Long Runaway Poems
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HE REMINDS ME
(edited)
He reminds me back when I was thirty-one and he was thirty
Acquainted with him in the mid-month of humid February
He reminds me of fresh boiled tea, roti and chick pea
And the ceiling fan he took snaps for streak's continuity.
He reminds me of Japanese comics and series of anime
He read and watch them almost everyday
He reminds me of cricket, football and all the games he play
And the time when he sang Aurora's runaway.
He reminds me of streams, mountains and valley
Showed me pics and clips of the northernmost India's beauty
He reminds me whenever there's an outage of electricity
Shared struggles of life's complexity.
He reminds me that what keeps us going are money and responsibility
And we should be contented with it and just be happy.
He reminds me whenever I feel sleepy
Like him, I once was dependent on melatonin gummy.
He reminds me of his yellow-striped collared tee
How it hugged and clung his body perfectly
He reminds me of his jaw and chin so beard-y
How I wish I could caress them tenderly.
He reminds me now with everything I see
Darks were replaced with fresh, new memory
He reminds me even in the pettiest and in the smallest way
But those were just borrowed time, unfortunately.
(I LOVE YOU)
oops o no ~ i let it slip
and now it’s out there
i said it and i meant it
i’ll own it and defend it
i’m not sorry no
i won’t take it back
i said it now it’s out there
brazen as could be
it slipped out in that one single
solitary careless breath
it broke free and burst
barely a whisper it wasn’t loud
unlike all the other times
refused to be another silent thought
repressed resigned to the back
stuck in the corners of my mind
it came out loud enough
for everyone to hear
so now it’s out into the universe
free ~ free as free can be
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology book ~CITYLIGHTS~ 2021
AP: 1st place 2022, 2nd place 2022, 2nd place 2022
Submitted on March 18, 2022 for contest A BRIAN STRAND 1092 sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 1ST
Muscle-bound goons. The kind that rape the world. Self-satisfied, in no hurry to devote their remarkable faculties to understanding another’s mind. Such wise men. Stares as blank as summer nights, red and black, tricolored, golden star-stung steel: twisted features, leaden, pale, inflamed; hoarse guffaws. A grim onslaught of pretense. To hear what these kids would say about Cherubino in their rough voices and violent ways. They’re heading to town to get it from behind, all decked out in sickening luxury.
A violent Paradise of runaway sneers! But no match for your Fakirs and hackneyed theatrics. In costumes sewn together with all the taste of a nightmare, they strut through assorted laments, tragedies filled with all every brigand and demigod missing from religion and history. Chinese, Hottentots, bohemians, fools, hyenas, Molochs, ancient lunacies, sinister demons—they slip savage slaps and tickles into your mother’s old chestnuts. A little avant-garde here, some three-hankie stuff there. Master jugglers who use riveting comedy to transform players and scenes. Eyes ignite, blood sings, bones stretch, tears and red rivulets run. Their clowning can last minutes, or months.
Only I have the key to this savage sideshow.
:: 07.31.2022 ::
wind-moles have tunneled
through the daffodil rings
stems are broken
yellow bells and trumpets
fly in a mute sky
the third month
is a wayward despoiler
it stomps on the newly come
the strong survive and persist
until the lion yawns
temporarily bored with its play
one fine day
mild doe-eyed visitors
meander among cotton wool clouds
the lion dreams in his sleep
the next day arrives as his nightmare
here in the havens it is a time for tornados
the earth is burgeoning
greening so tenderly
a perilous time
if the new born shoots
if the new birthed and cradled
escape all the runaway winds
the lion my at last
lay down with the lambs
to guard them
from its own hungers
(not really, but just wanted
to get your attention.)
Thus "NOT FAKE," but
poetic quasi true anecdote
infused fictionalized
by this ole goat
with prevarication
to enliven of no note
characteristic, and certainly
not worth quote
ting - for any future
reference material, imp poet
tent to sketch a biography
of one otherwise tote
tem mick drab existence,
that happens
moost would vote
as exhibiting blank pages,
which means no ghost
for me life story needed since
no words needing tubby wrote.
thus the crux of foraging
into how the missus
snorts in her sonorous way
the one repetitive sleepy tune,
that doth not
warrant a veejay,
nor and thespian to reenact
a zonked out spouse from
exercising at the
Y.M.C.A. today,
but each increment of time
imposes additional wear
and tear on the body electric,
thus no place...(except...
Swiss Side or
Willoughby), to runaway
from senescence process
so one must savor
to the maximum propinquity
of each moment
analogous as if one received
money for their
existence as being payday
before day of reckoning,
which could occur any
minute, hour, second...
with no noway
opportune time will
provide any leeway,
especially for those
ping folks immediately
at ground zero, where
husband or wife
kept awake from partner
mercilessly growling drones
hell bent on then simply jay
ping, when agent provocateur
awakens only to find
themselves bound and gagged
unable to attend the
Scottish celebration of hogmanay.
