Long My inspiration Poems
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Metaphors and similes flow freely from my pen
when I am scripting and scribing in poetic verse.
Across the width of pale parchment pages
the nib of my feathered pen continues to traverse.
Ink courses fathoms deep within me like life blood,
rushing through the eddied channels of my veins.
I struggle to ignore the cramping in my fingers.
There's no hesitation when writing echoing refrains
when I imprison myself in poetry.
Each stanza I carefully arrange in proper sequence
as if it's a bairn born for the creation of my story.
Sometimes my gypsy muse joins me in the dance
when I write with abandonment in wild allegory.
I never try to rein her in when we're both focused
and driven to complete a poem, oblivious of time.
With vivid imagination, romantic sonnets are birthed
as I sit penning line after line in consummate rhyme,
incarcerated at my desk until I've written the last line.
My thoughts tumble like flurries of pristine snowflakes.
With a single spark of romance my passion ignites
as each completed verse falls perfectly into place, it lifts
my need to write compositions of love to greater heights.
Day and night, I find myself a wanderer, lost in reveries
where I journey in a private kingdom of verbose amplitude.
Around each curve in the road is a new challenge to be met,
and yet, none thwart me when trysting in romantic interlude.
Rude would be the one who would disturb me
when I'm handcuffed to a work in progress.
I try to indite with some semblance, dare I call it skill or talent?
By no means am I an accomplished laureate by my admission.
As a mere poet, I do not strive to compose a magnum opus,
but a meaningful collection of verses as a worthy composition.
If by chance, my poetry is interpreted and appreciated by some
who view my emotional imagery with soulful eyes of admiration,
I will credit my gypsy muse with her conspiratorial whispers
and amorous experiences as the impetus for my inspiration.
I hold the key to unlock my self-inflicted prison door,
and used when at last my pen has been laid to rest.
A question often asked of the old poet is how she does it…how do the verses she write come to be…A question often asked of the old poet is where does she finds her spark…the inspiration…for her poetry.
The old poet smiles and, I imagine, people think she’s playing a game…when she says, “My answer may be different today than yesterday…but it will always be the same.”
“Whenever I see two people meet for the first time…whenever I watch a friendship begin to grow…I discover in those moments…there is poetry in hello.”
“Whenever I see two people holding hands or kiss…whenever I see sorrow on a face appear I discover in those moments there is poetry in love…and there is poetry in tears.”
“Whenever I hear the melody of the birds in the morning…whenever I listen to a voice sing beautifully and strong…I discover in those moments…there is poetry in song.”
“Whenever I see a person painting…whenever a painting touches my heart…I discover in those moments…there is poetry in art.”
“Whenever the shifting clouds…a rainbow…or a sunset makes me sigh…I discover in those moments…there is poetry in the sky.”
“Whenever I see a couple dancing…watch the trees bend in the wind…or the waves undulate upon the ocean…I discover in those moments…there is poetry in motion.”
“And whenever I see friends and family gathered round a loved one who is about to die…I discover in those moments…there is poetry in goodbye.”
“This is where I find my inspiration”…the poet smiles as she happily exclaims,
“And If you ask me tomorrow my answer might be a little different…
but it will always be the same”.
My dear incredible pen,
you are the pinnacle of writing instruments! Looking refined with your elegant ebony shaft and gold-filagree trim, you are a true technological wonder to behold and a master calligrapher.
I am amazed at your ability to ink my thoughts onto paper without a single smear, skip or blotch. You fit my hand like we were custom crafted as one, allowing me to gently glide your easy-flow tip over a blank canvas and create literary art.
Oh, my dearest, most reliable pen,
I am enthralled by your ability to interpret my scribbled thoughts into meaningful, coherent sentences. You are my inspiration, confidant, and protagonist; I would be lost without your profound influence and companionship.
You have established an almost intimate psychic connection with my muse, and together, we three create poetry. I love the feel of you in my hand; you give me the confidence to explore fantasy while at the same time anchoring me to reality.
