Long Pipeline Poems
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An ancient unknown city in the west somewhere
Under the road it had a pipeline maze for water
How old the city people didn’t remember.
During a remote sweltering summer time
Before the start of debate on climate change
The temperature rose to an unrecorded high.
The antique pipeline cracked at the seams
Spurting out from under the fissured road
Water cold as subterranean spring in desert
Filled up soon a wide ditch dug for road repair.
The news spread like flood water
In the desiccated neighborhood
Drew the children of all ages to the pool
Clad in swimming gears they jumped
In the knee-deep water not so much to swim
But to beat the heat of scorching summer day
With the cold water flowing for fun.
The parents looked on as amused guards
Wished they could go back for awhile
To the long lost childhood days
And take the plunge at the cool fun.
If the undated summer children could now see
The snapshot of water splashed summer noon
Through bifocals on their failing nostalgic eyes
They would reminisce how the times changed
In their lifetime the ancient became modern.
August 24, 2017.
“More Than Scribbles”
The pen does not speak—
it holds its silence in a chamber,
a reservoir where sentences
float unformed,
dark rivers stalled
before the mouth of paper.
Each droplet is a thought
waiting for gravity’s compunction,
a poem in liquid pause,
its capillary compression
held at the narrow throat of the nib.
The pipeline presses with pressure,
yet nothing escapes—
until the hand inclines,
and gravity leans through the hinge,
drawing futures downward
onto a waiting page.
There, a stained tributary
eddies downstream,
curling into margins,
its current carrying fragments
toward the widening mouth of breath.
A single line spills,
a thought becomes visible,
the poem begins to breathe.
.
Smoke ‘em if you got them.
Save the bottles for return.
That hippie needs a haircut.
What the hell’s a Lady Bird?
My Christmas tree had bubble lights,
My watch lit up at night.
Four-bits for my gasoline
And Cassius won the fight.
Music was a wall of sound.
A Stingray running fast,
Footsteps left upon the moon,
War’s ended, "Peace at Last".
Paychecks from the mills and mines,
From Ford and IBM.
Farming amber waves of grain
That’s how it was back then.
From all around on Friday nights
The hometown crowd, the football lights.
The pom-pom girls would dance and cheer,
I saw you there far so near.
And though my odds were slim & none
I had to try to make my run,
And never look back on the day
I had my chance and walked away.
The party went ‘til midnight,
Coors and California Dip.
The Ventures playing “Pipeline”.
You said “Let's do The Twist!”.
We dated first on New Year's Eve,
I looked into your eyes.
We tied the knot in April,
We made love until July.
But the world and I spun faster then,
You tried to be my rock.
Me, I acted like a fool.
You said “Its time we talk!“.
I thought I was your shining knight
And you my Perfect 10.
Why can't we get back to be just
Like we were back then?
Throughout time there’s joy and pain,
We can't expect things not to change.
When it was time to leave our mark,
Time after time I broke your heart.
The Texas sun goes down again.
A long day's work about to end.
Forty miles to drive back home
Flip on the light and drink alone.
Damned if I know why it all changed,
Wish I could tell you when.
I only wish that I could make it
Like it was back then.
"Pipeline: Hawaii's North Shore where Championship Surfing Meets are held, remains the deadliest since records began in the 60s."
Golden shores surfed duo gift essence new threshold,
History made two by sea,
Footprint holds their granule sunk traces, queues the bold,
Long woods wee came two by sea,
Boarders store their sea tools drift faces, cue behold,
Fantasy dreams two by sea,
Reckon calls pair home schools feet races fuel's the sold,
Handily swims two by sea,
Loop unfolds those who rules hunk intense corkscrew rolled,
Gone absentees are two by sea,
Fathom pulls remain cool surfaces, two consoled,
Breathing-free crawls two by sea,
Jettisons beached dual shift places cruise controlled,
Rest at ease lays two by sea,
Ponder hauls twain unspool whiffed graces schooled withhold,
Bended knees pray two by sea,
Covered boards bros no fools--but in case, 'Win the Gold',
*Pipeline be? Two if's by sea?
