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Metronome
—Or the Measure of the Heart’s Quiet Obedience—
You stand beside me.
Evening drapes its seal –
A bus exhales,
then loosens from the wheel.
You shift your weight –
the moment takes its cue.
I learn the hour
by lingering close to you.
You glance, then turn –
the gesture barely stays,
yet shapes the way
the silence keeps its place.
Such knowledge forms
through contact, not design,
acquired like balance –
used before defined.
You pause before you speak –
I know that pause.
Not doubt,
but measure, sharper than applause.
The breath withheld,
then granted leave to go –
keeps time
where louder instruments would fail to show.
A metronome –
once set, resists appeal.
It does not plead.
It does not court the real.
Its virtue rests
in what it will not do:
explain itself –
or ask belief as due.
The street grows restless –
footsteps stake their claim.
Some voices hurry
past the thought they name.
Each second strains
to matter more than most,
as though excess alone
could prove its post.
I follow suit –
I order, edit, press.
I narrow hours
to what they will confess.
The day complies –
the cost is understood –
or would be, if I paused
the way I should.
Your hand meets mine –
not warmth, not warning sign –
a brief restraint,
exact as any line.
I feel my pulse
obey its quiet law,
and know, if it were gone –
I’d notice flaw.
If you were gone –
the scene would still proceed.
The dark would fall.
The sounds would not recede.
I would move through them –
competent, intact,
yet subtly wrong –
alive, and underact.
So I do not extol you –
I attend.
I keep the time
that keeps me, end to end.
Some loves arrive –
like weather, fierce and brief.
Some hold the beat –
and let us stay, in suspended grief.
To be sung to the Beatles Tune: "If I Fell In Love With You"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4yjUuX-I0QE
~
IF I WROTE A POEM FOR YOU
~
If I wrote my poem for you,
would you promise not to choose
another poet's rhyme?
'Cause you have so much to judge,
and to save yourself the drudge
by just choosing mine!
If I wrote free verse for you
I must be sure, from the very first
that you will love it more than theirs!
If I trust in you......oh please
Don't ridicule..
If I edit words...oh please...don't say haiku to me!
"Cause I couldn't stand the shame
And I...could try again, and change my poem ..to a quatrain!
So I hope you know
That I ...would struggle hard to change my prose
Tho some might cry when they learn what I've proposed
But they'd have to bear the pain
And I ...will be sad if my new poem is in vain
So I hope you know
I'll stoop quite low to bribe you
Or else, I'll sob and cry, "Oh No! boo hoo!!!"
......If I wrote this poem for you
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For Beatles Contest Sponsored by John Heck
2010
outside my window small sparrows are singing
early birds with dulcet songs drifting
from somewhere a baby cries
a loud dog replies
music plays
with
violins
a hummingbird whirls
with wild wings going clockwise
and the morning breeze is murmuring
and Spring is singing and whispering my name
_______________________________________
June 2016 - Edit and Repost February 27, 2021
Poetry/Verse/Spring is Calling
Copyright Protected, ID 06-1332-743-27
All Rights Reserved, 2016, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, All Yours (Feb 28)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 02/28/2021
First Place
Trixie, who loves orange, is today clog-dancing.
Her ready exhibitions are becoming so frequent many
poets would be embarrassed
My poems are super confident, so I go along with my enthusisatic minion.
Trixie is thrilled with our stuff.
All prissy delightful, not wanting to edit anything.
Please let us not use "I and me, again," I beg her.
So overdone I tell her.
She laughs and stomps on my finger that was heading for the delete button.
Our top five themes are dragons, pirates, orange, Trixie and me.
A bit boring, I tell her. Let's try some new material.
Trixie gets angry and gets out her battle axes.
She leaves my dendrite alley in despicable shape, hanging in pieces.
She saturates the walls of my imagination with
Sexy, sassy, orange, and yellow. Sexy! Come on! I yell. She howls happiness.
I watch in fascination as she grabs the pen and does her damage.
The bossiest orangest most polka dotted craziest poetic muse ever.
I count on her energetic bossy attitude almost daily.
and I am slipping and floating away-
I hear the beat of throbbing music
and I see deep blue ocean waves
mist is swelling and I drift lost
then, I see a tall man . . .
he is swaying to the music
his white shirt is billowing untamed
eyes closed he reaches out for me
and we are spinning
arms outstretched
I feel like we are flying
he is so graceful, bending and gliding
I love his dancers body . . .
he is watching and smiles as I twirl
I easily mimic his complicated steps
and he nods-
the mist swirls with the sweetness of the ocean, and
I am detached from all reality
I never want to leave but he is fading
and I am overcome with grief . . .
_______________________
April 30, 2017
(Edit from January 30, 2017)
Verse/The dream comes
Copyright Protected, ID 896879
Brian Strand
20 lines
First Place
Every Day
Every day is a page
to write a new story
pristinely from our heart;
to begin once again.
Each new day, a story
in our dear book of life;
one full page of many
that build our history.
