Long Sketching Poems
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Summer’s seasoned lacings, all fetching,
uplift timid heartbeats with etchings.
Sunshine warmly touches me sky brushed.
Languid summer holds playtime sketching.
Touching water’s velvet soft richness,
sensuously tender in thickness,
captivates my deepest of senses.
Water must thrill summer as mistress.
Delight I hold when my garden shines
with produce sun thriving on green vines.
Sorrow stirs when garden grows dirt-dim
from Autumns push upon summer lines.
No coat, no sweater – summer bare feet –
dressing is a bit of style pieced sweet.
Summer freedom within her Eden
lifts my joy on high inside complete.
Horseshoes, croquet, hiking on park trails,
fishing, crabbing, grilling lobster tails -
all eases for adult stressed creases,
all pieces of summer’s bright details.
In summertime, I am a thrilled child
innocently day tripping beguiled
thru exciting treasures season swayed
until autumn shades persuade sun’s exile.
True Colours !!!
Time being the greatest artist of all, – in its passing –
sketching and painting ones essence, upon a canvas,
the canvas of life, with the truest, purest of colours,
colours that come through, colours that enlighten,
colours that open one’s eye to the subconscious,
- that all knowing third eye that the conscious mind
is blinded to, - the eye that saw, - a long time ago –
from the beginning, a way to move with insight.
Some hang on, willing to stay, – with hope – partake of the fight.
Unfortunately - in the end – both will climb aboard, take flight,
searching the nooks and crannies, dreaming, hoping to see the light .
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Silent Voices
My voice remains silent, within life’s harmony,
for a tune, it cannot carry, even with the cords
that vibrate, that grate, that irritate, out of sync.
For they – as I – are tone deaf, sing out of tune.
B. J. “A ” 2
February 6th 2004
Stella was our neighbor, the weirdest girl on the block.
She walked with a confidence that we could not unlock
Sketching high fashion since the age of eight or ten
We thought she was nuts, even way back then.
No one wears a pink wedding gown or carries an umbrella.
She is so oddly odd, someone said. He himself was a strange fella.
There was a spark of genius that frightened us I guess.
I stayed away and whispered about her with my cousin Tess.
Stella grew up to be a famous designer in New York City.
Now we felt less self-assured, blah, and not so smart or witty.
She designs wedding dresses in navy, turquoise, pink and blue.
We wish now that we were friends, but that wish won’t come true.
Few years back I use to make Paintings
Mostly of landscapes
And sometimes, abstracts or portraits
The oil paintings which I use to make were such,
That anyone would have
Found them to possess and love
It was a season of Christmas and I was
Strolling, when I saw two beautiful poetry books
One on the season of Autumn and other on Christmas
It had a bunch of adorable world of poetry
So beautiful and so lovely
Printed with beautiful photos and scenes
The photo of Jesus was so enchanting
With His loving eyes spreading
The message of peace, love and humanity
One day when I was trying to draw a sketch
My brush started making on its own
A beautiful picture of Jesus
One evening, when that portrait of Jesus
Was almost complete
A Christian friend of mine saw that picture fine
He was overwhelmed with joy and love
And hugged me as if I was someone very fine
He asked me? If I can gift that portrait to a Church divine
I had felt a joy in making that beautiful portrait
But giving it for a place of shrine
Was the most wonderful feeling, one can cherish in his life time
He asked me to come with that portrait of Jesus Christ
And give that gift to his Church on Christmas Day
In the Church, where he was going to prey
I can never forget that Christmas day
While seeing that lovely portrait of Jesus
The priest blessed me with love, while tears in his eyes
I am not a Christian, but still I love Jesus
For all the kindness and love he gave to humanity
And pain and sufferings He faced for us
I still keep those two most beautiful poetry books
Like a precious treasure
And can never forget those lovely moments of sketching Jesus Christ.
