Long Beckon Poems
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in the pile of time amassed with layers of days and nights i see
a flower called life open the petals of divinity as the essence of
existence gradually unfolds its beauty with the splendored grace
of god, but i wait for the ordained time when i will hear in the
sigh of the wilting flower the inevitable call of the auburn soil of
the barren ground in the cold night, not knowing when the beckon
will come from god’s blissful realm as i walk the last mile of journey
on the fading pathway, and while my tired eyes close every night
i dedicate the colors of my flower and the gleam of my twilight
hours to god, and when I wake up in the sunny morning i thank
god for the gracious gift of another new day
i see my flower
drenched in serene sunrise hues
drizzling god’s blessings
Smiles express, tears depress;
friends dwindle, fools abound.
Efforts fail, hearts confess;
eyes beckon lies confound.
Rivers flow, souls, shutter;
doubts linger; passions flame.
Truths falter, words stutter;
fears fester, feelings blame.
Bonds erode, friendships bind,
teardrops fall, dreams desist.
Insults hurt, beliefs blind,
egos bruise, pains persist.
Grapes ferment, needles sting,
gamers play, babies cry.
Bellies ache, fenders ding,
eagles fly; soldiers die.
Failures fade, hopes renew,
spirits haunt, debts amass.
Hugs assure, hurts construe;
sails unfurl, heartaches pass.
His deep dark eyes haunt me and beckon me to come
I am under a spell as his arms enfold me
his kisses wild and demanding make me helpless
I come when he calls and I cannot stop myself
he knows how to make me melt in his arms with words
I am ashamed that this wild lust keeps me his slave
Breaking free will not be easy, I will need strength
I will not let his lips and his words keep me chained
for deep inside me there is courage to break free
so, I leave him, turn away- to find me again
________________________
August 2, 2020
Poetry/Free Verse/Me Again
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1275-202-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Once upon a time.
And that is all I know
I think about it long and hard
But it is fleeting so
A feeling gone but not forgotten
A smile in the eyes
Tears that sting but are not falling
A crowd that’s asking why
A ghost of memory
A touch of hope
We reach back in our minds
To see what was but is not now
What once was left behind
We say we have all that we do
But is it really there
For it could be another dream to lose
Among the other stares
The random glance of strangers crawls
We wish only the best
A second glance is what we saw
And we both wonder if it’s a test
The thoughts collide yet still not near
We think the same of all
We wonder if in our minds they hear
If they hear our thoughts call
We wonder what the glance is for
yet only for a time
Since only random chance of door
To see into the mind
Thoughts do waver feelings mix
And flowing like an endless river
Our dreams do float betwixt
The lonely shade of endless shiver
The bright of joy and happy calls
We beckon it to come
Into daydreams our mind does fall
None come back but some
Nostalgia sometimes for the few
Who only dream of the past
So deep they don’t know what to do
All they hope is they are all but last
So to wish for so to hope
To stay put back behind
While trying still to cope
But only to go back and rewind
So many things to think upon
So many so to speak
Yet only until it is gone
Do the answers we seek
But there are things that make tears fall
Though we do not admit it
We think inside and give our all
To try and fail to stop it
They topple over as if to show
It’s hard to catch the rain
It only lets us know
Everyone has pain
Sometimes grey skies
sometimes blue
Sometimes when they think of you
Sometimes when you remember love
Or maybe after loss
Maybe when you look above
Or when you lay on moss
Maybe happy maybe grief
Maybe nostalgia at it’s worst
Maybe something inbetween
A mix of what really hurts
Maybe smiles maybe frowns
Or even realization
But we know the tears fall down
To create a new creation
Whether sunshine whether rain
Though we don’t know what’s to come
We know we’ll find eachother again
As in our minds an endless hum
Bring us to re-begin the rhyme
And lead us to pretend
That we knew once upon a time
Was only just the end.
The universe creaks on tiny, sublime hinges.
Time swings in space-time, frayed at the fringes.
Each squeal is a cipher, a riddle to implore,
For a small iron whisper that unlatches the door.
Dreams swing on hinges where memory's ghosts hide.
Half-truths and illusions roll in with the tide.
They glimmer, they scatter, they beckon once more,
Through half-open gateways, and a half-open door.
A rusty hinge is furious; it moans with all its might.
It groans with a grinding burden too heavy to fight.
Its sorrow is relentless, its voice a grating roar,
A fracture that longs to close, bolting the door.
Each heartbeat has a hinge to swing open, recall.
It shuts out sorrow, but lets joy in, to all.
Its hinge chatters; it flutters; it listens for clues.
To filter what enters the soul's drive-through's.
At dusk, the day's bronze hinge is on standby.
Day sinks into silence; the night awaits its reply.
Timing is delicate; a groan, a whisper, or a song,
As fleeting shadows find rhythm and shuffle along.
The mind is a doorway that swings in late breezes,
It opens, it closes, it pants, it begs, as it pleases.
From folly to wisdom, from basement to high spire,
A small hinge of thought can spark reason’s fire.
