Long In truth Poems
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The moon is a lonely man's chalice to drink from
drunken paradise in such darkness we cling unto the light
where the warmth of a thousand candles flickers inside
there it dances with the shadows of dreams
Once upon a time crowned with the stars aura
perfectly falling like lightening you came in a heart burst
flames one in a hundred miracles lovingly wrapped up
within a gift gem pearl of the oceans wave turns around
Caressed through a soul captured breath
salted with the sweetest spice of the earth
Burning down the mountain trails held in a silent moment
giving someone the power over us in truth
heaven within your light forever calls
O search not for a rare applause,
Beware, life is a thankless stage—
It's vain, a loud uproar to cause
On this voyage of pilgrimage,
A puppet you are, caught in cage.
Vain to think you’re a great actor,
You know the plot, nor script nor end,
Watch out, Fate’s a poor director,
As clown, no great role shall ye land,
As puppet, pulled by unknown hand.
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Musings | 05.09.2015| Quintain
Poet’s note: We might think we are great actors, while in truth we are no more than clowns in the eyes of a spoilsport called Fate, Fortune, or Destiny. Man is then no more than a clown who hopes to hear applause on life’s stage that proves a vague hope, a mirage. For, life offers no programme; the director of the stage-play gives no script; the destiny provides no prompt. And still, he must perform in hope for an applause that seldom materializes.
Throughout the years of bars and fences, several things kept me from falling
My Faith in God, My Mom, My Writing...and, that Freedom Was Always Calling
The nightmare started in "93", shipped off to do a second bid
I knew my mother was hurting deeply from all of the pain her silence hid
Downstate was another dagger, the lonely days, the nights, the "Draft"
In times of peace the seagulls shrieking...and, I could have sworn at me they laughed
Then came Green Haven/the pain continued; those forty months in just a cell
Abundant vermin, to live determined...where most Co's were scarred as well
College courses would keep me focused, mixing with others who sought degrees
To be well rounded my reading varied from Og Mandino to Sophocles
All was good, then times grew darker, by "95" my health had waned
Some forsook me while others wondered how my Trust in God remained
On bended knees I prayed this daily..."Not my will be done, but thine"
Then I was showed One set of "Footprints" which I knew could not be mine
Deliverance came, yes things got better; I thought my sorrows were finally gone
Until I left to live in Fishkill, which in truth was Matteawan
Intellectually I was their equal, they had no choice, but to grin and bear it
For, I knew their books, their words, their history...and many things deemed esoteric
Bogus tickets, the box, harassment, they thought I'd fold from all the stress
Still, what would I be if I didn't suffer?...a spineless man who acquiesced
People have asked me how I survived it, a prison life sometimes appalling
I inhaled deeply, and finally told them...That Freedom Was Always Calling
Freedom Was Always Calling by Poetiq1der aka Don Simmons
Taking it all away
Drowning in a contact list
Burrowing in a zone of friends
Never felt so alone within a crowd
Never heard my conscious
Screaming so loud
Burning guilt spews like a broken fountain
I live in a lie I have made the truth
Where sheer emptiness fills me
Where darkness lightens me
Into complete numb
I will never feel the same
We will never mend just the way you want
Nothing adds up to your delight
I will never have the courage
I feel the ache take its toll
And like I have known it all along
The pain of truth always remains
I can hide. . . I can claim sane
I could lie . . . and say it will always be the same
Nothing adds up
I am positively stuck
But somehow I learn not to care
Like the lie living in truth,
My cares lie deeply folded beneath
It lingers and hates itself
Nothing truly adds up
Except the pain of truth
-March 21, 2013-
America
Bursting forth, light mightier than the sun
Blessed by God to have this chance
On ships that fly the ocean
On ships that sail the sky
To find America
Land of peace, perhaps not complete
But we are folded as one, running with the ages
Just beginning
Rolling with mountains, reaching solid limits in truth
Folding back on humanity from past into the future
Washed in waves of freedom
Finding the soul of everyone for peace
Reaching like the holy land it is, evolving
To find America forever vigilant and working
To rest but never sleep
Bursting forth, mightier than the sun
For all to see
7/05/14 Any Patriotic Poem contest
We dwell in this body-mind,
which then grips us in its bind,
that bemused by senses five,
in truth we’re scarcely alive.