Ravindra
Kanpur 29th Nov. 2009
Entered for Raul Moreno’s contest "The Deposition"
Note 1: This poem is based on my own true happenings. I am still
Keeping those poetry books published and printed in US around
1960’s and purchased by me second hand from a Magazine shop
Around 1965 as my most valuable treasure. But since a long
I am have not made any Paintings.
Note 2: Incidentally I have traced that Portrait now shining in the
care of my senior friend Mr. J F Patteson & brilliantly
preserved by him till now.
a hot cup of tea ...
a walk in nature ... my own garden of blooming flowers
these are some things that bring me inner peace
I have stopped chasing happiness
now, I let ...
happiness find me
~ I accept that I am human and not all that perfect
and I know all my flaws and still, still ...
I love the calm me ... I have become ~
my fluffy grey kitty cat
writing, sketching, creating art and photography
all these bring harmony into my heart and soul
and journaling to manage my thoughts
and feelings ... these spell bliss to me
~ letting go of toxic people who lie, gossip and bully
for I have found my beautiful moral compass
and there is a great power in living by my own beliefs ~
kindness, gratitude, prayer and meditation
and choosing my battles for there is strength in turning away
this is finding paradise on Earth
now, I only let tranquility leave my lips
and I let only serenity dwell in my heart
I have found my own Nirvana in accepting God's hand
... in quietude and stillness
for only when 'alone' in my mind does he find me
~ everyday, I declutter the stuff drifting in my mind
I just let it go .. to float away until there is nothing left
sometimes, I even step back from all technology
and even ... leave my cellphone at home
for what is so important
... that I should let it destroy my peacefulness ~
_______________
May 20, 2021
Poetry/Free Verse/Contemplating Peace
Copyright Protected, ID 05-1356-986-20
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, What Brings You Peace
sponsor, Chantelle Anne Cooke, Judged 05/23/2021
First Place
One must imagine Sisyphus’s
boulder, marble-sized these days
And Ozymandias’ plaque,
spinning despair into praise
Look on, ye hypocrites,
and sneer at my undoing
Your universe is a giant sandpit,
entropy accruing
Their legacies long crumbled,
eroded by rust
Gods built the wrong way,
on scaffolds of dust
Virtue or vice register
equally the same
Except between stars,
there’s space for one more grain
Down here, we clock in daily,
stack hours like prayer
Worship strong Wi-Fi,
evangelize on thin air
Imagine heavenly echoes,
because the silence isn’t fair
Some develop connection,
others a thousand-yard stare
Our Earth splits naturally,
along seismic lines
Greenwich claims centre stage,
only for the meantime
Sisyphus, still aching,
gets an epidural at last
But only in hindsight,
for his hump blocks the past
Redrawn are our own lines,
watchtowers in the sand
Sketching new borders,
carving up the promised land
Exhume ancient treasure,
and black, viscous stuff
Addicted to all things buried,
as if our dead weren’t enough
Still we write blindly,
tracing glyphs already faded
Helps lift the mood
when depressed and jaded
Gods stand on shaky ground,
myth holds them together
In schisms that bind billions,
then sever forever
Oh, look on—ye poet
Sisyphus now rolls his eyes
He’s seen the apps, wars,
hoodies, and cable ties
His hamster wheel’s a meme
for gods who merely try
Small wonder he mutters,
at least Ozymandias gets to die
And sometimes I pray to gods,
or maybe their ghosts
About versions of me
I’ve been missing the most
They don’t directly answer,
but do leave this guess
In the end, to keep on rolling
may be my passing success
By David Kavanagh
I want to swim in the golden rivers
of your heavenly haven,
wading through every swirl and twirl flowing in splendiferous streams.
Taste of your warmth courses down ruffles within my ribs,
pulsating your name in assonant motions.
In your moonlit eyes I’ve found the lost poem,
missing from my once hollow heart.
