above—
Amber light oozes over foliage & cove
A web of shadows weaves in stone.
The leaden hand of dusk settles in hush.
Eyes drink the amber evening's glow—
Remember, sight traces the soul's flow.
Sound
A sighing symphony thrums in the grass,
And birds croon their nightime requiem—
Wind dissolves to a sighing minstrel's song,
The river's pulse falls, soars, and swells—
With every ripple, a true voice tells—
Remember, pitch lets us feel—loudness dwells.
Smell
Café hallway emits the scent of roasted beans.
Velvet bitterness, and draft of warm balm.
A panacea for weary spirits.
Bearing salt sobs from ocean's eternal call.
Scents rouse the soul from dormant sleep—
Remember, scent rouses souvenirs from ash.
Touch
Wooden tables rough with mercurial grain,
Stone stairs under roving hand—lost in touch,
Wind, a feathered touch soft as a bird's wing,
Pressing, melting, morphing against skin.
Clearer than words, touch conveys fact—
Remember, touch and grace nurture men's mood
Taste
Cappuccino foam, pure alabaster gleam,
An astringent elixir dissolves into sweetness.
Rhythmic throb of each tongue's caress
A perpetual delight, a lament for oblivion.
Each sip recalls summer's golden light—
Remember, taste maps food and drains.
Spirit
All senses join in a nexus of now.
Knitted with time, bursting with life's vow.
No lack here, no abyss, no plough—
Spirit fulfills yin and yang—limitless sky.
Only abundance of presence here,
The ardor of being, the breathing flame—
Remember that soul transcends name.
As the thread of time unravels like a spider's web in the wind of memory,
I wonder how each stroke on the canvas of the soul becomes a kaleidoscope,
A verse etched into the flesh of the dream, an image of a vibrant world,
While the shadows of evening unfold like the pages of a journal forgotten in an attic.
Like a tree grown from the roots of memories,
I stretch my branches toward the sky loaded with fantastic constellations,
A vast silence, like a sleeping city, where echoes blend in the moonlight.
Art is not a shield but a labyrinth of thoughts,
A mirror reflecting the deepest corners of the subconscious,
Revealing deep wounds, hidden under layers of dreams and nostalgia.
As I approach the end of the road,
I feel how the skin becomes a page of fine paper,
Through which stories are seen more clearly,
A dance of vulnerability, a ritual of dreamlike sincerity,
In which I strip away all masks, one by one,
Until only the essence remains, pure, complex, unaltered.
It's like an abyss of one's own thoughts,
A flow of images and sounds, a stream of intertwined emotions,
Carrying fragments of past days, unfulfilled dreams, lost loves.
In this stream of consciousness that embraces me,
I wonder what will remain when everything is revealed,
When words are silent, and only their echo dances among the shadows of memories.
Perhaps I will be nothing more than a stray sentence in an unread book,
A whisper of wind lifting the dust of thoughts.
Or maybe I will be a silent song, a universe hidden in someone else's heart,
A fragment of the dream of a world that no longer exists.