*HMS; Anapestic tetrameter.
The promises fell
as excuses became,
the voice of the man
who is casting the blame
While off on vacation
these moment to share
Informing the masses
he hadn’t a care
“It comes from another
who made this design,”
he mumbles and stutters
in televised time
“Do not look at me
for I haven’t a clue
It is obvious now from
the scenes out on view”
“The pipeline I stopped
and the border is free,
but this is much different
you cannot blame me”
So now as they die
harshly falling from planes
Their old way of life,
not a fraction remains
The enemy now holds
the key to the vault
Yet still he insists
it’s another man’s fault
“I’ve stopped everything
he had put into law
But this I choose not for
you can’t have it all”
He has no regrets,
the one truth he has told
While winking at China,
his soul quickly sold
He sits in his chair
with a beady eyed leer
Counting his yen for the
buck does stop here
The Afghan people have been betrayed as this weak and ineffective President vacations.
When the wind took him
At high noon, everything seemed normal until it wasn’t. It started with.
A tiny whisper and hissing, then silently vanished, and the windowpane
started rattling and shaking uncontrollably.
Then a slow, monstrous windstorm abducted little Zyran like a rag doll.
Tossing him haphazardly into the air in the rotation of a tornado
The force was harsh, relentless, brutal, and unimaginable.
Snatching him upward as he went, twisting like a crying cyclone.
With no intention of releasing Zyran.
While debris started chasing after him, longing to be released.
The midday sky now becomes a barrage of missiles with no intent
Of subsiding, its raw terror, no one escapes.
The bombardment, sparring with the visceral, everyone must have felt.
Chaos and assault filled the air: flying material that made their ears pop.
Powerless to save Zyran, as they attempt to run to safety.
Zyran was now lost in the whirlwind.
The storm became a thick, roaring, shrouded presence, overshadowing
The entire landscape, until day turned, was pitch black.
Midnight howled, and we screamed, where is little Zyran?
Release him! Release him!
Howled, wailed, and reverberated its grim defiance to their plea.
For little Zyran?
While the turbulent and unrelenting imminent harm of a ruptured diesel
Pipeline: a sickening roar, as if an alien omen descended from the skies.
In search of lost souls.
The thunder clapped, then immediately released little Zyran, and stopped
It's havoc and shuts+
the heavens.
The screaming that followed was just as deafening.
As the Fury Man travels to the other side.
Scratched music of hillbilly washboards
From the scraping wings of the Katydids
Aloft in the Oaks
Reborn each night just beyond dusk
After the cicadas finish their warmup act
The Katydid return is glorious
Their little sound so loud
It overwhelms
The alarms of main street stores a block over
And the roar of trucks on damnable nearby I-96
That never stops its pipeline of crashing deliveries
No matter the time
I don’t know why these green creatures
Went completely silent last season
But I missed their rickety noise and worried about them
And us
I tossed and turned sleepless
When the wind was stolen and driven just right through my windows
Maybe it was the masting grunts of acorns throughout that summer?
But the thumbnail insects have returned
More symphony than I’ve ever heard before
Finally I can fall asleep
As they strum their instruments under the applause of planets
Until 4:00 AM each morning
I read somewhere even insects go to sleep
Though they don’t have eyelids
Imagine them exhausted
Stuck
Staring out to their little narrow world of swaying branches
If only they knew what we know
The expanse they do not understand nor comprehend
As they dream
Of love and music and the cool brush of feathered trees
In a religion they call Warm Dark Summer Breeze.
For Canada's Prime Minister,
I want Justin Trudeau to remain;
sure he has made some very big political mistakes,
would the Conservatives or Independents do better !
They would be much worse,
Justin is a young leader and has much to learn still;
but, he is loved all over the world for his serenity !
Justin never loses his composure,
like in the recent pipeline USA cancellation;
he knew it was time to accept defeat !
