Long On tenterhooks Poems
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I spent my day shopping for rubies
I was on tenterhooks to make a choice
Rubies displayed on shelves glittered
And seeing the price tags I lost my voice!
Rubies' purity measured in carats
Their colors linked to zodiac sign
It was not easy job to choose one
With so many variations, I pined.
Seeing me grim, girl on counter smiled
"May I help you", she calmed me down
Given my budget, zodiac sign of my love
She helped me zero on to a Ruby crown.
Thanking her profusely, I left the gem store
A full day had been spent to buy this Ruby
Gleefully, my love accepted my day's labor
Hugged me like a scooby dooby do booby.
I let go of shopping pains, felt great
A candle light dinner in down town
As a return gift, I will cherish it forever
I am now more confident shopping a crown.
25.7.2020
Ms. and Mr. Squirrel — small, fluffy, and sweet,
All suited and matched, looking perfectly neat.
The day is long, the occasion huge,
Thanksgiving it is, cheering in the festive surge.
It’s time to cook together, to craft a feast,
And welcome little squirrels to celebrate at least.
So Ms. and Mr. Squirrel get down to cook,
Roast turkey, mash with gravy, keep them on tenterhooks.
Cornbread and dinner rolls brighten the table,
Cranberry sauce, yam, casserole—classic and fable.
Pumpkin and pecan pie bring gentle sweetness,
Cinnamon drifts through the air in soft completeness.
Then Ms. and Mr. Squirrel guide all in sharing,
A Day wrapped in gratitude, warmth, and caring.
They revisit fond memories, voice wishes ahead,
And end the night in prayer, with hearts well-fed.
Electorate on tenterhooks until...
outcome of 2020 presidential election announced
Polling places slated to open seven o'clock
in the morning November third two thousand twenty
heightened tensions will strain patience
to breaking point concerning
extreme anticipation common joe experiences
(biden his/her time)
regarding which candidate trumpeted
as de facto commander in chief of United States.
Carpe diem the echoing refrain
heard and seen dispensed and broadcast
across telecommunications medium
cuz the very survival of democracy at stake
ruthless political machinations employed
to seize inalienable codified rights
couched within Declaration of Independence
and Constitution, written ethos, dogma, credo...
compiling aggregate of fundamental principles
or established precedents that constitute
legal basis of a polity, organisation
or other type of entity and commonly
determine how entity governed.
Understanding North American government
inextricably found yours truly agape
when chance occurrence brought hefty tome
into self assigned reading material
which storied author David McCullough
wrote engrossing John Adams biography
I read aloud with measured deliberateness
clearly enunciating each syllable of every word
despite runaway enthusiasm
to acquire historical premise
whereby original thirteen colonies
teetered on brink of immediate collapse
soon after majority representatives
swore fealty among themselves
despite ragtag soldiers
easily overwhelmed courtesy
fighting force of British Empire.
As a staunch affiliate of democratic party,
one veritable common joe
just biding his time,
I trumpet how crass
deleterious, egregious, fractious...
usurpation of power
jackknifed, kickstarted and linked
endemic flood (gushing) hatred
malicious, nefarious, opprobrious putrescence
laid down at the feet
upholding seventy five inches
of corpulent doughy flesh
regarding one conceited, haughty, and obstreperous
politician orchestrating machiavellian leitmotif.
Mark my words, that bull headed incumbent
will clamor, foment, incite, loose chaos
if Democratic candidate garners more votes
at the ballot box nsync with absentee citizens
casting their lot with the worser of two evils
otherwise put head between legs,
and kiss tuckus goodbye,
cuz hell in a handbasket looms on horizon.
a cynosure of all eyes
carrying danger
like a backpack
seasoned acrobat
thrilling all and sundry
with go-big-or-go-home feats on the trapeze.
he's done this countless times.
a life lived on the edge
flirting with disaster
each moment could be his last
the audience
on tenterhooks
watching him fly through the air
he's done this countless times.
all was copacetic just minutes ago.
amid all the rip-roaring...T H U D!
seasoned acrobat lies dead on the ground.
everything stops; a hush
suddenly falls over the circus.
it's stunningly unexpected...
but he's done this countless times!
he never saw it coming,
no one did
d e a t h
in an instant.
