Long Banished Poems
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Could beliefs be wrong
I've survived for too long
in a world full of conflicts,
wilting nascent innocence--
with venomous fearful experiences..
Broken dreams crawl to breathe
inflicted with harsh realities
unaware of masked conspiracies
in fiery oceans of betrayal,
now pound against my sanity
floating to silver stars--
they shiver to exist in probabilities..
Diminishing hopes entangled
in twisted vague ropes
digging deeper in graves
of deceased memories with pain,
now wander on ghostly roads
to bury my doubts in deserts--
they struggle to break free from paranoia..
Banished desires shriveled
in cobwebs of perturbed fate
drowning me in labyrinths
of mourning wails of apathy,
now stand valiantly in pain
to discard thorns of memories--
they peep to bloom on a sparkling dawn..
Dreams, desires, hopes
now faded pages in my book
rest in secret dreams
when my old soul knocks
on doors of crimson agony,
raging embers of morose scars
fester my wounds in tyranny,
blood red scuffles of anguish
drench my chapped lips to revive--
buried spears hurled at me..
I've walked an unrelenting journey
obliviating desolate scars
melting stormy whiplash
with exuberant hope of love.
I've vowed to discard that fragment
tossing my miserable frozen chunks
rolling forth with fervent streams
on midnight along a canopy
to fly afar and find my shore.
I've paid my last visit
to broken twigs of dissolving fears
begging for atonement in mercy
swooshing with cushions of dried leaves.
I've wiped the wailing stories
retreating into resurrection
soothing whispers healed my infliction
from hurricanes of exile.
I'm tired I'm tired
I need to move on
to disperse afar
like dandelion seeds.
Unshackled from your anchor
my ship in stormy seas
releases a victorious incandescence
manifested by shimmering strength
of the hurt you'd inflicted upon me..
August 6, 2020
INFLICTIONS Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Silent One
~Winner: 1st Place
I always feel like a prisoner in the winter, banished from the outside by the jealous wind. As I get older, I continue to make peace with the cold, but I follow the spring. It is a different door, one covered with vines and stars, and to it I am drawn, as if to a beautiful girl.. no other days compare to her.
The flash of a disposable camera, clicked with young fingers, pink-polished nails. A yellow sun dress patterned with orange daisies. The basket on the bike is filled with stuff for lunch, sodas and sandwiches and things. Laughter resounds over the tops of trees as we careen, the children of May, across the sun-spotted road.
The compass points north
You know, this is Saturday
That means we go east
You yell to me that I run too fast, but all I hear is my heartbeat in my ears. I look back, you run faster. The evening begins to cast a spell in our town; the colors purple and orange appear like watercolor in the sky and we both stop to watch. Vapor trails crisscross above us, they're streaks across the fading day, pieces of the memories we've made.
Heat lightning at night
She's reading a magazine
Sarah's rare green eyes
To your door we go, but only you proceed. Your father doesn't trust me yet, but I tell you that I'll try harder. Maybe, one day, he'll give me a pat on the shoulder and a smile. It does hurt, I won't deny, to listen to the screen door wheeze shut and hear your bounding footsteps on the stairs. What comforts me is that I know tomorrow brings you around again, walking through a high archway, lovely enough to steal the sun's attention from the flowers.
These suburban dreams
The pink and yellow houses
Waiting with my thoughts
-For Debbie Guzzi's "Spring Haibun" contest
He sprinted through an awesome barrow, skirting a stone.
The music of July night is hidden behind hazel leaves.
I smile and watch young people play from the walker garden.
Indeed, the downpour plunged, beating on my roof tied a tin drum.
Choking out the bunny's smell in the extents of the forest.
July fireflies long for the moon as floods ascend from onset.
The banished euphoric world is an isolation labyrinth.
Watching the waters surface, the days pass suddenly of shadows.
Conscious at dawn, the moon sails with me to the morning seashores.
1St Place Contest Winner
Written: September 25, 2021
Checked by: SC.COM
Your Best Sijo Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: William Kekaula
Saint Patrick died on March 17th.
So we celebrate the day with green and drink.
Patrick, was kidnapped to Ireland as a slave,
a condition he never fully forgot or forgave.
Patty (as he was known by his friends)
was a sober, relentless, devout Christian.
As a missionary, he gallivanted methodically, converting heathens
and if he failed to convert you, you weren’t left breathin’.
He could burn you at the steak for ignoring ‘reason’.
To show Christ’s power, he ‘banished’ the snakes,
It’s amazing, the difference a miracle can make.
The year 461 pre-dated laptops and even the Internet,
so, I think it’s time we finally forgive and even forget
the sad, sordid history of Catholic conversion “therapy”
because today we need a reason to drink until we’re green.
.
.
Webster: Gallivant: “travel for pleasure.”
My roommates and I went to Doublin, Ireland last summer.
In casual conversation we asked how they celebrated Saint Patrick's day and their celebrations are like ours, more or less - a secular overindulgence. But on a deeper level, this holiday, they say, is dedicated to the patron saint of heathen genocide.
