Long Snowbank Poems
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Tired body aches. Long walk on starry night -
ears attuned for bear at creek, or cougar.
Nothing, not a doe.
But that afternoon
came upon a healthy young buck in a meadow.
High up. And a hawk left a feather for me.
Old, old stands of lodgepole pine, grey bark
like wrinkled hides of elephants. Thick carpet
of dead needles.
Thirst. Sit at snowbank
for an hour eating snow. Burn tongue.
To soon after stumble upon a pond and the place
that a creek springs from the mountain. Water
indescribable. Eat ravenously and drink deep
gulps.
Climb highest rocky peak at dusk. Razor-back
ridge. Mother hawk scream nearby. Must
backtrack and then go straight down near dark
feet fall through layers of scrub pine, hands
grab for the live stalks only support against
broken bone.
Choose steep narrow bed of loose rocks,
surely waterfall in some other season and descend
on ass and all fours, feet first always fearful
it will end in an uncontrollable hundred foot drop.
Trickles of water nearing bottom.
Cracked hands,
raw behind, cross final snowbank and attain road
along Snake Creek.
on her lawn
four pink plastic flamingos
peak above a March snowbank
twisted forms caught in forlorn evasion
beak-body contortions like wrestlers resilient
in pretzel formation
unmanageable remnants of warmer days
denied the dignity of upright
plastic muck ups, a nostalgic weep of summer
wishing a solar Florida footing
their caught spirit of iced- playfulness
a pink flamboyance
teasing an icy surface
four plastic birds, frozen status
kitsch defensive
misplaced images like on-line love
wing swept longing
to flee this barren snowbank
nudging a tardy spring's erosion
with its courtship fringes
Poem posted April 13, 2023
Little boy scales the snowbank
in Spider-Man boots
stomping snow,
relentlessly
a focused performance
superboy tantrum, gushing discontent
flattening worlds imagined
crushing lands gripped by villains
His mother, nearby, gleams
like heat under a stove pot
a wary gatekeeper,
extending love unmatched
to watch the giddy rush of boy
to dream a soulful future
to wonder on the needs of self
to view a son's awakening
in the freedom of spaces
Little boy
unfinished work
putting his stamp on joy
as bits of snow fly like a tale unfolding
As a mother watches the elastic bounce of youth,
till the real world runs away with him.
Poem composed: January 23, 2021
November descends delicately,
crisp, crimson-gold
landing languidly midway between
'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day'
and 'Now is the winter of our discontent' -
dead center between its nurturing tree
and the leaf pile bound for burning
Casually clad in T-shirt and shorts
on my makeshift cardboard sled
middle age's gravity conveys me irreversibly
down summer's green, grassy slope
towards the snow-shrouded vale -
I find myself halfway between
where I did not want to leave
and where I do not wish to visit
Midway between the eulogy
and the forlorn trumpet playing 'Taps'
it dawns on me that life is not entirely about the
sunshine on our backs nor the coming snowbank
but about searching for the sunrise
on the far side of
the next hill
1 November 2022
It happened on a winter day many years ago,
my big sister was killed by a truck,
after slipping off a snowbank . . .
mom was yelling at her to get down,
she turned, smiled at us and waved,
then, suddenly slipped down into the street.
I will never forget my mom's screams,
it was my birthday the next day.
The days that passed after were confusing,
I was sent to gran and gramps,
my parents arranging a funeral,
they never took me. (I asked why for years)
When it was all over they came for me,
and my father said, "we have to cut her hair."
You see both my sister and I,
had long, long dark hair
and we looked very much alike,
I suppose they wanted me to look different.
Well, they cut it short,
but, I was still the same little girl,
and I still looked like my sister . . .
they kept cutting it all through my childhood,
I would run to the attic holding my doll weeping,
"here nobody sees me cry."
It kept going on . . .
until, I was old enough to protest,
and then, I was on a mission to grow my hair
as long as I could and to this day I will not cut it.
I will never understand the why . . .
did they want to erase me .
As my hair grew long my confidence soared,
and in my dads last days he
loved to stroke my long hair . . .
killed under the wheels of a gravel truck, January 29
that's what the headline read that day so long ago-
at noon a girl was crushed to death beneath the
rear wheels of a fully-loaded gravel truck, the driver
told police that he first saw the young girl standing on the
snowbank at the side of the street and that she suddenly
darted off the snowbank and then tried to stop as she saw
the truck passing but she slipped on the icy street and
slipped beneath the heavy rear duel wheels of the truck,
she was killed instantly, I will never forget my mother
screaming, screaming at the side of the street and how
Suzanne's blood soaked the snow red.... I broke inside
(the truck driver took his own life we heard)
In Memory of Suzanne
Days of sadness still come over us
tears in silence often flow
for our little girl, gone before us
you are not forgotten, dear one
or ever will you be
for as long as life and memory last
we will remember thee
Mommy and Daddy
Memories are treasures no one can steal
death is a heartache no one can heal
some may forget you, now that you are gone
but we will remember no matter how long
Grandma and Grandpa
It was my birthday on February 1, the day after the funeral
why mother did not cancel that party, I do not understand
but it was my last birthday party ever, I declared
Mother said we can change the date of your birthday
but I refused, saying that would be Suzanne's day
and it has been... I go dark around this time of year
I cannot stop it, so I go with the flow, it is what it is
if anything good has come of this grief and sadness
the tears, and wailing of this broken girl
is that a poet was born out of death . . . and grief
____________________________
January 13, 2020
Poetry/Free Verse/a poet born from grief
Copyright Protected, ID 20- 1216-369-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the contest, Dear Heart
sponsor, Silent One
Second Place
"Angels danced the day you were born and
they wept when they welcomed you home."
