Long Identify Poems
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Hadassah in disguise,
God's love and compassion in her eyes,
Hiding behind Esther as his bride,
Aiding a nation to fall in love,
While control was rising, and affecting them all,
One simple act that changed their nation,
When God switched her name it was for his purpose,
The meaning behind her name at the time could not be seen,
Safely hidden in the chambers of the heart of her king,
The people inquired a name to label their sight,
Yet unable to see it would be the meaning behind it all that would change their lives,
For if they knew then what their hearts discovered now,
Piece by piece the process of love couldn't identify itself,
She set the kings heart ablaze to rise and speak,
And stood as a symbol in order for love to be seen,
Tucked away, she was not permitted to speak,
The only eyes allowed to see was that of her king,
And when the heart of the matter came to the surface,
She was willing to sacrifice her whole heart for his purpose,
She knew if she spoke they would try to shut her out and kill her,
But the love of her king was worth more than all of man's control and order,
A nation was healed, one by one they proposed,
Committing their hearts back to the love that they know,
On her knees, at the throne is where her life changed,
Her vows to the Lord meant more than just a simple name,
And God opened a door that no man could shut,
For the love of his people is the key to his heart.
A sole dilemma is one's own mindset.
All are ideal in the absence of erudition.
Nothing needs changing in the intellect.
Mental woes arise if struck by tradition.
The globe is presently dozing in harmony.
Let me meander as geese chirp a melody.
Upon the time the queen is writing a poem.
For the pioneer yet was careful of a totem.
Prompt the stars I can identify the sheen.
Located near the grave of the killed queen.
With reverberation of misery rolling endlessly
Inside restrictions of the area of personality.
Let the story finally develop, my novum.
This is the halcyon conclusion of my poem.
Written: July 16, 2022
in mixed media tonight.
I used an acrylic paint marker
to mimic the petals
I see in spring
on trees I cannot identify.
I used metallic green,
blue and gold
for the two stems
of my abstract effort.
I used a silver
metallic brush marker
for whimsical swirls.
I used a black
permanent marker
for the bold strokes,
and a black micro
tip brush pen
for intentional
detail
where it counts
(the roots).
For sentimentality,
I used blue and pink
chalk writers
from the dollar tree.
Few people notice flowers
or poems
when the bigger world
is screaming for attention,
wealth and realism.
A northern mockingbird
is singing to
his heart’s content
on the telephone pole
tonight.
Nothing outshines
you, my sweet
spring singer.
Your lover’s drawing straws without you, better bid farewell;
he’d never time for rhyme or reason, so it’s just as well.
Slip out the curtained window quick, the future winks and calls,
ignoring paths of pagan gods, where faulty footsteps fall.
Identify faint flashbacks, cloaked and clustered in a heap
and sort out those you treasure most, you need or long to keep;
Forget about the epoch past, which wasn’t what you’d sought,
pursue instead remaining dreams before they come to naught.
Reflect no more on what it was he’d meant for you,
strike out ahead where something waits, has sent for you.
The graveyard night is haunted still, it hovers where you sleep
recalling souvenirs amassed, the ones that made you weep.
The poets poised in dungeon vaults, now growing old and bald,
retrace their palsied pleas in dust, like those that you once scrawled.
Except for runic proverbs carved on stone walls ill defined,
assumptions will not dog you that you dare to leave behind.
The fortune-tellers waiting at the moat for you
read tarot cards while setting sail a boat for you.
The road behind is empty now, the sky is painted black
so gather all the wisdom gained, no time for looking back.
Forego the prophets’ prophecies, so tempting to pursue -
although they might be asked advice, they seldom have a clue.
Reject the secrets they reveal, enveloped in their guile,
which be betrayed between the tombs in ruins of their smile.
They’re waiting with a fractured rule of thumb for you
while beating on a perforated drum for you.
A sand-glass dribbles distant dunes, the sun dial’s shadow’s late,
so now’s the time for slipping through the open swinging gate.
A joker wild defies the fools to read between the lines
in search of cryptic radiance the future world enshrines -
“the days ahead will wake again like waves before the dawn
when picking up the pieces left behind a passing pawn.”
A noble knight awaits to clear the board for you
when, soon, a cup of nectar wine is poured for you.
I lay there and I listened
to every sound that came through the night:
the floorboards creaking,
the wind blown window blinds beating against the metal window frame,
the scuttling of rodents in the roof,
the odd disconcerting sound that I could not identify
I pressed my face into my pillow,
slowing my breathing,
whilst the pillowcase soaked up my tears,
my forehead burning hot.
“It hurts,” I thought,
and with that thought another memory of him filled my mind
and my pillowcase,
drenched and pressed against my hot face,
began to feel like a hot wet cloth
I was thirsty,
but unmotivated to care for myself
I had lost all ambitions to live a life worthy
of being alive
Once we parted,
I began living each day,
as a day to be spent and forgotten,
nothing had meaning,
and nothing felt passionate.
“I will never leave you,”
were words we had often exchanged;
yet words we never lived up to
“I am already gone,”
were words I had used to leave him,
and he let go
No promise kept of “I am always here.”