You are the metaphorical master,
with a plethora of poetic keys,
deciphering hieroglyphics syllables,
ceaselessly obscuring vehement vanity,
endured through violent torrents of torment.
In your arms I found a euphonious sanctuary,
calming stormy edges from a malignant abyss,
there I saw grey on silvery nights,
until you breathed poetry into my fingertips.
Words began to bloom amongst
deep ruby wine dahlias,
where seasons never wilt internal imagination.
I still remember the night we embraced a new year,
as fireworks lit up the highest mountains between us.
Revealing incandescent morning stars,
with your infectious smile,
I knew then, you were the acrylic home
I was sketching on sunflower panoramas.
In your voice I've already seen spring,
sowing seeds of hibiscus promises,
hydrating delicate dreams—
drifting with withering ferns and flowers,
imprinted from roots of fate,
ascending mauve memories to cloud nine,
where clipped feathers attain nirvana,
to love until the sun burns into ashes.
Draped over the land like a ghostly shroud,
a blanket of morning mist
morphs into rolling banks of fog;
soft as an eider-filled duvet.
Dawn rebukes Night's claim to darkened skies
and armed with chisels of light,
sculpts ebony shadows
into shifting shapes,
sent scurrying into nooks and crevices.
Pink, indigo, and blue hues
expunge an ebony canvas of stars and moon;
as color emerges from first light.
While a bashful breeze blows silhouettes into disarray;
etch-a-sketching, a brand-new day.
And subtle sleeping sounds, slowly awaken;
giving voice to Nature:
while a scarlet sun silently shimmies up a crimson sky.
Poker Sketch “The Brotherhood of Eternal Love”
What did we contemplate;
while at the fire-front, sooted:
Hot faced, In three D:
In those long minutes, of pleasant ;
extended hours of misguided endless,
diluted from an unseen “two named” hourglass !
Dripping; its sandy content.
It the darkness ; crept, It
sat behind our thin shoulders:
And hair strewn thinnish necks:
Levi collared rough stitched !
Thread bare to time. What ? did we consider ;
Pushing that heavy poker;
cold brassed, not utilised ever by Leonardo !
Sketching dreams, in the long cold ashes;
While Peters, "Supernatural"
soothed our innocently: dirty minds and egos.
It had no identity name ! Just night;
It may have been Winter outside
as coals spit, and sparks spat,
bare wrists sting ! But ; you continue the ash sketch.
What did we concoct ?
Wild ! in that balmy warmth
picking apart bristles: Stretching upward,
Glancing a fleeting glimpse,
at the tick tocked face, with muted bell,
its loose hands skipped,
falling quickly too six.
It didn't matter;
Warming the poker, Maybe !
To brand, the early hours,
making all of those hours ours,
proven marks; proof,
vainly legal, safe from
inquisitors, and hungry dogs.
What did we digest ?
Through these nights of -
“The Brotherhood of Eternal Love"
until ; that creeping dawn,
broke the Witches spell while along we rode
In those ashes of dreams forbidden
and coldly stagnant: Our days closed.
Porky Pig plastic bank, streaked with tears
Offered at my parent's bedside as they quarrel
over money scarce like the scent of angels
Bickering exhaustion
that steals the dark's stillness.
______________________________
7am Saturday morning cartoons
incentive to rise and spy Bugs Bunny
a trickster, brash, cocky
pulling me into rabbit hole hijinks
Elmer Fudd befuddled - Daffy Duck diddler
Road Runner renegade, as Wile E. Coyote flattened
explosive pursuits
surreal mirth
Jarring clang of animation - smack down liberated
from the blare of discontent
Saturday morning cartoons, Looney capers,
sketching my childhood fantasy
in flannel pajamas comfort
For a TV box, within my reach, magical getaway
vortex of forgetting
Cartoons of hilarity
washing my sealed world in whimsy
unfastening laces of grit
thriving like the history carried within us
robbed, from a child's bank of remembering.
Poem revised: January 27, 2021