A shell explodes out of the barrel
Of misfortune's gun with a deafening bang.
Unexpectedly pink slipped as he was
Slowly making his way up the corporate ladder;
To use the demotic vernacular, "Laid off."
Poor fellow. He never saw his hard luck coming;
Confronted with a disconcerting reality,
It has rendered him a melancholy shell of a man.
Poof! His dream job vanishes at one fell swoop;
Outsourced overseas. In his wistful eyes,
Utter dejection. His reversal of fortune, cruel.
He doesn't quite know what to do with himself.
It's a tough pill to swallow; he's struggling
To adjust to his grim circumstances.
Sudden joblessness has taken a toll on him.
His saturnine feelings are tough to conceal.
His indigo-hued mood clearly shows on his face.
He's teetering on the precipice of depression
And withdrawn from friends and acquaintances.
A shroud of uncertainty now hovers over him.
His future couldn't look more gloomy.
With his stellar career gone
And mental health dangling on tenterhooks,
Where does he go from here?
Eight Word Challenge Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
Date written: 05/26/2023
The dream begins at the old rusty gate,
it groans- moans as I push it open wide;
to reveal a house in a ruined state,
and through decaying tangled vines I glide.
The house like an elegant sinking ship,
I ignore the grand staircase and paintings;
and on gnarled invading tree roots I trip,
the faded walls covered in moss veinings.
Always my dream steps take me to the books,
the once library room with shelves falling;
old, sad, tattered- my heart on tenterhooks,
I find them all precious and enthralling.
Then- the ivy draped old rusty gate calls;
and I close it . . . to sounds of morn' birdcalls.
__________________
June 23, 2022
Poetry/Sonnet/The Rusty Old Gate
Copyright Protected, 06-1467-307-23
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Theme chosen - The Old Rusty Gate
Written for the Standard contest, One in Five
sponsor, Joseph May, Judged 07/11/2022
First Place
Submitted to the Premiere contest, 2022 Poetry Marathon, Mile 11
sponsor, Mark Toney, Judged 08/12/2022
The world is bleeding
We stand at the edge of a precipice,
Looking in fear on our Earth,
Boiling, bubbling, and steaming,
With pools of blood flowing.
Warplanes blanket the sky.
Volcanic sounds pierce the ear.
Booms of gun shots rent the air
Lightning passes blinding the eye
The skies let down a deluge of tears
The old world is strangled to death
Toxic waste muddles up every head
The world once dressed in green
Now wears a mantle of pollution
Green- not a colour any more.
The earth wriggles in pain,
But its silent whimper
Falls in deaf unheeding ears!
A sword dangles on a thread
Ready to fall anytime over our heads.
Might dissipates men’s eye sight
From everywhere rises the bleak cry for help
Pale faced grimaces of death as bombs explode
Groans of pain as bullets whizz past
Once warm blood spilled over the streets of Paris
Twin towers were raced down in the U.S
School children massacred in many parts of the world
Now the animosity between Russia and Ukraine,
Iran and Israel keep the world on tenterhooks.
All through the globe, seismic waves of terror
Sweep across… effacing life, love and dreams.
With modest tools, if the Neanderthal men fought,
Modern men are powered with lethal weapons
Any of which can annihilate the whole world in seconds
Men themselves turn as weapons,
And explode like bombs killing thousands.
Where shall we find a bastion
From this rabid pack of wolves?
From the quagmire of terror, we need an escape
Let it be writ on every wall and billboard
‘Down with War, Down with Terrorism’
(TWIN FLAMES)
Like he pleaded for your friendship
Let’s say he did, alright he did!
Polite rejection would be great,
But all those “hellos” were as fake
He thought being true was good enough,
And hoped by her life would look up.
As in his mind was the thought born,
It there did die before it sprung.
Quite all the moxie that he had,
Without a toil would have been hers,
Yet she felt naught (like would a corpse)
When all his dreams drained through the crust.
Like she pleaded to thus be strung,
Let’s say she did but was not wrong.
A gentle advance would’ve been best,
She tagged the others guys “coquettes”.
