Long Left behind Poems
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Mapping my final ride to the other side
Oh how I want to feel like I have arrived
Seeing so many good reasons why I have survived
Like I have climbed the highest mountain totally revived
Believing in myself knowing I will not be denied
Dreaming of my God that makes me so satisfied
Doing what I had to do so I didn't collide
With the love waiting on the other side
Only God gets to decide
Who gets to go on this amazing ride
Enjoying going to heaven where God resides
Feeling like I belong rested very much alive
Applying myself being careful not to divide
My faith that makes it all so personalized
With his wisdom and understanding he provides
His truth in the bible makes us unified
Oh how I want to make sure I realize
Jesus was tried and crucified
Giving up his life so we would be supplied
With a way, we can be revived
When Satan only promises genocide
Disguised as some better kind of high
That leaves us completely horrified
Making Gods plan justified
Mankind needs to open his eyes to unwind
How much he needs to live in our minds
Only God knows what happens when we die
Bringing his divine harmony
So when Jesus returns to rectify
What Satan tried so hard to nullify
Knowing that I won't be left behind
Believing I didn't live my life blind
To the truth that gives us passage to heaven
Where my soul can reign on high
Knowing or lord and master would never lie
About what will happen if we except him eye to eye
I met George one spring day as he cruised by, so sexy
he was a dreamy dream on a big motorcycle
and I was so young and at a lovely fanciful age, a butterfly
we spent our days riding the country roads
our nights under the stars in parks and beaches, kissing
I could not bring him home to my parents
he was wild, untamed and a free-spirit soaring on wings
and oh, so romantic
George was my blue sky and I was so in love
one day he said to me, lets go to Florida
we will leave for Daytona Beach today
I was thinking of mother and father not approving, hesitating
but the idea of the open road was appealing
I emptied my bank account that day
packed some stuff in a old backpack
and better judgement was left behind in our dust as we stormed away
oh, it was wonderful with the wind in our faces and the blue sky above
our black leather jackets flapping in the wind in tune with the soaring roar
we stopped in small towns along the way
slept in cheap motels at night
oh, it was romantic
we arrived at Daytona Beach and spent two weeks
nothing fancy like restaurants or shopping
just an amazing vacation I have never, ever forgotten
I often think of George and what he is doing, now
________________________________
April 12, 2015
Poetry/Free Verse/wild and untamed
Copyright Protected, ID 04-662-570-12
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
For the Premier contest, Memorable Vacation,
sponsor Shadow Hamilton, Judged 05/2015
Second Place
A poet’s death is but the final strophe, the concluding breath of a lifelong composition. It is not an ending, but a calculated pause, a moment where the pen lifts from the parchment for the very last time.
The soul is a well-worn quill, dipped repeatedly in the inkwell of human experience—of joy, of sorrow, of quiet observation. Each day, the poet or poetess has meticulously written upon the vellum of the world, their verses unfurling like the delicate, crisp pages of a cherished book. The vibrant hues of metaphor and the sharp cuts of imagery were the tools of their trade, used to capture the fleeting light of a single moment, to give voice to the voiceless whispers of the heart.
With death, the quill runs dry. The inkwell is empty, its contents now preserved on the countless leaves they have left behind. The hand, once swift and sure, slows to a gentle rest. The carefully crafted lines that formed their life’s work are now complete, the narrative arc fully realized, the meter finally resolved.
The poems themselves are not silenced; they are set free. The bound manuscript of their existence is opened and shared with the world, each reader a new voice giving life to the words. The echo of their rhythm continues to beat, a lasting heartbeat in the shared human story. Their physical form may fade like the ephemeral scent of old paper and ink.
Still, the essence, the collected wisdom and beauty of their lines, becomes eternal literature, an enduring volume on the endless shelf of time. The poet has merely finished their reading, closing the cover on one life’s story to allow the next interpretation to begin.
Sometimes late at night, I think of where they all went.
For those left behind, my thoughts are now sent.
Are the streets paved with gold, do they sparkle and shine?
Can you still get a steak dinner, and a nice glass of wine?
Is the music country and western, do they have rock n roll?
Maybe it just depends on each heart and soul.
Will I get to go fishing, for some walleye or maybe trout?
I’m really looking forward to seeing what that life’s all about.
Will everyone just pray in white robes where they stand?
Maybe there’ll be a piano, and a good old jazz band.
Since we’re made in his image, I wonder if heaven will be fun.
I guess we’ll find out when it’s all said and done.
For now, I’ll be thankful, for each and every breath.
I’ll enjoy every sunset, right up to my own death.
I will do my very best to honor God and be a good gent.
Sometimes late at night, I think of where they all went.