We wish to heavenward climb
but are hemmed in by space-time,
hypnotised by flow of thought,
trapped in desires and fear fraught.
The joy soul seeks is denied,
so it’s clear we’ve been to lied,
knowing not yet who we are,
from God’s light, drifting afar.
Our head and heart stand apart,
so this is where we then start,
both these instruments linking,
in staid stillness unblinking.
When thoughts recede, ego dies
and in the void, our heart sighs,
for therein we vaporise,
making way for soul’s sunrise.
Lonesome is the path of soul,
as it walks through this black hole,
having left behind life’s shore,
knowing not what lies in store.
For the brave hearts who persist,
poised without a to-do list,
choosing truth, renouncing greed,
lust exhumed, love takes the lead.
Breath by breath, making heart pure,
taunts of fate as we endure,
with God above watching this,
He fills us with boundless bliss.
With bliss rapture now the norm,
we thus begin to transform,
in time becoming the flame,
divine light that has no name.
By benedictions of grace,
we see God too, face to face,
living white light shining bright,
commingled with bliss delight.
I sit under a large Nuttall oak
its leaves protect me from the sun.
Around me, lizards abound
as they scuttle in and around
the soap stones and other rocks.
Silence abounds except for the melodious
Singing of light brown Veery birds,
With their mysterious sweet voice,
While cicadas strum their mystic song.
Time for my solitude,
Away from disagreeable persons.
Not everyone loves to be alone.
In truth neither do I,
but occasionally it is a must.
I need to ponder my past in seclusion.
As evening approaches I wander
lonely among the lofty hills.
Below are verdant vales and winding rills
A pleasure to sore eyes.
Alas, my joy is ephemeral.
My time is up.
I betake myself back home
Where I know my love waits.
It does not feel right to be always alone.
In years past and now, and those to also come
Close by, afar, where’er , all men are one
Thus affined well to all ‘good things’ on earth
And give their lives to hunting down some pence
He is aspired by her, and she is too
But not by him, by riches crude.
What has become of the true and simple
Where has been gone the pauper’s smile in truth
The pyramid – this curse of the human’s race
With all these beasts that run with men displaced
Oh! Mortal men, that strive for ‘god-ness’ here
Sing song for ends for you belong elsewhere
Working he’s found or digging out the clay
Or some job else that truly pays by day
These hoggish beings who never are fulfilled
Would have all things and still be found wanting.
To be human
Man’s response to Eternal God by faith must be free
Therefore nobody is to be forced to embrace the faith against his will
The act of faith is on its very nature a free act
Eternal God calls men to serve Him in spirit and in truth
Consequently
They are bound to him in conscience
But not coerced
This fact received its fullest manifestation in Father Christ Jesus
Indeed
Father Christ invited people to faith and conversion
But never coerced them
For he bore witness to the truth but refused to use force
To impose it on those who spoke against it
His kingdom
Grows by the love with which Father Christ
Lifted up on the cross
Draws men to Himself
1252015
"To be a writer remote and alone is to
enter a portal into another realm."
Quote - by Constance
My hands extensions of my soul,
deep thoughts into the long past stroll;
my pen drips of sorrow and blood,
inspired by the great poets ole !
Some memories buried in mud,
others sweet as a flower bud;
the long past held on fragile strings,
once I start words fall in a flood !
Always, always the long dead clings,
oft' I pen- 'til a dawn bird sings;
I get lost in nature's beauty,
closing my eyes to see bird wings !
I am lost in bird songs fluty,
as I search for words dark sooty;
penning poems is who I am,
writing- is a poets duty !
oh, this life comes with no program,
but, anything else is a sham;
my words can get quite pointed strong,
though, in truth- I am quite a lamb !
______________________
May 12, 2022
Poetry/Rubaiyat/The Writer
Copyright Protected, ID 05-1455-186-12
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Rubaiyat
sponsor, Sotto Poet, Judged 06/13/2022
First Place