Quote by - LuLoo
My mother often told me that the day my sister Suzanne was born that she
became a blessed child for the angels danced. All the Seraphim, Cherubim and
even the Archangels, and all the other Heavenly angels. They sang and danced
for this earthly angel sent to bring joy. Suzanne grew to be a delightful girl,
full of happiness, it sparkled in her eyes, she was beloved by all, she touched
people's heart, and oh, how she was loved. But, so many times her courageous
spirit brought her in harms way. I was too young but heard the stories told
of how she fell in a fast moving rapid river and almost drowned and fell down
a very steep stairway and almost died. Almost, until the day she was playing
on a snowbank and slipped into the street and died. Azrael, the Angel of Death
came to take her and he was weeping. He carried her to Heaven. At the golden
gate, all the angels waited, although they wept, they also celebrated the return
of this angel child and I imagine her dancing up there in Heaaven with a twinkle
in her eye with all the angels. Finally, back to where she belongs . . .
a blessed sweet child sent
from above not meant to be . . .
angels dance and weep
_________________________
August 21, 2019
Poetry/Haibun with Senryu/'Angels Danced'
Copyright Protected, ID 08-1174-799-21
All Rights Reserved, 2019, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, 'Angels Danced'
sponsor, Lu Loo, Judged 09/2019
Second Place
She or he
In this case it really doesn’t matter
The figure is an indigenous figure
Parka with a cinched up hood boots mittens
Nothing but tip of nose
Sniffing this bitter cold as a name
I am too far away behind an office window
Anyway
To figure it out
Nonetheless a human soul
Most definitely alive
And surely with a childhood and toys
And a breakfast table and a teacher that one day
Saw something in them
And told them that after class
Has battled with the paddles of his/her arms
Their blue tarp
Puffed up tent on the other side
A fierce angle of river embankment
Invisible
But now exposed
With the trees and invasive bush gone
And the river’s current stopped in its backstroke
White and icy as an old man
Over the wooden river trail bridge
It pulls yanks kicks
A shopping cart piled high with that folded blue tarp
And assorted other frying pans and lanterns
And chains for whatever reason
Wheels don’t work in the deep snow
But know
The figure keeps at it fighting the narrow railing distance
Until they reach our shore
An hour it seems
How much time I’ve wasted
Watching it
Haul that contraption up and over a chest high snowbank
That doesn’t give despite the hot breath of hollering
Parks it all itself a neat fit
Between our parking lot line
Space
Ready for work
I thought about this
As I waited in line at the oil change place
To re-inflate my deadened tires
The Jiffy Lube attendant
Is ten years older than me at least
And I’m old
Or so I thought
He shuffles toe to heel wheel to wheel
Around the four corners of the car ahead of me
The neck of a hose dangling from his fist
Squeezing air
His brow cursed
His lips a clown
His hair gone
I had wadded up five bucks
In anticipation of a small thanks
To some young man or woman
For the favor
But I couldn’t bear to insult this guy
To intrude with such a gesture
I drove away.
Written March 8, 2012
Death mixed with morning rain and darkness,
Icy patches hidden on the pavement
Lived comfortably on the outside
As I rode along in my car like the
Planchette of a Ouija board.
Unaware that the power(s) that be
Were battling against each other
To push my car on the board to
Spell out either life or death,
My morning thoughts
Were interrupted
By a 360 spin faster than
The distance between
Two thoughts...
Ending up muffler-first gagged on
A snowbank with nothing,
No one around for miles.
I gazed at the three-lane
Highway where LIFE
Was spelled out this time,
And realized that
DEATH may have been on the
Board thirty minutes later
During a busier time.
Thirty minutes later
Found me talking
To a mechanic
Instead of my family talking
About me in the past tense
And trying to communicate with
Me through the Ouija board.
Death inefficiently cheated
Marked off on My To Do list
For the day.
How many more times will
I be able to mark that off?
Dare I ask the Ouija board
Knowingly sitting in the corner
Of my closet?
Fog on the road, white out conditions.
Cannot see a thing; wind bats car back and forth
Sideways, as we try to advance forward.
Slap. Slap. Drive. Slap. Slap.Drive.
The windshield wipers appeared to have turned on.
Oh, I guess I did do that.
It does not help at all. Slap. Slap. Drive. Slap.Slap. Drive.
Christmas Eve. The car is sliding, we whirl in
A complete circle, BAM! When we hit another car,
The trunk pops open. The gaily wrapped presents begin
Throwing themselves onto the freeway. We are still spinning.
I get a glimpse of a small package, and watch a semi
Smack it away, in a furious head-butt. Spin. Spin. Spin.
Some fool honks. I know we’re in trouble, I think.
Whomp! We land in the side of a snowbank, three
Feet from the freeway. Fog on the road, white house
Conditions. Watch out everyone! And you can stop
Blowing your horns. We know!