Justin knows how to say sorry I made a mistake,
I am willing to give him a chance to grow and become great;
he has my vote !
Think Conservatives or Independents are better;
you are kidding right !
________________________
March 22, 2021 - L
Poetry/Political Verse/Justin All The Way
Copyright Protected, ID 03-1340-011-22
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, What You Really Want
sponsor, Richard Lamoureux, Judged 04/24/2021
Second Place
September 6th, 2016 1:43 pm
Open poem to DAPL
So when did living here before you become a crime?
Was it before or after you fed us lies?
So many of our people suffered and died
So that yours could live and thrive.
When did you become more important then me?
There's greed that clouds your eyes so you don't see
The distruction behind your path
And the evil in your shameless wrath.
Forced upon us death by location
Delivering us into your false salvation.
You want our home, the place of our heart
And continue to plant your seeds to leave your mark.
Generations of oppression run in my veins
And you have the nerve to overlook our pain.
Genocide by your ancestors onto mine
And not much has changed within time.
Today we still feel the fight
Right now its oil over life.
That aint right.
To feed the mouths of few
And to benefit mostly you.
Continuining to oppress our people
Feeding us dishonesty in your sheeple.
But the war for this land has always been forged
And our cries for change are constantly ignored.
We march in resistance and defy odds
This kind of heart cannot be taught.
Warriors by heart protectors by blood
It will take a lot more than a pipeline, genocide or opression to stop us.
Our prayers are heard and we will continue to pray
To protect our water is to protect our sacred ways.
Standing together creating a wall
We will watch your greed, your lies and your impure intentions fall.
You cannot eat oil nor replace our mother land
So in Standing Rock together we STAND.
Gutless gaffer, grinning gamely, gulled the gullible millions to the polls,
Oozing oily orations of orphanhood “I once walked barefoot, no shoes.”
On crowded corners we conceded, cringing at his crooked crew.
Disillusioned, we drift and drudge, desperate for deliverance from this dull dominion.
Lackluster leader, limp and lifeless, laced with looming lunacy.
Unsteady skipper steers the ship, silenced by shameless syndicate of plunder.
Circles of sorrow, suffering, and slow suffocation the sorry saga of a shallow sovereign.
Embezzlers erupt in ecstasy, excavating endless holes for highway robbery.
Bandits in bespoke suits, besmirching the bench with brazen brigandage.
Egregious evader, cringing coward, cried at cannon fire: “I am no lion.”
Laggard lumbering loon left lethal lunatics lounging at our doorsteps.
Encumbrances engineered by erratic clan erode every ember of love for motherland.
Damp duchess, dull and domineering, dripping with indecent diction,
Audacious accessory, always attached, avidly airlifting assets abroad.
Merriment masked as mission, mischief marketed as maternal duty.
Edgy encumbrance, endlessly entwined in their eager, empty alliance.
Punk pretender, pilfering public purse into private palaces.
Adventurous appetite for aimless globe-trotting gallivanting.
Twitchy tyrant of trivialities, though never voted into office.
Intoxicated by improbable luck, insulting the nation with incessant idiocy.
Euphemistic escapades, erratic entertainment, embarrassing every educated eye.
National nightmare nursed by notorious nincompoops.
Crude crudities casually cast “My fellow widows” to court cheap chuckles.
Encomiums of empty praise turned putrid: “Power” the perfect pipeline for plunder.
Jokers jumped with jittery joy, jostling jealously for juicy thrones.
Onslaught of terror from Boko Haram banished blessed sleep from battered brethren.
Numbed nation nodded “No” to hasty handover, hoodwinked by the horde.
Alas, the audacious fraud, the rapacious rogue, rules ruthlessly over us.
Tyranny thinly disguised in doctoral drapes creek scholar sans scholarship.
Higgledy-piggledy havoc, a hideous hoax hailed as democracy.
Amid the ashes of a fractured federation,
Nigerian overlords observed the obscene spectacle, secure in stolen silence,
While helpless citizens crumbled and cried.