Long Battle scarred Poems
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Color Coquelicot
Blazing Coquelicot
paints famed Flanders Field Poppies
on battle-scarred land.
Honored too on coat lapels...
war symbol of remembrance.
Sandra M. Haight
~NA~
Premiere Contest: Kim's Color Splash
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
Judged: 07/14/2017
Rules: Write a Tanka or other brief poem using an unusual color choice along with a flower, plant, or tree
Coquelicot, (coque·li·cot) originally another word for Poppy,
and is the flower's orange tinted red color.
Listen to pronunciation here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D5nR1X-QT1Y
In the spring of 1915, shortly after losing a friend in Ypres, a Canadian doctor, Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae was inspired by the sight of poppies growing in war-torn fields to write a now famous poem called 'In Flanders Fields'. After the First World War, the poppy was adopted as a symbol of Remembrance.
Inside its antique walls, the Sheldon theatre with images of angels upon its ceiling, remind me to seek what is above.
As I climb its historic staircase, looking out into its beauty, if only these walls could speak, unbeknownst do they know, their about to be touched immensely by a very angelic father daughter duet.
If only for one night, we shall leave life behind, to be healed, if “we can believe “ we shall now our heads as if to say “A Prayer” .
Lord Heavenly Father, Please Bless Mat $ savanna as they prepare to sing their souls into our hearts, help them yesterday feel our Love, we’ve all come from near and far.
As the lights go down, they step out onto the stage, They step into the glowing light,
And shadows of the day take flight.
The heavy weight of worry—gone,
Replaced by hope’s melodic dawn.
A father’s voice, both kind and deep,
For those with weary souls to keep.
Then Savanna, with a queenly grace,
Reflects the light of a higher place.
As she sought him, we seek above,
For Heavenly peace and Father’s love.
His soulful eyes, his friendly smile,
Hold my gaze for a little while.
The world is loud, the world is gray,
But here, the stress has slipped away.
For one brief breath, the air is clear,
And Heaven feels a little near.
This theatre is a Holy Place,
Where music meets us face to face.
We look back now, through six long years,
To a world shut down by silent fears.
When walls were high and doors were barred,
And every soul was battle-scarred,
We sought a bridge, a hand to hold,
A story that was yet untold.
Two voices rose to fill the void,
A hope that couldn’t be destroyed.
A daughter’s grace, a father’s hand,
Reached out across a lonely land.
We stood with candles, cold and dim,
Until the light flowed out from them.
A million flames from one small spark,
To chase the shadows from the dark.
Two voices, one heart, bridging the space,
Hope and harmony in this quiet place.
A Dad’s kind strength, a daughter’s pure tone,
Turning a stage into a warm, happy home. As they gather as one to sing us a goodbye of “The Prayer, we have become a Family, whose candles are shining BRIGHTER as we lift them up to mat and savanna, we say thank you fir leaving a handprint on our SOULS, we love you both.
He was a man that knew the word ‘monster’ well
though he never quite spelt it out.
My dad told me that he had seen stuff.
He had a Meerschaum pipe, you know
like Sherlock Holmes,
and he knocked it out
on a battle scarred wooden table.
As an inquisitive child, I had to ask.
“What’s a monster Mr.?”
(in my young mind
monsters were kind of furry and cute,
they had googly shaped bodies
like the cartoon ones we see now.)
He sighed and thought a while,
then said:
“See that little sparrow pecking at crumbs
on yonder windowsill lad? I nodded.
"That creature is a monster to a worm."
They numbered three
the lights for me
there upon their post
Now for me
to choose to be
the one that matters most
I could be
the one who shines
but only for myself
for all my glow
no love would show
I'll keep it to myself
The hue
of option number two
where I don't have to choose
is dimly lit
ill passionate
with never much to lose
Should I be
like number 3
and follow in the light
the Trinity
would shine through me
to light the darkest night
Paying dues
to know their hues
assured my choice is right
finds me marred
and battle scarred
invested in the fight
In full regale
for all to hail
so proudly at their post
There for me
the lights of three...
Which one shall be my host?