I never let another man in
to what I considered his kingdom
I was a queen with no king,
at my throne
I lay there,
silently begging him to come back,
knowing that after all I had done,
if he were to return it would be,
at his own will
and with each passing year,
I lay there
and I listened to every sound that came through the night
This is poem to my unborn son
With tears flowing fluently like the Xithuve river, I wrote this
To let my son know that everything is never as it seems
Even those who identify themselves as saints, are not saints
In the absence of our eyes a demon that lies within them is born
Not to mention doctors who will smile at him on his birthday
Like the world is a better place
Welcoming him to a home of people who cannot differentiate
between love or hate
It is a territory of people who are hurt and broken
People who wear expensive suits just to cover up their evil deeds
Always wearing that perfect smile to charm those who are
Ignorant enough not to see their flaws deep inside
With tears flowing fluently like the Xithuve river
A silent voice speaks hope
N’wananga-Son
eventide has come slowly creeping . . .
I watched the sunset . . . the streaks of scarlet fall
now, I lay upon my bed in twilight
it is draped in purple
lush silk
with pillows plumb
~ my skin is pale and pearlescent in the candlelight
a touch of rose glows upon my cheeks and lips
my long wavy hair crimped and shiny ~
I close my heavy eyes
and hear the thrum of a guitar
it is throbbing in my head
then, I hear the howling of some wild beast
or is it a moaning ? . . .
~ and a strong taste is in the air
a tang I cannot quite identify
an aroma not quite unpleasant to my senses ~
I feel I am not alone
there is a feral presence in my room
oh, is it some fierce creature come to kill me ?
some raging brutal thing . . .
I can hardly breathe . . . I am so afraid
then, I feel a gentle hand upon my hair stroking
and a whisper in my ear of ' great need' . . .
~my heart is raging in my chest
and I am breathless and filled with desire
I hear my groaning murmur . . . who are you? ~
. . . I am your dream !
__________________________
March 31, 2021
Poetry/Free Verse/my dream
Copyright Protected, ID 03-1343-047-31
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Eight Word Bardenesque Challenge
sponsor, John Hamilton, Judged 04/18/2021
Second Place
I’ve been approached, to write this Ode, by Michael:
he wants me to identify three traits
of his. I told him, life is just a cycle
of ups and downs. I cited one Matt Gaetz!
“Don’t count on your intelligence,” I said:
you’re bright alright, but that is where it ends.”
“I need a friend to do this,” he admonished.
“You have,” I pointed out to him, “no friends.”
Internally, he’s clever: outside, dead.
If anybody phones him, he’s astonished.
“So tell them, girls mistake me for George Clooney!”
No way. “No doubt,” I said, “You’re polyvalent.
But as for looks, you’re nearer Mickey Rooney.
Yet I’ll concede your literary talent.”
He seemed appeased by this. “Brigitte Bardot
would love the chance to glance upon my sonnets,
and Sofia Loren says she’s read my plays.”
“You live on leprechauns and Easter bonnets,
you sad buffoon.” I truly told him so.
“The nineteen fifties were your salad days.”
“Those times are gone! Get with the modern world.”
“I’ve got a brain, and I can write a bit:
we need another quality unfurled.”
“There’s no more in your favour. That is it!”
We scratched our heads. We pondered. Nothing came.
“I’ll put up money …” “Michael, you’re absurd.
You couldn’t, if you tried, put up a tent.”
The bribing-plan was stillborn. In a word,
he hasn’t got a penny. All the same,
there’s no-one would deny … the guy’s a gent.
I Have A Life.
I Call it My Non Life
and everyone feels sorry for me.
"He lives alone, never picks up his phone,
never has anyone over to his home.
He must be so miserable and lonely.
You should get out there Bill.
Have yourself a thrill
there's so much out there to see and do, so many great people to meet
but you lock yourself away day after day in your self made cell/cave in defeat."
That's why I'm an alien in my own world you see.
Nobody on this planet can Identify with me.
I "enjoy" My Non Life otherwise I wouldn't be
living My Non Life obviously.
So all of you out there continue living your ignorant lives so blissfully
and I'll "enjoy" my life style living in constant misery.
All of you hang on to your blissful ignorance for as long as can be.
If you ever become too aware as I am you'll be cursed for Life like me.
Gypsies
Across a misty channel
Sensor fingers
Stretch
Through foggy, silent waves
Where two souls embrace
In expeditions of speechless discovery
Two minds stand naked,
Face to face,
With wordless words
Each knowing the inner rhyme
Of another soul –
Intimate outside skin and limbs.
Across the barriers of minutes, hours, months
Two silent gypsies wander,
Through heartbeats
They stand, then gaze,
Connected to each other -
Escapees of the spoken word;
Outside the limits of ticking clocks
Two hearts touch
And see the signature of yet another
Self
At the address of the not yet arrived,
Undelivered.
Across the minutes and the moonlight
Pushing past the stealthy march of mysteries
Two fugitives flee holding hands
Leaving footprints
Escaping lines and spaces
Of a calendar;
Two almost strangers stand
At the mystic gates of the unknown -
Today’s unwanted guests
Intruders in tomorrow’s dwelling -
Thieves of time -
Fate’s despoilers.
Across the walls of midnight’s
Crumbling castles
Two wanderers peer into fleeting glimpses
Briefly understanding
The images and ghosts
Taking shape in the mist undefined;
Two stowaways crouch in secret coves,
Hidden from eyes born into mortality
In the warehouse of the borning
To see and not quite
Understand
Young future’s dance.
Across all barriers of time and space
Two gypsies touch outside galaxies to identify
Vague daylight outlines- dim midnight contours -
Embracing imprints,
Acknowledgment of events to come -
Words still unspoken;
Two souls run past the morning
Then return in recognition
For they now stand
Outside of themselves -
Vagabonds of facts
Nomads escaping demands for proof in black and white.
Great minds get the memo.