My most beloved, exquisite pen,
the mere thought of holding you sends shivers down my spine, for I know you are eager to take me to faraway places we've never been as we explore the deceptions and truths of humanity. You come from a proud line of writing instruments, including cuneiform sticks, quills, and fountain pens, to the ubiquitous ballpoint pens of today. May your ink never dry up, and your contribution to literary works be recognized and appreciated, for you deserve no less.
(Ode)
03/03/2023
Write an Ode Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Jeff Kyser
The Lost Art Of Composition
too often my thoughts and the ability to express them
are taken hostage without a clue to the cause
this is an affliction familiar to many a writer
as if madness wasn't enough
it proves to be immune to every method I've used
to relieve my minds constipation
it enslaves your ideas and duct tapes the mouth of your soul
binds your fingers and hands so you are unable to write
I Whiskeyed and Scotched it self medicated with drugs
the addiction that resulted I thought could be bribed
held a knife at its throat threatened, bullied and beat it
poked and scratched at the eyes
Kicked it in the balls
pleaded and begged even got on my knees and prayed
all my efforts were ineffective
it only pissed it off more and tightened the grip
around my Muse's neck
I had exhausted my resolve to this disease that consumed me
there was no other option but to surrender
I decided to give up , knuckle under call it quits
not answer the bell for the next round
I disconnected my computer and turned off my cellphone
the typewriter on my desk just for show
I've had since college every once in a while I have at it
so I stashed in the closet with books by Sexton, Wolfe and Burroughs
Cisneros, Bukowski and Gonzo
I turned down the lights and lit some candles
sat at my desk to prepare my suicide note
what happened when the ballpoint touched the papers surface
was the key opening the front door lock to home
an energy manifested that I had known long ago
before Technology had deadened it's nerves
it sparked the transfer of thought into a word
forming the shape of a sentence
this cosmic electricity flowed into my hand holding the pen
then designed a paragraph the child of chapter
I touched every noun felt each verb envisioned the adjectives description
heard every "ly" in the adverbs reply and ignored the rules of punctuation
I had discovered the remedy to restore my inspiration
the cure I possessed all along
The lost art of composition was my salvation
my own prescription is what I wrote
the poet is an artist that paints in the darkness
a poems words the colors that create light
a writer is blessed with all of the answers
cursed in the search for what questions to ask
Judge Burdon
Are you looking for someone to inspire?
Do you fancy being one’s object of desire?
Do you want to be the spark that sets my world on fire?
In other words, would you like to be my Muse?
There’s a vacancy on my pedestal
For someone more divine than terrestrial;
Or someone like you—almost celestial.
How about it—would you like to be my Muse?
Chorus
You could be the entity that brings out my creativity,
Give nuance and subtlety to the rhymes in my poetry,
And bridge my melody with polyphonic harmony.
You could light the fuse that sparks my art with tints and hues.
Together we could never lose… if you’d only be my Muse.
In return for being my inspiration
You’ll have my devotion and veneration,
And be named in all my dedications.
If you’d be my beloved Muse.
mom and me liked to picnic in summer
we made toast and orange juice and ice tea
eating on a wooden garden table
the cold juice was fresh and delicious
and the ice tea was sweet and so tangy
we liked our bread just plain, not to toasty
I would bring my writing journal and pen
and I would imagine and dream in words
mom's flowers were the symbols of beauty
I was drowning in deep surreal truths, thoughts
the whispering breeze my inspiration
we talked of human existence, of art
our food and drinks an artistic display
I felt the words flowing from my young soul
mom liked my interpretation of things
I wrote of birds and sounds, I painted words
and I read out loud my writing, my art
while mom and me had our garden picnic
____________________________
April 12, 2015
Poetry/Free Verse/ Ekaphrasis/the garden picnic
Copyright Protected, ID 04-662-694-12
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
For the Standard contest, Ekaphrasis 01,
sponsor Giorgio, Judged 05/2015
First Place
At the arrival of the winter storm, stretching for a mile,
a bockout occurred in a rural town famed for its exquisite wine;
it became very dark as the lights went out in every house...