WordScape Triptych #1
Coming from the Underworld as a ghost, just sauntering out of the depths like you did;
With all the rest of us just watching and wondering what you were going to say;
Tell us young Beatrice what shavings you encountered in your intrepid sojourns;
Regale us with splendid tales, and grand dishes with squid meat and fried barnacles;
Intrigue us with your newly-learned dances taught by dead men beneath the grasses.
Manipulate us with your pouting grimaces when sad phrases turn inward the head screws;
Sweet Beatrice, there is no relief or recourse from these exacting heart exercises;
These time-stopping surrenders to the moist touches of absolute skin arousals.
Please lovely Dulcinea, guide us to the far-away stones piled atop the ancient green expanses;
Where screaming armies once pondered mortality amidst the spreading proliferating weeds;
Soothe us with your tender eye gazes which shoot through the airy spaces with calm affinities;
Made immaculate with silent prayers and lifted legs around the shoulders of the nobilities.
Create us for your strange mansions and your strange universes made of chalk, and fingering fears;
These soothing squanderings of doubting time, and the strange splashings of forgetful mercies,
Made manifest with the urgings of the stones, and the apex gods with the sharp plastic crowns;
Please Dulcinea, sing to us with your tenor gyrations made of pickled stardust and squid meat.
And proffer for us, sweet sweet Laura, your lilting songs celebrating the recurring exhalations;
From the lips of bearded nomads coming like leopards across the squared-faced, death vistas;
Expose to us your battle-scarred appendages where bleeding arrows found the stringed lattices;
Reveal to us your arched spinal bridges which flatten and turn with the seeking wind shears;
Gather us, lovely Laura, to your immense home hidden in the spiral ferns for tea and secret games;
Teach us how to be present and aware of the artifices, as rendered woodenly by the blind gropers;
Yes, sweet sweet Laura, we are at your service, but finally, kill us, destroy and annihilate us,
With your slithering clandestine movements behind dripping tombstones in the snoring graveyards.
Battle scarred, zealous, victorious,
tested through terrains too inglorious,
unfazed, unconquered and laborious,
I am now home bound!
Unheard amongst many voices screaming,
love locked in heart with desires yet dreaming,
walking amongst dead with hope yet beaming,
to home safe and sound!
Rushing forward into loud hail of hell,
blood, bricks, flesh amongst ruins of crushed church bell,
soul shattered and ears ringing with death knell,
On way to home ground!
Across the seas with your thoughts your image,
yearning for your touch, body in a rage,
for warmth of home and your love to engage,
to have your arms around!
‘Tail rhyme stanza‘ contest
N/A
Sponsor Emile Pinet
Written 22/08/2020
One day, I went for a forest walk feeling sad,
there was a great heaviness in my heart;
I could not even express why I felt so bad,
but, I think my life was falling apart.
Soon, I came upon a gentle slow flowing stream
where a majestic old oak tree stood guard
I looked at the old tree like I was in a dream
oh, it seemed that a hundred birds- I heard
The ancient tree seemed to be thousands of years old
twisting gnarled branches were covered in moss
it was humbling and beautiful to behold
branches grew upwards and stretched wide across
Some branches fell into the ground then grew again
it was battle scarred from many a storm
and gave me such strength I said a prayer, amen
I lay beneath for hours and felt so warm
There was a peace within me that was uplifting
if this old oak tree can survive the years
then, why can I not send my pain and grief drifting
so, beneath this tree I let go of tears
__________________________
May 2, 2020
Poetry/Rhyme/Peace and Tranquility
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1248-208-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Submitted to Brian's Choice 1
sponsor, Brian Strand
Third Place
“Women can change better’n a man,” Ma said soothingly. “Woman got all her life in her arms. Man got it all in his head.”
“Man, he lives in jerks-baby born an’ a man dies, an’ that’s a jerk-gets a farm and looses his farm, an’ that’s a jerk. Woman, its all one flow, like a stream, little eddies, little waterfalls, but the river, it goes right on.