How would he know? He’s quite sinless,
And the movies would neither help -
Nor would these books reveal to him,
How upon maids, they work their wits.
Maybe she was, and’s still like him,
And never hopes to turn from it,
Maybe she too is still as true,
And hence she fell on tenterhooks.
She could be hurt and not retell,
The wondrousness within herself,
And how his fancy had took her,
From that first glance and salient smirk.
Like they both pleaded to be born
Dizygotic or one by one.
One should suffer, one should serve
One should proffer the other care.
Once on the earth and swarmed by dreams
Either, confused reality.
Who would be crowned? Venus or Mars?
Or would they both meet in the stars?
“Like a cold corpse felt naught” he thought,
Her heart was cold and dangerous.
Like autumn leaves are fallen dead,
She thought, “no love was on his head”.
A bloke who hails
from New South Wales
will know of Gundagai.
Some guy found gold,
or so we're told,
in days now long gone by.
I grew up there
without a care
when both of us were nippers:
she was my mate -
her name was Kate -
I used to call her "Kipper".
We loved to lark
around Yarn Park,
and sing Frank Ifield songs,
play hide-and-seek
on Morley's Creek
all golden summer long.
I'd glance at Kip
(she fielded slip)
and try to hoist one high:
but quick as thought
she'd yell out, "Caught!"
or "Nice try, Gundagai!"
Her brain was quick,
her wit was slick,
and ready with a joke.
She'd bat and bowl
and kick field goals
as good as any bloke.
Well, time moved on.
Those days are gone,
and never to return.
I've roamed this earth,
for what it's worth,
and one thing I have learned.
In this wide world
there's heaps of girls,
and some of 'em are ripper,
and dark or fair,
I've had my share,
but none of 'em's like Kipper.
I'm not that grand
with pen in hand,
but I've written Kip a letter:
I may be wrong,
it's been so long.
She may not even get 'er.
So now you know
the way it goes.
You've heard my tale unfold.
I'm like those fools
with sieves and mules,
hell bent on striking gold.
I'm a chafing chook
on tenterhooks,
awaiting her reply.
I know my Kip -
she's sure to quip,
"Oh, nice try, Gundagai!"
You want to know its merits?
Very well, then. Daylight slants
deliciously across the boy's
inclined, thoughtful face.
His lace collar, crumpled,
houses valleys of shadow.
Or what about the Water Seller?
Look at that poncho's warm
woven woollen texture:
and isn't the rip in the shoulder fun?
And the dimples on the pot!
They scream "potness" at us.
Or the beads of water
clinging to the larger vessel,
whose horizontal striations
practically smell
of the potter's wheel.
But oh, that drinking-glass!
Does it seem possible to you
that unctuous oils and minerals
of earth, gouged from the soil,
can render the ethereal soul of glass?
It was a winter afternoon.
I'd gone along to the gallery
on the off-chance.
Standing before this marvel,
I found myself entranced.
But even as I gazed, the sun
(though never very confident in London)
stepped out coyly from behind a cloud.
Duck's-egg orange light, resplendent,
now fell aslant the canvas.
Surely this was harmful?
Sunlight bleaches (does it not?)
the colour out of things.
Alarm bells should be ringing.
I summoned a uniform attendant.
He nodded sagely as I explained
- but did nothing.
Why should he care?
Minimum wage is no great motivator.
An hour from now,
he'd be hanging up that peaked cap,
and be a person until Monday.
No point in bursting
a blood-vessel
over a silly painting. Later.
But I couldn't leave it.
If I stood just thus,
my human frame was just enough
to block the sun.
One little skirmish could be won
if I remained here
until the sun’s trajectory was done,
or the gallery closed,
whichever came the sooner.
So I did. On tip-toe,
spine inclined, quiet,
I crowded out the light of day
for more than an hour.
Pointless, you say.
I can't deny it.
The very next day,
And each subsequent foray
of Phoebus would
merely recreate the problem.
That's hardly the point.
Finding myself there,
I beat my ploughshare
into a sword and,
for that tiny slice of time,
I made the sacrifice,
bore the quizzical looks
with equanimity, quirky,
standing like a turkey
on tenterhooks
and saved the painting.