Sometimes I feel like a castaway;
My sails and rudder in disarray-
A derelict floating past Cathay-
Then marooned on a shoal.
Other times I feel like a stowaway,
Secreted in some musty hideaway,
Watching the world change day by day
From a filthy porthole.
Sometimes I feel like a runaway.
All my pride’s been sanded away;
Hustling for food and somewhere to stay-
Some dark and dank bolt hole.
Other times I feel like I’ve gone astray,
That the best of me’s eroding away.
Dissipating misty yesterday
What’s left of my soul.
(Chorus)
I’d probably feel this way all the time,
If I didn’t come home with you.
Mornings would start with no sunshine,
If I didn’t wake up with you.
All the world’s imperfections,
Objections, and rejections,
Would drown me in dejection
If you weren’t the Copilot of my crew.
There've been time I've felt like I've gone astray.
Each tomorrow's still another day.
I still have time to change my way
To once more feel whole.
I don't have to be a runaway,
A castaway or a stowaway.
With your help I can find my way
And re-find my soul.
A runaway S, hissed on and on,
like the Orient Express.
SSS
Thought keyboard had gone off the rails
or Howard Payne threatened a slow down.
SSSSSS
Grand discovery…kept my cool.
The letter was stuck. It hissed
SSSSSSSS
I backed up. It continued to trek
on open windows, back and forth,
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
weaving in and out. Had to stop!
To run for help would have been
SSSSS
catastrophic…so what to do…what to do
…keep my cool. Put the train in reverse
SSSSSSSSSS
pulled up the key. Apparently
maintenance is needed but
S..backspace..SSSS…backspace
at least my words are not passengers
…not one was lost…the body’s intact.
The girl was only thirteen but she decided to runaway from home,
Her parents did not hit her but their words were like whips;
They called her stupid, and told her she would amount to nothing,
She did not understand why they seemed to hate her.
So she put everything that would fit into her backpack and left,
With no plan in place, she just started walking and walking;
She knew that staying in her small town was out of the question,
Leaving would be the only option, so she became a fugitive.
A bit of money bought lunch and then she headed for the highway,
Put out her finger to hitchhike and the first car stopped;
Where are you going, he asked, Toronto, she replied, uncertain,
I can take you part way, she got in and he was polite.
He let her out in Kingston, but first bought her some food,
At the restaurant she met up with a teen boy hitchhiking too;
So they made a team and set off together, she thought it fun,
They got to Toronto at night and ended up sleeping outside.
When she woke up, he had gone and she was all alone,
She walked the streets, running when she saw a police man;
In the evening a man approached her and asked, if she was lost,
And if she was hungry, she was, and he seemed nice.
He took her to a mission and they gave her soup and a bed,
There she met some kids who were hitching to Florida;
Why not, she was a fugitive here, so the next day they left,
It did not take them long and they slept on the beach.
In the morning she was all alone, and now in another country,
She was starting to get afraid, then a man said to her, hello;
Lost, he said, he seemed nice, she nodded taking his hand,
The Florida police found her body in a canal that day.
There was no identification and no missing child reports,
Her parents did search for years and years and years;
She just disappeared, a little girl fugitive on the run,
She is buried in a nameless grave in Florida.
And they never found her.
__________________________
March 15, 2016
Poetry/Free Verse/The Runaway
Copyright Protected, ID 16-768-391-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
the night is cold
and snow is falling and gathering
it drifts and drifts on the streets
and a dog is stumbling along
she is a lost runaway
with no place to go
with no shelter
and no food
and no family
and busy people rush by
not hearing
the dogs weak whimper for help
just a few more steps is all she has
so, she lays down in the pure white
until the end comes
remembering the family she loves
_________________
May 11, 2021
Poetry/Verse/lost
Copyright Protected, ID 05-1353-952-11
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, All Yours (May 12)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 05/12/2021
First Place
Melanie, Melanie, Melanie.
My Dear, sweet, troubled … beautiful Child,
what is it ?, I wonder ?, drives you so wild.
Where from ?, does come, all your pain,
pain making you like a runaway train,
upon tracks leading to self-destruction !
How to stop you ?, I have no instruction !
Does it come ?, some ?, from what I am not,
what I cannot give ?, what I have not got ?
For you to be alive, to help you survive,
To help you derive, to help you revive
the soul, the spirit of the Girl I know,
my Daughter, life forces I’d love to show.
Show a much better path upon which to go,
find fields, rich, beneficial seeds of, to sow
many of life’s experiences bringing you gladness,
times filled with much pleasure, joy and happiness
while all else slips into darkness, fades into an emptiness
that no longer consumes you, issues you may now address.
B. J. “A” 2 ( Bill . )
December 26th 2002