The movements of others to far away lands
Drifted into American folklore, within histories hands
Fur trappers they started many centuries ago
In a country to become as the years truly flowed
Centennial by centennial, amidst wars between they
Slowly they emerged into cattle driven play
The vast expanses of prairies so green
Lured Barons of the beast to their riches they always dreamed
Herds in vast amounts recreating the Bison's exist
Where they eventually replaced in numbers, in numerous consist
The eventuality of the Iron Horse, opened these lands up even more
Sheridan, White Oaks even Tombstone, led to street filled open sores
The James Gang and William Bonney, are two that history has shown
No care for what they declared that the Wild West was their throne
The sad thing about the cowboy era, is in the scenery that was left behind
On many a prairie from their past, where greed has left them so blind
We have the opportunity to look back and rewind, for hindsight allows us to do
So many were never ever heroes, just what do we find in them so true
Just for a moment to the future, whilst countries in our time have been invaded
They are the modern Indigenous, like the past, the cowboys left degraded
The above are written from my heart, if you know me you will know me to be true
For if I was born to the Indigenous, to your ancestors, I'd stand in front of you
You're a mystery to me, a modicum of memory.
I have your straight nose; your big, clumsy feet;
Your dry sense of humour and stubborn streak -
Or so I've been told.
I know you loved history - dusty books left behind.
I've heard stories about you, but they can't define
Who you really were.
I remember snippets of your eulogy, given by my dad,
The son-in-law you didn't like but grew to love.
I wish you'd known me long enough
To love me too.
But maybe it's better this way, trying to figure you out
Like a game of Clue, which I've been told
I once played with you.
So I'll keep piecing you together
Like the puzzles you loved,
Because you truly are the most fascinating person
I've never known.
.....Lonely .....
In the end they decide im not what they want.
They become anothers memory that will come back to haunt.
Say you want me you really do
Then in the end im left feeling blue
Is there any love thats true
Why must i always be left behind
Sits heavy on my mind
Lost everytime i have tired.
In the end im the one that has cried
Love for others seem to come and go
And my lonely starts to show
When will i ever be someones one and only
Instead i sit here feeling so lonely.
Will ot always be this way.
Will i ever find the right words to say
To make someone want to stay
Will it always be
Lonely me.
thats all i seem to see
Maybe in some point and time
Ill come up with the right rhyme
Intill them ill see them walking out the door
Leaving my heart on the floor.
Arm in arm hearts ready. To soar
But all i do is fail
Doesnt do my heart so well
Seems love ,i will never find
Just memories left to remind
Lonely is the night
When no ones there to hold me tight.
Doesnt seem right
10/21/19
Living I'm blessed to do
I reckon to you
There's more than a dimension or two
Life continues to beckon through
In any direction it's true
Worse and better selections
Good and bad intentions
Let this be a lesson to you
Eventually the great depression ensued
Folks that do or don't leave impressions on you
Some have a profession or two
The questions grew
It was or wasn't a great suggestion to you
You either did or didn't make a confession or few
Eventually engines blew
Won by the last second or two
Will or won't have misconceptions of you
Continually the tensions grew
Some beginning to threaten, having aggression toward you
Wanting possession of you
Other's dangerous obsessions grew
Paying nothing but attention to you
Make a mess of you
Been far ahead of you
I'd expect nothing less of you
As good as dead to you
Watch out, or it'll have ended for you
Will or won't find out if heaven is true
The only mention of you
Left behind seven shoes
And eleven Rubik's cubes
Best wishes on what you're destined to do
Wisen up when life gives lemons to you
Work harder and on more revenue
Show you in person, don't need to put it in pen for you
If need be, I'd have bled for you
Stick out my arm, leg , chest and neck for you
Like I always said to you
There's nobody else instead of you
Because I have a connection with you
Still will follow through, on what I set to do
I wish my best to you
To tell the truth
Either way, I'd go to heaven, but not hell for you
Many methods grew
In the midst of a quest or two
Finishing the job, is what is next to do
In a florid month of May
I trod a field one sunny day
All is alluring- yes I can say
Draped with flowers along its way.
And in the verdant field I see
Every man with its tree
But lo, one sapling was left behind
With no one with but loneliness entwined.
Poor seedling on the ground
It withered without a sound
For when it’s planted, all care’s deprived
And amidst the heat, who can abide?
All its nearby tress bear its fruits
But poor sapling on the ground
Now withered without a sound
‘tis a painful image of the truth.
And memories come flooding on my mind
I am like a seedling left behind
For when our friendship have its birth
My heart do leaps to show a mirth
But things do change along the run
I had thought I killed the fun
But lo it’s you who broke the bond
Like we've built our friendship on a sand.
The Memory of Lemon Juice, Gaza 2024
The scent of leaves
we placed between our clothes
no moths would dare to eat
but these we left behind
the fruit we sliced, summer ripe
packed in salt and sealed
preserved for later use
among the rubble of our home
my mother squeezed one each day
the drink she said
which gave her strength
but did not save her from the blast
before the bombs began
no home appeared complete
without its lemon tree
we cannot see where ours once grew
now we live in tents
wait hours in line for rice and mash
with our battered begging tins
the only things we own today
we talk and dream of food
recall the taste we crave
of boughs weighed down with fruit
from the tree that blessed our lives.