John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath
She is a River
She flows from the hearts of the people
In the hope of preserving justice for all
On the battle-scarred Potomac
Where we became a nation
With her brave and unselfish history of law and order
Her tributaries lead through the deltas
Of the San Joaquin and Sacramento
Bending and stretching with assurance
Curving through the fruitful valleys
Of the golden state of promise
As she rose to the heights of public service
She rolls along the mighty Mississippi
Tendering southern resistance along the Missouri
In the heartland of the American farmer
Who has forgotten the words of equity
She channels rushing into a new economy
Diving into the waters of the Hudson
Unafraid of the rich and wealthy corporations
And its leaders that have exploited the common man
She runs with strength and fortitude
Surging with the untamed rapids of conviction
Where the headwaters of the great Columbia
Blends with the Snake River
Where the wilderness and our historical presence
Will be cherished and unabused
She forges through the frozen tributaries with
Her communion to the uninviting wilderness of the Yukon
And the tropical warmth of Hanalei rivers
Becoming the spirit of great explorers who have made America
The heartland of discovery
And in reaching the oceans of disparity
She breaches our common boundaries
Flowing beyond the seas with diplomacy and civility
To find the rest of the world as a worthy friend
So that the rivers of democracy find a resting place
She is a river of life and the world as we know it
Her tides and eddies nurture all that is truthful, kind and just
Harnessing the power of democracy for us all
She is the watershed for the world
That unifies us together as one
Looking back at our dying earth through windows of hope and despair
It's hard to imagine our planet within hours will be barren and bare
All we take are our memories from a place so rich in compare
To outer yonder we travel, all on-board for a future to share
We are the chosen few, to lead mankind to a distant world
Recalling the days when we dreamt, in comics being told it's absurd
We witness the seas being angry, like they have never been witnessed before
Eruptions abound in plenty, seeing the tearing of earth's crust, now sore
Picturing cities where we resided, all we see are crimsoned orange reds
So free as we venture to anew, containing images of our now forgotten dead
Our once beautiful sphere, now decrepit in battle scarred sit
In the distance it shall always remain, knowing that we were part of it
As I look around this ship, ironically Discovery is it's name
Hoping history will again repeat itself, allowing us humans an honourable claim
~*~
Days seem like months even years yet it can only be hours since we left
I for one can't comprehend as to the devastation leaving a planet so reft
The distance that we can travel in space, remains unbelievable in ones thoughts
It's what lies out there now that worries, can humanity be brought back from nought
An announcement over the speakers now heard, co-ordinates that were set have been reached
No religion will ever again divide man, or it's hatred to ever again be preached
We are now witnessing our new world, captured by the Hubble's wondrous lens
The scientists told us of valleys, and magnificent Scottish like glens
Blue azure skies resonate, amidst cotton wool clouds in sporadic drift
Suddenly a shaking, a severe vibrating as we head into a left angled shift
Unknown grounds grow ever nearer, panic stricken confused scared and crying
To this alien land we die like our planet, evolution can now stop trying
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy-19.php
To the other woman,
I am not mad at you.
What you see in him now,
is what he shows me yesteryear,
only one of us will weep upon his grave:
To the All-Woman Who ‘Loses’ Her Mate
When love unravels, and betrayal stings, The all-woman weeps, her heart’s fragile wings. Yet hidden within this tempest of pain, A metamorphosis awaits, a higher gain.
For grief and loss, like chisels, refined, Her mating intelligence, a gift divine. She learns to read the subtle cues that lie, In future mates, revealing truth from the sly.
And so, she emerges, battle-scarred but wise, No longer blinded by love’s sweet disguise. Her heart, a compass, guides her through the storm, detecting low mate value, keeping her warm.
But what of the other woman, entwined? She dances with deception, love’s twisted bind. Her prize, a man who once betrayed with ease, A history of infidelity, a heart ill at ease.
As days pass, the all-woman stands tall, her dress discarded, memories small. She knows her worth, her happiness her own, No charity case, no borrowed throne.
And when malice whispers, its venomous hiss, she invokes Hanlon’s razor, dismissing the abyss: “Never attribute to malice,” she wisely imparts, “That which is adequately explained by stupidity’s arts.”
Human behavior, shaped by traits unseen, A dance of folly, wisdom, and what might have been. To the other woman, no anger, no strife, Just a silent knowing—one weeps upon life’s knife.