A new story each day
unfolds as planned or not:
sometimes a big surprise;
at times unknown sad turns.
The drama fills our page,
and no chance to edit
once our day has ended.
Optimism and great hope
fill our day's page the best:
our glass half-full presents
a fuller page to write;
half-empty leaves us less.
Every day is a page
to write a new story
pristinely from our heart;
to begin once again...
Till our book is finished.
Sandra M. Haight
~3rd Place~
Contest: Quote Response
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
Rules: Start poem with "Every day is a page to write a new story"
Judged: 12/24/2016
I look in a mirror or at a photograph of me
and see the deep scars
(that are hidden within) . . .
this face reflected is perfectly symmetrical
the skin smooth and the lips lush
eyes brown and fathomless
(deep as an ocean)
hair like a stream flowing, flowing and flowing
and a hint of a smile . . .
but my concept of self is distorted
like a Picasso painting
each time I meet myself again
again, again and again . . .
can people see the real me ?
can they see I am encased in concrete ?
that this perfect face is a fake ?
that all I want is to float and drift
(a leaf in the wind)
can they ?
can they see that I am like stained glass
so fragile . . . can they ?
______________________________________
December 17, 2019- Edit March 9, 2021
Poetry/Verse/so fragile
Copyright Protected, ID 03-1335-146-09
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, All Yours (Mar 10)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 03/10/2021
First Place
'Hole in Heaven' composed by the certain dramatist of India
Depicting the Heaven captured by earthly power-mania
Yahweh’s three-leg-throne getting easily bombarded
And the whole heavenly communion getting annihilated
'Bye, Bye, Butterfly' I titled a poetic piece once, my friend
Poems are endless and real poems find no perfect end
I am talking to you today about selecting a fitting tile
It's not so easy when you write a literary work vital
When on earth I find my works getting lesser or no viewers ever
Immediately a pain starts pricking me just like an office pin, severe
'The Respectable Donkey' -well-versed; rhymes jingling, yet, why
This work gets as though dust-bins standing neglected eternally by
What else you want? indeed, important is the way you say
Take time to edit and get masters’ views on what you convey
All the same, find a proper title like 'Taurus in its Temperature'
That attracts anyone who comes across your work makes sure
‘My Last Cup of Whisky’ I titled one of my counseling works
‘Who drinks whisky in a cup?’ a genuine critique questions
Cup or glass or vessel or plate or kettle or pot I simply tell you
If you drink whisky, constantly, you need to take care, Best wishes!
04/28/2021
What's In A Title In 14-20 Lines Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
Where to start?
But asleep is the hope of mine
In the shadows of my dreams
The crimson curtains have collapsed
And are cemented to the floor
Entombed behind the stage of life
Petrified
Where to start
Ardently athirst
For this masterpiece to become a reality
Are there any more enduring rays
To blaze this shroud and open the pathway
For the music was born
Far beyond in the heavens
But I am only just dim color
Formerly, once bright
Wishing upon the shine
Wishing upon the moon,
Wishing upon the stars
Hear the rhythm of my heart
How many tears need to fall?
Before I am reborn
Replenished
To cherish that someone
Thunder and Light help
Energize my ai’s
Awaken me from the tomb of stone
Sight
Desiring the removal
So, I may peel this medusa face from my form
And crawl out of the sands
And stand on holy ground
With a new coating
Of majestic color
And an armor of varnish
My yearning invocation
My yearning benediction
To reach for this Sapphire Star
Savoring the breath of life
To not lose what I want most
To ascended with the dawn of the morrow
To hold the never-ending morning solar rise
For the present, is a present, in the presences of you
To hold the never-ending morning solar rise
To ascended into the dawn of the morrow
To not lose what I want most
Aglow
A bright halo
Musical
Under the Lights mistletoe
And to never let go
The Empyreal Sapphire Star of resonating beauty
A dance along the skyline
Beholding the Daughter of Divine
This pulchritudinous nymph of the Almighty
A wish
My wish
Upon the cosmos
A wish to embrace her exaltedness
For all time and all eternity
1/10/2020 Edit 1/16/2020
Picture Prompt Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brenda Chiri
February 4, 2020
Oh yes
I recall the shed to this day
the scent of old wood
and dust floating in the air
cobwebs in corners
sun flooding in through a window
a scarred wooden work table
and tin cans lined up with nails and screws
a coffee cup forgotten . . .
I would bring precious dandelions and buttercups
to be placed in some old can or jar
and would sit watching for hours pondering
the sketches and grand ideas . . .
later we would sit on the porch swing
talking the afternoon away
and I held his hand so tight
never wanting to let go . . .
sadly life had a plan written
and who am I to question destiny
so, I had to let go
after the funeral I stood in the shed
thinking, who will want the rusty tools
of an old man
then I closed that creaky door
forever . . .
_______________________________
May 3, 2017
(Edit from April 14, 2013)
Brian Strand
25 lines
First Place