Long Spatter Poems
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What are they doing? I cautiously asked.
The magnificent mighty-mighty-cheesiest-cheese dance, she whispered, and do not get too close.
Frenzied children were throwing each other on the ground, dragging friends around, making trails.
Throwing cheese at their parents, who were laughing, nervously, in an unrelaxed way.
Their grandparents were at the picnic tables too, discussing whose offspring’s offspring was the cutest,
The smartest, the most cordial, the happiest, the best.
A flying cheese sandwich went winging past Grandpa Joe’s nose. He put his hand up and caught it with a baseball mitt that was covered with cheese.
“You aren’t eating that!” Grandma said, sternly, but then he cut the cheese
And pointed at grandma, and everyone started laughing so hard,
They forgot to watch the children, who were now covering their slightly annoyed pets with cheese puffs, cheese sprinkles, and cheese sauce.
“Not in his eyes!” one of the parents yelled.
Someone else cut the cheese, and it all began again. They announced there was a tie for cheese queen,
So two of the grandmas began to wrestle on top of a hunk of a cheeseburger for the title, which was difficult as there was so much slippery, sliding cheese sauce on the ground.
The cheese queen contest was a tie when they both ended up gloriously covered, and still came up
Laughing. Another successful Mighty-Mighty-Cheesiest-Cheese Festival in Cheese-ville!
Unfortunately, they were so cheesy, the cats got them one by one as they left the mouse hole.
The good news is, their pet ants, cautiously slunk away in the spatter of cheese, unscathed.
RAINDROPS
Each and every raindrop plays its part
In a shower, or a torrential downpour
Do we know if they have a pointed tip
Or just a sphere, either shape will drip
Pure water in an innocent world before
Now slightly acidic, tasting faintly tart
When landing they spatter and coalesce
On windows, running down in a rivulet
And yet it’s worth looking to the skies
Letting all the raindrops wash the eyes
Be assured, all surfaces will soon be wet
Being caught in the rain can cause stress
The pitter patter of rain on a metal roof
Sometimes a comfort for the ill at ease
It breaks the grim silence of desperation
For the anxious, a source of frustration
Warm or cold, timely rain can still please
So stand and be welcoming, never aloof
Rolling, brushing and sand with fury
Does the house look lovely?
Its gone to the jury.
Spilled five gallons on the brand new rug
Scream and holler and grab the dog
Throw him in and his paws a clatter
"Lady your dog," and his prints a spatter
Joe his twin he is a plumber
"Hope she hasn't got our number!"
Goof off,gunk off and clean the carpet
"That lady was keen but not the sharpest."
Paint with beauty and fast the pace
Just paint it , paint it , but have no fear
Does it look fine,"why you gonna live here?''
House of wonder but the yards a moat
"Mam we gave your dog a second coat."
"Base of white with spots a great sensation"
"Look at him now he's a Dalmatian"
"Grab your coats and grab your hats"
"We spilled some more better grab the cat"
PS... these are true stories of events that have occurred for my friend Duke who owns a painting business in Philadelphia that I work and worked for in the past. Some are Urban legends but some I have witnessed... Patrick
I love to sketch with a pen and ink;
to feel the flow of the lines that I think;
as they pour their way down my arm to my hand
and softly on the parchment land.
I love to sketch the shadows deep,
as from hand to pen point they creep.
The joy of all the special nibs;
My pen will use; the page to fill.
Oh how Muse does love the ride,
as down my arm and pen she slides;
her words of wisdom, gushing forth,
like rain drops spatter on my porch.
The rhythm of the curvatures;
the notes that play, they will ensure,
A lovely drawing, revealed to me
I’ll dive into its reverie.
