Long Littering Poems
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A bit of a strange person who lived quietly even secretly
none of his neighbours really knew him except to nod in passing
he would scurry by with barely a nod in return almost mincing
never a light did they see in his home the windows shining blankly
Strange sounds were often heard like he was talking in guttural tones
but to whom was never known, perhaps they thought to himself
it was all just so odd, some people swore that he was a elf
whatever he was people swore that they had seen a lot of bones
The type that came from small animals some littering his yard
and neighbourhood pets had been vanishing at a most alarming rate
at last they felt something need to be done, their curiosity to sate
breaking down his door they found no-one just some papers charred
In the middle of the floor lay a cocoon where it seemed he slept
glowing with an eerie light that pulsed as if it was alive
looking at it closer it became most apparent it was a hive
full of pulsing eggs they torched it as this they could not accept
I watched a documentary about if there are already aliens already living
here on earth
This is the first part of an on going story there are so far two other parts
there is an open door in a rundown building
with peeling green paint on the walls
and worn wooden steps going up
into the darkness . . .
many garbage cans are overflowing
and I see lots of broken liquor bottles on the ground
also a child's broken pink bike has been discarded
and there seem to be hundreds of cigarette butts littering
I am shocked to see a needle syringe at my feet
then, an old lady in rags is passing
with a shopping cart full of junk
and greets me politely, "Hello, Miss, God Bless!"
______________________
March 06, 2023
Poetry/Imagism/the rundown building
Copyright Protected, ID 03-1529-678-06
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Upto You Again
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged03/08/2023
Looking back
we miss this day.
Seeking,
we forget what we already have.
Reaching for tomorrow
we sink in the flowing stream
of these living moments.
Our biographies are fictional stories
they speak of nothing that we are now,
and yet we write,
delight in the telling of old tales
and even as we record a life
it waits on us to be experienced anew.
Shake not the dead
for they have nothing fresh to say.
We were not created to be
librarians of littering paper trails,
but that actual Tree of Life,
each leaf a green flourishing
not another dusty volume
of things never to be seen again.
Happiness is like waking up to see
my favourite dishes for breakfast;
toasted bread and fried eggs.
Getting to school early and scoring As on all my tests.
Then I come home after a long stressful day at school.
Taking a bath and settling down to watch my favourite TV show;
just to see... it has been taken off air.
The sadness swallow me whole could have been mistaken for despair.
Over the long weekend, it is anger that fills me up,
when I see my younger siblings trooping into the room I had just mopped.
Littering every free surface with their toys.
Oh! The grief that came when I heard we lost my grandfather.
"Grandpa, we aren't done with our paintings,
you haven't taught me how to perfectly contour the nose!
You are yet to tell the stories of your younger days!"
Adieu grandfather, you will be missed.
I sit under the mango tree located in our front yard.
I remember the days my friends and I spent playing under this tree as children
Back then our hearts were free of worries and full of laughter.
Oh mango tree, you are the very representative of nostalgia.
At night when I lay in my bed to sleep,
I become afraid, my mind makes the clothe
hanger on the wardrobe look like some kind of monster.
I dive under the covers to hide my fear.
It's the Award-giving ceremony at the end of the term.
Everyone is seated to hear who would be given the title of 'The Best Student'.
My right leg can't stop bouncing with anticipation.
My teeth are clattering.
I am filled with anxiety.
And then I hear my name being called.
That pure feeling of ecstasy is joy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Christmas tree was real, always~
pine needles littering the carpet
like fallen promises.
Mother's hands smelled of pine resin
and brandy-soaked fruitcake~
her laugh a ribbon unwinding
through the underheated rooms.
We believed in everything then~
the rustle of wrapping paper angels,
the miracle of snow settling on the porch
like an angel’s breath.
Through a haze of woodsmoke
the radio hummed of
Bing Crosby Christmas tunes
while our wool socks scratched
against Granny’s sofa,
its springs complaining
beneath our sugar-rushed weight.
No one told us time could be folded
like tissue paper around a gift~
that decades later,
we’d still taste peppermint sticks
and hear the distant choir
of a dozen jingle bells
still tied to the doorknob
of memory.
Asleep before the head hits the pillow
Head filled with vivid colors swirling, amassing, mixing outside the lines
Transgressions grow skyward like a bean stalk becoming a giant
Worries wander aimlessly like a cat in the night looking for a spoon
Hurts pound again, and again, first a drumstick then a sledge hammer
The kaleidoscope of confusion rotates ever faster, bed spins counter
Places cannot be escaped
Faces stare as if clothes have been robbed
Running, Flying, Drowning, Suffocating, Garbling Words, Can’t Breath,
Slow Motion, Falling, Insatiable Hunger, Unquenchable Thirst, Blood Stained, Shouting
Loaded Down, Frantically Searching Pockets, Hidden Underneath, Forgotten
Fear. All fears. Nothing but fear. Afraid. Regret. Worry. I didn’t. I really did!
