Long My musings Poems
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I've given myself some ideal times to reckon.
My musings meander for no apparent reason
I don't settle what to predict on the challenge.
Where I'm being idling within the lucid adage,
Notwithstanding, it is thus somewhere out there.
With his pensiveness perfectly elsewhere,
It's likely the case that this would be creedal.
Suspicions, then again, may as well tweedle.
It is helpful to inquire over evoking glints pitch.
That could only hit the one to maul his switch.
My surmise is this is a direct result of reality.
You're adding a snide view on my apparency.
From the edges of your lowly litters' haven,
It's vital to grasp I would instead foil this beckon.
Written: January 12, 2022
This magical fairy who paints my dreams
Has blushed my fantasy in subtle hints
That kissed dreamy night on the thrills of fall--
An amber delight on the hills hued brown
I have known her long since blossoms of spring
When grass was green in the lilting prairies
And scent of my garden perfumed soft winds
While butterflies roamed in search of honey
Upon summer's zeal she shimmied with breeze
And teased my musings in rustles of trees
As echoes of love waltzed on humid air
And sailed with me on tides of blue ocean
I see her charm now as leaves turn crimson
When desires of passions our moods invoke
And moon’s shadows on rushing water float
In waves of romance where blue river flows
She waits for me beneath twinkles of stars
Where scarlet vistas blaze autumn’s canvas
And holds me closely in rhythms of her heart
As pulses soon dance to nightingale’s song
But, just when it's time to satiate dreams
Alas! she leaves spanning mystical wings
Though this quest chased passions illusory
Cherish I'll, always, daydreams she lent me
April 8, 2021
Ten syllables per line (howmanysyllables.com)
Placed 1st: This or that, vol. 1 poetry contest
Title chosen: Chimera
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Away from the areas of complete ad nauseam
As political cases grasp a zenith of their corium
To utterly saturate the airwaves with information
Each other's obnoxious and feeble description.
I'm fully aware, listening to the unrelenting billow
My musings have been integrated into a rainbow
I lay, awake sketching vilifications of people's dignity
I dream of a gloomy sky shadowing the faltered fury.
As yet, they now sway the bulk of a mulish minority
Putting fervor on the beliefs is harming harmony
Watching the slivers of the sky inhale, I kept awake
It mocks and taunts the deconstruction for its sake.
Tumbling off, staggering forward, void and murkiness
It was benign alighting and utterly scatting aimless
The previous prone events will disturb our spirit
The harshness of the truth is infused to arrant inhibit.
While a million nights of misery had engulfed people
I'm startled by the screams of forefathers over beguile
I'm on high alert; grant heed to the rumble of my valiance
Where did all this anger come from that incited violence?
A significant alteration has been performed.
Concussion healing occurred as a result of a storm
Whatever happens, our promises will be crammed
One irksome outlay may entice us all to the lowland.
Written: January 27, 2022
Pick-A-Title, Vol 28 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
I wander through the corridors of my mind,
a labyrinth of echoes and whispers,
Where each heartbeat is a drummer of destiny,
and each breath a sigh of the cosmos.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet—all are bound by the threads of imagination,
A tapestry of madness, love, and creation,
each thread, an untold story.
The lunatic, lost in his own abyss,
sees devils where none dare tread,
His mind a vast inferno, a prison of phantoms and fears,
Where every shadow is a specter, every whisper, a scream,
A world where reality bends and breaks,
shattering into shards of despair.
The lover, consumed by the flames of passion,
sees beauty in the most improbable places,
Helen's grace in the brow of Egypt,
his heart a cauldron of desire and ardor,
His soul dances on the edge of reason,
a waltz of ecstasy and sorrow,
Where every glance is a promise,
every touch, a whisper of eternity.
And then, the poet, with eyes that see beyond the veil,
Glances from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven,
in a frenzy of creation,
His pen a wand that conjures worlds from the void,
giving form to the formless,
Turning airy nothing into shapes,
dreams into reality, shadows into light.
In this enchanted twilight, I feel the pulse of their existence,
A rhythm that resonates with the deepest parts of my soul,
As imagination breathes life into the unknown,
crafting stories from the ether,
Each word, a spell, each verse,
a thread in the infinite tapestry of time.
The moon, a silent witness to my musings,
casts its silver gaze upon the world,
Turning night into a canvas of dreams,
a stage for the dance of shadows.
And in its light, I see the reflections of the lunatic, the lover, and the poet,
Their lives intertwined in the delicate web of my thoughts,
Each one a mirror, reflecting the facets of my own existence.
In the end, we are all lunatics, lovers, and poets,
Lost in the labyrinth of our minds,
where imagination reigns supreme,
Each moment a spark of madness,
each heartbeat, a note of love,
each breath, a whisper of poetry.
And as we journey through the realms of our own creation,
We leave behind a legacy of dreams and desires, a testament to the magic within us,
A poem that sings through the ages, a melody that never fades.
I write upon the nimble hands of fleeting time
careful not to leave my musings behind
Sometimes penning with haste and speed
trying not to forget
a relevant word or phrase seen in my mind's eye
that could be a crucial poetic thought
When tremulous mourning escapes my wistful heart
I am overcome with sorrow and cry
tears of desolation, and yet,
it is the balm I need.
Writing offers comfort, but never peace of mind
Love sonnets, I still write for him, in rhyme.
When the clock swings its pendulum and starts to chime
I become annoyed but always resigned
to accept that my heart will bleed.
Happiness owes a debt,
paid when loved ones are taken; a price much too high
as the clock mocks me, "Time cannot be bought."
January 31, 2021
My Invented Form - I Write Upon Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Syllable count verifed with HMS
Saw some quilts constructed
In the Civil Wartime years,
One made by a soldier,
Not as strange as it appears.