I hear the howling at the moon
as nightbirds then begin to croon
The cricket’s dance invades my ear
all creatures of the night I hear
So why then with this shrouded din
should I be in the mood I’m in
Perhaps I feel I dance alone
to claim no nightsong of my own
Yet when the morning dove arrives
to brighten all the mourning lives
And when the butterflies appear
the sounds of happiness I hear
The loneliness that once took hold
now banished, hearts to be consoled
The doves fly off and say goodbye
elated as we see them fly
Before the beginning of time when Chaos ruled Hell and Night
Into the depths of this Cosmos, a Paradise, perfectly placed.
Above this darkness, a heaven drawn forth in a burst of light
Before the beginning of time
From the Garden of Eden, henceforth, Adam and Eve were disgraced
Lo! A fallen angel changed himself to a serpent in Eve’s sight
Banished, they fled before God to a wilderness, forever displaced.
Forbidden fruit had shown them the difference of wrong from right.
In Pandemonia, Demons conspired, sin and death be interlaced.
God sacrificed his Son to save them - from Hell's eternal plight.
Before the beginning of time
Suzanne Delaney
For Suzette Crous
Roundel Competition
Father now journeys
into afterlife destination alone,
October 7th, 2020 mid afternoon
with Earthlings ministration did attone
where night envelops his lovely bones
rendered devoid of any groan
courtesy Roxanol (morphine)
and Ativan finding him prone
to experience painlessness, and no
his dying wish, plus last will and testament
won't include burial and/or headstone
cuz, he wants to integrate and did intone
cremation as ecologically friendly option
scattering ashes to parts known
someday... yours truly will too
succumb to the dead zone.
Stark reminder to live fully an urgent yen
to live life fullest between now and when...
ever yours truly exits
stage door left, perhaps ten
twenty, thirty... eighty, ninety, one hundred...
additional orbits around sun
a remarkable human phenomenon
(me) courtesy mine burning ken
bequeaths modest minute man
near accursed immortality longevity totaling even
score of years counting (crows)
and father time among his brethren.
Distress unavoidable which mortality doth bring
nevertheless, tis impossible mission
to eradicate pain and suffering, which doth sting
consolation assuages grief, viz prayer
and buttressing coping with spiritual wing
profound absence augments biting zing.
Biological reproduction begetting offspring
lodging within uterine abode
subsequent in utero development
regarding accretion embryonic node
biological algorithm doth automatically encode,
nevertheless longevity invariably affected
no doubt courtesy lifestyle mode.
Random crapshoot luck of the draw offspring born
genetic blueprints also decree existence transient
parents emphatically teach progeny
got no choice must inform
daughter(s), and son(s) ineluctably forsworn
demise bound with birth certificate presents horn
of dilemma conscious the next generation
granted only so many Earth orbitz around sun.
Once grim reaper deftly
communicates I must bid adieu
eternal hasta la vista to kith and kin
please don't shed a tear for generic
germane admirable bad company crew
member, albeit healthy as an ox
never got the flu,
an atheist doubting thomas
though genealogy records
incorporate many a cynical Jew
at least one legendary antiestablishmentarian
gleaned within mine purview
shunned, ostracized and banished to Xando.
My black is majestic my black is smooth
Even when I was banished from public pool
Even if I was portrayed black face fool
I was a raven flying above you.
I am much more than kinky hair
Thick thighs brown eyes and ebony stare
I am the truth if you want or dare
Take my hand and I’ll take you there.
Black is deeper than had been enslaved
Nothing weaker than to steal me away
From my history where I am great
From times mystery of healing faith
October 17th we celebrate
All black poets on black poetry day
You don’t have to know it that you are a poem
written by spirit, fruit of the loin strong.
Most of us poets are not well known
In our hearts we find gem stone home
For literacy and for fuchsia full blown
Purple royal words we call our own.
I dream of having a blank slate,
a rebirth and chance to create;
create a completely new start,
a perfect life built by my heart.
I wish to dwell in unknown fate!
Find paths to an open life gate,
a unique me to cultivate;
I will make a story and chart.
The past banished!
The new-born me will captivate,
and each dawn I will celebrate;
this sweet place where grief has no part,
oh, Lord this time I will be smart.
The past banished!
_________________________
February 15, 2023
Poetry/Rondeau/Blank Slate
Copyright Protected, ID 02-1525-699-15
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, This or That, Vol. 16
sponsor, Edward Ibeh, Theme, Blank Slate, Judged 03/03/2023
Third Place
Down below we are running
Through smokes and mirrors,
Down unnamed streets,
Those ships across the lake
Carrying life and our dreams
While our Captains are by the shore
Rolling sand across the beaches.
We have this lemon juice
Squeezed into our eyes
We teach each other to laugh
From the stomach not the throat,
Or else we invite the black hoods
From our corridors to leap upon our bodies
Hold us to the banished concrete floors
With the intent of our moans or cries
When they hold me face down to the ground
Help me as I ask the beads of sweat to shout
For me while they sweetly escape
And behold the scars shall live here
Always scarlet letters on the chest.
We wish also to be sitting on the hill tops with
Folded legs and heads
Rested on clouds
Passing calabashes
Of swollen fruits
Among each other.