Each day we pack our pockets. Cram our purses. Load our backpacks
Hang needless objects and things around our necks, over our shoulders, in the crux of our elbows, on our belts
Grip suitcases. Carry stuffed plastic grocery bags on each knuckle. Waddling to the side of the bed before crashing head on
Unknowingly still pinching the key between our left thumb and pointer finger
Hitting the bed with a massive crash
every part of the day strewn around the room like a devastating mid air explosion of a 747 littering debris, miles and miles of destruction, charred remnants, unidentifiable and randomly placed objects, out of place, disfigured, often never found
Before your head hits the pillow
Drop the things you picked up today
Take a load off
Free yourself of your burdens
Neatly set everything aside
On second thought, just pile it and let it lay where it falls
Drop your yoke
Sit down on the foot of the bed with God
Hand Him the things you still cling within sweating red fists
Briefly Examen your day
Fall asleep on His shoulder
He will gently lay your head on the pillow, loft your feet off the floor, and tuck you in.
Let Him carry your burdens, lighten your load, unpack, empty your pockets, wash your laundry, even sort and match the socks.
Travel to sleep lightly and peacefully dreaming of a new day
carrying nothing but what is truly needed.
The stench of blood so thick you could taste it
Raivel swallowed hard amongst the slashed
corpses of terrified souls littering the field
A harvest of death gleams and sparkles
as the crimson dripped from his swords edge
Duty is duty, never question, everyone dies
Untangle the mortal souls that clutch the earth
of their graves. Send them to the gods...
Raivel was half divine but pure evil
numb from life, dark inside
His eyes slits of glowing hate,
Only fully opened when he killed
with a bosterious laughter of doom.
Raivel was created for the kill
Killing all, good or bad, young or old
ugly or beautiful, dead was dead
Death was his wages for his being
and he was always paid in full
Demon perhaps, Vengeance not quite
Justice? who amongst humans can judge the gods
His face was void, only devil eyes and open mouth
of laughter. Mercy never, emotionless but beautiful
in a haunting ballad of slaughter.
All who saw him fell and trembled
All who fled impaled on his spear
There was no where to hide
Only time to die
Prayers to the gods who sent him
mocked the very existence of his being.
Was Raivel sent to perish the human race
were the gods tired of disappointment
or was slaughter morbid enjoyment
Fire from the sky would cleanse the mounds of dead
flames licking away until the smoldering ashes
blown into the wind would darken the sky
and fore warn others of their fate.
On the Field of Jade, earth's perfection
of grace and beauty
Raivel kneeled a wash in the splatters of blood red
His back towards the dead polluting this sacred place.
Raivel stood and open his eyes and screamed the pain
of millions of butcher souls. He swung his mighty sword into
heaven to pierce the bellies of the gods.
No more my lords, no more...
A shiver of mist blanketed the earth as soft raindrops cried
upon the land. Raivel his open eyes full blood red shed a single tear
as he combusted from within shooting flames of hell so high
the ashes of heaven buried the dead.
Time has passed, legends are born
little children be good or Raivel will slay us all
And people to this day still visit the wonderful
Field of Jade where roses bloom full and heavy
colored deep in the hue of Blood Red.
Scattered plastic battles
and yesterday's newspapers
weren't tossed by a capricious wind,
blame this on the capers of careless humans.
I angrily watch them dispose of them where they sit....
on the seats of buses and trains as they stand up and rush out;
cities have their problems and littering increases abuse...
would anyone thinking of some kind of haven, do that with intent?
In my neighborhood I often observe a Chinese man picking up
Pepsi bottles and newspapers while cars ignore him and speed up...
doesn't he teach us to be neat, to clean after ourselves and be good people?
Many couldn't give a damn, leaving rubbish everywhere for the sanitation to pick up.
You have heard my allegory...did it offend?
Have you experienced it and really gotten you mad?
Who would walk at night, stepping on strewn trash, and fear the ugly rodents?
It's a social plague we can't cure, unless we clean up our act and try to make amends.
Give none to love, its toxic disarming charm;
obey your mind not your heart;
my dear family and kindred spirit friends;
Nothing refused to love is
wing unspent.
Let your heart go free,
beyond the far horizon,
the abyss of the brain.
Enduring fire,
love is a fire that burns,
everything on its path,
good flame rising to the sky,
requiring courage to
dodge the smoke, the bold master
dictating to follow with untold intent.
Give none to love, hear me, its
demons stealing all grace, unhinged
from logic, unmade by reason.
Let it brag about its scope, the cry
of the beloved, diving into your dream,
the vague promise of salvation, obey
your reason, pity your life, and give none
to love -- one who fractures all deserves
no remorse at all.
But walk freely in museum of love, gingerly
on its bundle of broken hearts littering
its ground.
No jaywalking,
Instead use the overpass;
No loading and unloading
Of passengers male or lass.
No parking
Of the cars old and new;
No overspeeding,
Eyes watch from the view.
No tailgating,
Drive not too closely behind;
No overtaking,
Life is on the line.
No u-turn
Every minute of the day;
No stopping anytime
At the well-paved freeway.
No smoking,
It's odorous to one's breath;
No littering,
Make no mess to one's health.
No trespassing,
The land is not yours;
No entry,
Guards stand at the doors.
Post no bill
To enjoy easy movement;
No vacancy,
Nothing but room for improvement.
These and more make man
Refrain from any strife;
Neither going out on a limb,
Nor breaking no signs of life.