2-1-19
For: "Hobbies Poetry Contest"
sponsored by Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
water is part of my very existence
it is within me and all around me in different configurations
in the rainwater that drips and flows upon my windows
drizzle in the night and my tears that fall forming teardrops
in puddles after a summer storm
the dew on my flowers of morning dripping in the sun
in different drinking glasses, my bathtub, my saliva,
an ice cube melting growing smaller
a spill, a spatter, a sprinkle, a dribble
the lakes, rivers, streams, oceans and seas
pools and fountains and waterfalls, fish tanks and fish ponds
the great northern glaciers shifting and moaning
melting and flooding the ocean changing the world's architecture
a drop in the ocean spreading and spreading
waves crashing on a shore endlessly
and foam gathering, misty
snow falling in intricate snowflake patterns
the contour of ice icicles
frost freezing on my windows in filigree shapes
a snowman melting in spring
___________________
June 15, 2021
Poetry/Free Verse/water is life
Copyright Protected, ID 06-1363-599-15
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
In this my own midnight of temporary madness
awash in the anxieties of fearsome chasing shadows
the sheets are hot
the pillow no longer cold on either side
the clock switches gears
rotates sideways...torques
flips back...and then shakes
parts spatter the blue canvas ...across the red screen
a sudden vastness of wash and clime befalls me
shearing me
down down.... down into sand so deep I am Atlantis' lover
fingers of time's hand flicker across my lost perspective
move me...like ticking magma across
the broken shells of my once so beautiful breakfast hour
it oozes over dainty lunch...then dashes dinner plates
confusion has fallen on this...my mid day mind...made me madder still than midnight
and kookier than my lover can stand
he groans audibly from across the house
Where am I going now?...this changes everything
the use of linen table clothes and plate sizes
have ceased to hold weight and matter
and this my lovely broken tea cup is no longer bad karma
it is an old dear beloved friend
from whom I never ever wish to be parted
On the sunset porch, I spatter my breath.
Return the favor so that can fulfill my task.
I'm merely observing people passing through.
Continue speaking with sleazeball lips.
Remnants of alive memories.
Sing to amply demonstrate the dedication.
Thusly, overcome with the eager desire to sob.
I cleave to the pieces of dead maps you are grasping.
On the grounds that I entered the hole to steep it.
As well, mutiny spread in all banausic ways.
I'm crouching beneath the wishing arbor, as you can view.
My most fervent hopes are being warped in odd angles.
To the wondrous strains of a mournful tune.
My heart expresses a desire for raw skin.
In the folds of the reach, light candles of wonder.
My mind is brimming with gloomy shades.
Arrange for the upheaval of gray memory strands.
I applaud my post-injury morality.
And I recall this to the best of my cognitive ability.
That is all in a proper sense.
On saddle cushions, I slept properly.
I buried you on your own holy patch of land.
Nobody grasps me in this squandering.
Nobody compares to my image in mirrors.
Written: February 16, 2022
We sleep on each other,
lick on each other,
run around and nip on each other,
we are wholly 'each other,'
personalities
hid
in the ruff and fur around our necks
and the snaggle of our teeth.
We wag in unison
heart-timers synchronized.
When out in the big smell
we seek every scent
that sprout's
from the muddy baths and the great
wafting sky-waves that call to our blood
to come join,
come lope and snuffle.
The trails of other's drives us crazy,
we roll in bundles of ecstasy,
squat, squirt and snap at the thick odiferous airs
then inhale the news from every rump
we greet.
Under our skittering paws
leaf and grass, spatter and scatter
as we charge into each other.
What are these leaves of grass?
Each one could be a page
in poem of sniff and scratch.
The wind threads through our snouts
and we shake our heads
until our brains rattle in wonder.
Old Walt Whitman forgets to mention us,
but deep within his far pacing musings
we are there like an itch.
When he pauses his pen to nap and dream
our breathy huff huffiness
tickles his toes.
Playing in the rain
Stomping in the mud
little boy Bob laughs.
It is so much fun
free as a Lark.
Tiring of this game
through the house he plods
leaving patterned footprints
of black sticky mud.
Mother frowns upon the mess
accepting it as a test
of her love for little boy Bob.
Next he picks up his crayons
mixes colors on the wall
Lions leap big and tall
cattle grazing on the knoll.
A spatter of paint here and there
leave colorful spots on them all.
Little Bob, oh little boy Bob
mother cries.
you are a trial to me,
you top them all
a test of faith you are
May God forever help us all.
THE FALL
On a distant hill far away
Mirage like birds twitter
Like a traveler engrossed in voyages
A rattling of leaves and no tinge
In olden conventional ways of the people
A snake rattle is a forebode
A drop taps into a spatter
And the traveler grossly enmeshed into his journey
Lovers too hewn their own caves resident
Carving out a voyage into the heart
And drops percolate into the sordid earth
Of hearts and no hurts
In anticipated hangovers into be comings
The lest is worthwhile
Like a youthful river
A farmer heeds to natures instinctive rhythms
Others, and the traveler too
Have nothing of a cause raise eye brow
And there will be a catastrophic flood
Perceived with a prophetic eye
Whose gusto is invincible?
Just as it would be
When a chasm is evident
And lovers would part ways
Or like a traveler lost in whereabouts
In a retrogress and introspection
Is a rule elusive to the rational grasp
An imminent verve
That has finally
Made the hut crumble