Love leans on its hinges, both weak and true,
It squeaks when neglected; it splinters into two.
But kindness can oil it, and faith guards the door,
So two hearts on hinges can swing together some more.
The past lies in a doorway with hinges of stone,
It groans when it opens, it sighs when it’s shown.
Yet memories linger on, they hunger for more,
Knocking for entry to door still locked as before.
The future is waiting on hinges yet to be seen,
It echoes in light beams, with glimmers between.
Each moment is a sneak preview of what's in store,
Through cracks in the door, that has not been opened before.
So marvel at the mighty hinge, with its knuckles and a nail.
It carries the key to enabling life to be at full-scale.
With a sneak preview, a whisper, an echo, or a roar.
Each tiny hinge sets things in motion; it opens the door.
Background B.B King it
You'll get home alone
A Quartering as Jazz
As quart and liter
As meter and mile
Footage and reconcile
Irish Quartermasters Gaurd
Kevin J. O'Meadhra
Trace as feather
Low of ash
Bury of quill
Fide et amore
Nightingales Ergo
Send in rot
Further, borrow
Scottish wreathing
Entangled Britain
Relent
They of leave
Twined as lecture
Recital of yellow
Beckon brown
Revile of green
Tustled hearth
Baby babysit looks like
It's gonna hail
Jump and jive
As sent to the SAG
In tawdry spent
The war is lent
The establishment of thy own
A hate filled thrown
As crimes as thine
Tinkle and toast
In a entire
Only as pure
The picture as haunt
Plagiarism
Stores front
Sufferer as complaint
In stilled poverty
I law
Joan had little art
Lythed command
Hinde weeps rather as waltz
Herculean task
Wardrobe mantle black
Opening Suggestion of Betrothed
The Small Print of the Black Mass
To steal the power from the newly dead,
Through blackened magic where the demons tread,
You beckon the spirit from the darkest plane,
And feast on the flesh to assume its reign.
From the dirt of the grave, the monsters shout:
"Feed me! Feed me!" as the lights go out.
The flesh turns to liquid, it slithers right down,
To grant you the strength of a forbidden crown.
But a consumed spirit will fight to be free,
Unless you can bind it where no one can see.
So you drag the ghost to the deepest abyss,
And curse it with crimes in the dark's prejudice.
You lock it away in a chamber of screams,
To rot in the static of shattered dreams.
Yet the path to this knowledge is steep and unkind:
You must enter hell's back door and lock it behind.
You hide the key in a desolate place,
And pray that a righteous hand leaves no trace.
For the Book of Sin doesn't offer a lie
The small print catches the arrogant eye:
The contract is absolute, heavy, and cold,
A willing soul, and a payment in gold.
Or a pillar of salt you will turn.
Let it come
When it often got mentioned
Of time to come
In anticipation forward I peered
And I longed
That in a glimpse of time
I in utter agitation jot a line on time plane
Not in any way narrate an episode
Rather,
Let it flow I dared so
From memoirs interior
And my heart explicit split
At your intent disposal lay
A vent perhaps
I longed thence
That I may narrate
Or?
What was to embrace?
And bring it abreast engulf
Time in lapse erasing
What memoirs I had to refer
When often a song did beckon
Ideas in haste beeped a flip
And a flow they did fleet
I too longed for a chance
Like a trapper of moles evasive
That this so chance gather abreast embrace
And switch a current flow
My sole song
To lay the hurt into heart
This I have watched in utter prayer
Like a night watcher anticipating a dawn comes
Such a day behold
Let it be.
Heavenly realm of the weeping willow,
Its eyes dare not shed a tear of sorrow.
Arms down, it stands, with solemn grace,
As the wind of rumor caresses its face.
Beneath its branches, green leaves sway,
As if to beckon life's display,
A silent observer, it stands strong,
Watching the world as it moves along.
Heavenly realm of the weeping willow,
It sees the joy and hears the sighs slow.
But no tears fell from its gentle gaze.
For it knows the secrets of life's maze.
A refuge for the weary soul,
The willow's wisdom takes its toll.
Oh, friends, please listen to its call.
For in its branches, truth does sprawl.
Though no tears fall, their presence is felt.
As it watches life, its heart does melt.
In its stillness, it finds its peace.
And in its silence, it finds release.
What if the journey ends before it’s over
a lessening of purpose with each stride
slowing as the burdens slowly shift
fading in the distance growing close.
When will the trails no longer beckon
soft dusty boots remain beside the door
old hats hang limply in the shadows
inertly beckoning an old man’s gait.
What is the treason of this aging
this slow erosion of a once proud state
perhaps it bids me slowly to acceptance
that every season has its resting place.
Wisdom, you have been a long sought quarry,
a slippery elm impossible to climb
as if the troubled trails that I have traveled
were more about your quest than mine.
Come, rest with me upon a fleeting moment
tell me of your journey’s lessons taught
and I will in comparison inform you
of what I think life is, and what it’s not.
John G. Lawless
©1/27/2022