Cloth was cut from uniforms,
With both sides represented –
Harmony in textiles
Way before some men repented.
Wonder what that soldier thought
While sewing up his stitches,
Maybe as he hid himself
In foxholes or in ditches?
Was he thinking of his home,
His family or his honey?
Worrying about the war
Or keeping warm or money?
Could he ever picture
That the quilt that he created
Would be hung in a museum
With admirers belated?
As I wandered the exhibit
I was taken back in time
Where my musings and imaginings
Were stitched into this rhyme.
The meticulous melody of my musings is she.
Quietly my quill inscribes intrinsic ink upon the paths she walks.
Profoundly postulated in poems I've portrayed her in -
she's inspired ingenious imagery of beaucoup beauty.
I ponder without her what my life would be like?
With determiners of this, that, these and those, she is the
one who guides like an orchestra of street lights at night.
In times of silence I wonder what she is thinking of
when gazing at blue horizons that appear cloudless,
as her exotic eyes always crave for calming climes.
There is no measure in the pleasure of her treasure and
her artistry on a blank canvas turns stanzas radiantly starry,
so I croon a tune hoping to be the moon under her serene skies.
Yet not all lullabies of lovers can ease a melancholic mind and
sometimes it's difficult to write lyrics making sense of it all.
Not all verses compliment strings with an instrumental that's
an emotionally unbalanced mix of tones not seen as the best
remedy in episodes of rage - so I wonder what becomes of
tranquillity when her tempest temper turns her thoughts dark.
I regret those forgotten promises lost in broken symphonies and
until sanity soothes with words of softness, I'll hold onto all that is bright.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Lord Byron – She Walks in Beauty
"Space is beautiful to imagine but deadly to experience. "
by _Constance
______
Space- with billions of galaxies and clusters in the universe,
and volumes of mostly emptiness extending in every direction;
the universe has no edge, no end, always growing bigger,
oh, don't get fooled by parallel universe science fiction concepts.
Space is dangerous, humans cannot survive without protection,
there is no air- making it impossible to breathe- lethal;
its cold, freezing humans solid in seconds and there is radiation'
from the sun that will burn you to a crisp in moments.
Only a fine powder will remain to send home to your loved ones,
space living would be in a small enclosed space with no sound;
and isolation- food in packages, totally dependent on technology,
I recall, Sputnik 2, the suicide mission for Laiku the dog, how sad!
Then, there is Albert I, Albert II, Albert III, and Albert 1V,
the monkeys- there are probably more that died in the name of space;
so, for me, I will take my chances on Earth, thank you very much,
and my musings of space will be to admire a beautiful night sky.
________________________
January 15, 2021
Poetry/Verse/My Concept of Space
Copyright Protected, ID 01-1321-255-15
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premiere contest, Musings on Space
sponsor, Unseeking Seeker, Judged 01/17/2021
Submitted into the contest, Final 2021, N-A Choice 3
sponsor, William Kekaula, Judged 05/07/2021
Yes, that is the role of the Teacher, as Shams was to
me – showing one ‘who they are’, so they can stop
bleating, crying at night, and never again be afraid.
Rumi
Oh beloved,
I'm like Rumi without Shams.
A shivering summer soul,
secretly stalked by wild white winter wolves.
A chiffon child chiselling chimerical calligraphy,
cursed with invisible ink, silent in sentimental sighs.
I've become the son of solitude,
tired from torture and torment,
descending like surreal sinking sunsets shaded in scarlet,
yearning for a dawn where we can blend like sunrise.
I have no desire to write
in your journal of sorrows,
but you cut my veins to bleed.
What is pain without pleasure,
or a poet without his poetess?
Oh mistress of the night,
I'll forever wait for you to adorn my garden,
to finally inhale the fragrance of my roses.
I'm the oil lamp in all your blackness.
Sometimes I may flicker like a candle,
but I will always reignite to create a spark.
Change the eternal chambers of my heart.
The day you stop reading my musings,
my pen will forever slumber.
Oh daughter of darkness,
let me salvage moonlight then place it into your eyes.
Guide my quill to engrave upon your shores.
Together we will sail away from Satan's spawn.
I'll shield you from twilight's beasts,
protect you from demons with crimson claws,
emancipate your wings to fly from an illusionary island.
Because,
you love the moon,
but it's the stars you gaze at,
hoping their stardust will illuminate your heart,
before they fade into nothingness.
Oh my seclusive sweetheart,
I will strum strings of serenity,
so you release tears of tranquillity.
I may not be the most handsome blossom,
nor the most popular prolific poet,
but I gift you my art and alliteration.
Some may say I'm romantic,
but I am no judge of what is exotic or poetic.
We can't put all our faith in petals and poetry.
I'm no emperor who deserves an enchanting empress -
merely a broken butterfly in your precious palms.
Life is an absent bride,
so I'm not afraid to bleed to death,
in the hope of soothing tomorrows.
When you shall see me not
When you shall search and search and get tired
When you shall get no answer when you call my name
Why, know that there is only one place where I shall be
My hideout, my secret den, my hidden lair
There where I do be most of the times
Seated and writing about my musings
Seated and sweating hard at making a perfect rhyme
There, in the magical forest
In between the living trees
Seated on the lush green grass, the home of the fairies
Enjoying the conversation between the drops of tickling water in the nearby stream
Seated, with a pen and a diary in my hand
Seated and getting enchanted by the magic all around me
Seated and getting inspired by everything that my muse does bestow on me
And if do you wonder where to find this magical forest
Why, it's easy,
Just open your mind and let your imagination work
Follow your poetic flair
You shall reach me, you shall then see me, there, where I do be all the time!
For Contest Where will they find you
Sponsored by Marugu MO
18 March 2016