I felt scarier than a hopeless prisoner in bondage,
but an idea struck me while I stepped on a fleeing mouse.
And while the moonbeams filtered in invitingly, and the crickets sang me
their awkward melody...I couldn't live in darkness and feel safe!
The willows of the reef seemed phantoms moving towards me...
I had a red candle never being used and its glow could have safeguarded me;
at least, I would have had some light shedding on me to keep them away from me!
Didn't poets of long ago write by dim candlelight? Weren't they often taken by rage?
They used quills to make their work even harder writing in medieval style!
I wasn't expecting a return to the past...it could have caused a disastrous fire...
if I had fallen asleep! But for Heaven's sake, I lived for passion, not waiting to flee!
My sonnet had to be written throughout that time for my inspiration to survive!
Entered in Russell Sivey's contest,
" Candlelight "
Long after your beginning in dancing ancient dream,
The ferocious fire that fought only to keep you warm
Flickered my night aglow in sweet, loving longing
Haunting me, the strange fire,
The father and mother of your care,
Visited me blessed in visceral flair
Almost holy in its anger to raise me up
It begged by existence to be intimidated and respected
Though my lofty star eyes always burned equal
What is your new request, mystic fire?
Now that your son emerged from your flames,
Where shall you now flicker and reside?
How intense you must have grown, sweet blaze
To keep this unusual star so vital and strong
Engulfed in your powerful arms,
The bulge of your strength made his soul eternal
And my inspiration abundant and fearless
For that, I know why even the sun envies your flames
How your creation, without waver, orbits my world
Sending me the kiss of his luster
Upon the lips that forever bless his birth
The Ocean breeze soothes me.
The sound of waves relaxes me.
Soft sand between my toes,
collecting unique driftwood to make crafts,
beachcombing is my "quiet place".
You can't live on an island and not love the water.
I can sit and watch boats sailing by
or watch eagles soaring in the sky.
The beach is where I go to sooth my soul
and find my inspiration.
~~~~ The Beach at Eby Rd.~~~~
(my quiet place)
At the end of the road, I park,
leaving my shoes behind.
I walk along the sandy beach.
All troubles leave my mind.
I breathe in the sweet ocean air,
raise my face to the sun.
Inspiration flows through my veins.
Another poem's begun.
for Sara Kendrick's contest
"My Quiet Place"
In loving memory of a legend deeply missed
Taken 2 soon which gets me pi##ed
The best musician in lifes childhood
Highly misunderstood by ignorant do goods
Wrongly accused of so many crimes
Punished for speakin up so many times
The envy of so many wannabes
My inspiration to write with ease
I grew up with your music and screen shows
Feels like I knew you well although
We never met it frustrates me so
That I cannot tell you your my hero
I honestly think biggee was a true friend
And he had nothing 2 do with your first assassination atempt
But puffy on the other hand is sly
And I think he'd do anythin 2 get by
So many rumours that you didn't die
But I know different and I'll explain why
On that fateful september night in vegas
You seen your shooter as he passed
And you wouldn't go and hide away my friend
You'd write a song explaining revenge
No-one could silence the legend of 2pac
The only way in life is 2 hit back
Suge was the problem in the wars
A selfish manipulator lower than the floor
Should have left with dre when you had the chance
You could still be here making everyone dance
I think the rivalry was between suge and puff
You and biggee was dragged into that fuss
It was puffy that instigated that vegas night
The target suge was in the sights
You should have stayed with iron mike
That was the chance 2 put everything right
Biggee should have laid low for a while
Or until suge was put in jail
Coz when he set foot on westside soil
Suge's revenge plan uncoiled
A small handful of artist started an epic genre called rap
Most influential is the 1 and only 2pac
We miss you makaveli the don
In your music you live on