Long Teacup Poems
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The attic is creaky and full of dust,
but, I just pretend it is my stardust;
I love playing tea party with my pets,
they sit as I recite my alphabets !
At the table is Willy a huge dog,
black and white fur such a gentle lapdog;
and a pretty tabby cat named Annie,
and one cat called Smarty owned by Granny !
Licking her tea is my fat cat Happy,
a tabby cat who can be quite snappy;
and last sitting on a chair is Teddy,
oh, my teddy bear is always ready !
Sometimes, I bring my dolls but not today,
I told them that on the bed they must stay;
love how light from a window likes to shine,
making the specks of dust drift so divine !
I tell my guests about all the great stuff,
in old trunks that I would find soon enough;
dresses and jewelry to play dress up,
oh, Teddy did I forget your teacup !
_________________________
November 1, 2021
Poetry/Rhyme/Tea Party in the Attic
Copyright Protected, ID 11-1403-056-01
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Rhyme Me A Poem 2
sponsor, Eve Roper, Image inspiration #4
First Place
In July, the sun mocks me—burning bright,
yet I shiver in corners, wrapped in fright.
The air is warm, the world is gold,
but something ancient, cold, takes hold.
A voice from the mirror whispers my name,
the walls are breathing, they play a game.
Shadows crawl like thoughts I hide,
my mother’s eyes in the ceiling slide.
I light a candle—no warmth, no glow,
just flickers of memories I’d rather not know.
Did I lock the door, or was that a dream?
The teacup laughed. The faucet screamed.
A child cries in my spine each night,
clutching Oedipus too tight.
Paranoia, hallucination, the soul's disguise—
I freeze beneath a summer sky,
and truth, like ice, lives behind the eyes.
Hey, come to the bay
When the night closes
Roses beside the waters
And the ocean-laughter
We will collect
And resurrect the room
For the two getting lost
Into the golden puzzle
Hey, come to the sunrays
Playing with the bun
Holding the bursting hair
Inviting for a share
Of the teacup tales
Of the awesome ale
Sails of little boats
Hey, let's ride and play
Hey
Black coats and
gagged throats
Run away
The lips of starlight
Calling to play
The fall they
show all blue and gray
Hey leave all blurbs
It's the night for raw herbs
Miles of sharp curves
Nile under stylish rain
Let's paint our pain
Again and again
The nocturnal lips to say
Hey
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The attic hums with ghosts of feet,
a trail of soft, lost whispers so sweet
The wallpaper peels like ancient skin,
revealing maps where time has been.
A teacup left in midnight’s grip,
still waiting—as if just from the lip
of someone who turned out the light
and stepped into the sheer of night.
The floorboards creak a coded name,
the dust conspires to hide the blame.
No clock ticks here, yet shadows climb
the stairs, in sync with stolen time.
And if you listen—really strain~
you’ll hear the house breathe once again:
a sigh that bends the candle’s glow
toward the door left long ago.
Some say it’s wind. I know it’s more.
The latch still waits. The hinge still mourns.
a related memoir vignette can be read at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/the_stranger_in_the_box_13607
The politicians and globalists plopped us in a teacup.
Feeding us the sugary crumbs of their lies.
Stuffing us teabags below the boiling waterline.
Keep banging your tambourine, blue-haired boy.
Smoking that sweet government dope.
They want you soapy brained to keep you on the rope.
Wear your hippie T-shirts; nobody is looking or listening.
War is a metal monkey-swinging from a money tree.
War is a lemon squeezed from the misery of the masses.
The machine is built to grind down our peace mountain.
It is fueled by a never-ending supply of greed and sorrow.
Someday the cup will blister and crack.
The masses will spill out to eat the marrow of their misery.
Drinking the blood of the giver of crumbs and sorrow.
(FICTION, PLEASE. It is easy for me to write in the first person, but nearly all my poems are fiction. Please don't attribute this poem to me. I loved my wife to distraction. For ten years she was sick and I cared for her like a baby. My only regret is that the ambulance which took her away would not allow me to be driven with her. I knew she would die and she would have wanted me near her despite her dementia. We were lovers. I don't know where I got this old poem of mine, but it is still fiction.)
Shifting relentless time,
sand in hourglass trickles slowly
towards its final hour.
Pretending I care not,
I bask in the sun,
enjoy mellow breezes,
I wait; the end will come.
The sky is clear, my mind is not,
in truth I am distraught,
echoes of a distant past
ripple through my futile thoughts
reminding me of your last visit.
Now you stir in your desolate grave.
My listless life is at a crossroads.
I hover in a vicious vacuum,
remember all the senseless shame,
slide after seamy slide recalled,
all your wants and needs
which I demonically and cruelly denied
despite the reparable ways,
you made my fantasies would not come true.
Now it is too late.
Frustrations tear my sinful soul,
I lie bound in a wicked web,
I'll drink my teacup of remorse
tomorrow is another curious chance:
I pray for spiritual rebirth.
"The more enlightened our houses are, the more their walls ooze ghosts."-
Italo Calvino
We moved into an inherited old house with a friendly ghost,
our house is an old Victorian built along the mid coast.
Our ghost is not threatening, scary, or causes any fears,
We believe she is the lady of the house and has been for years.
We first noticed her strong scent of lilacs filling the room,
while outside there were no lilacs or flowers in bloom.
We have awoken to smells of tea and freshly baked apple pie,
and often find her teacup on the counter left clean and dry.
She can be a prankster and will sometimes hide our house keys,
we frantically search and then suddenly find them with ease.
She also moves our clothes, pillows and takes our old shoes,
we are not sure why but think she’s keeping herself amused.
Our young grandson came over one weekend to stay overnight,
and told us he met the sweet lady in his room dressed in white.
That weekend he screamed as he fell over the banister railing,
panicked as we ran down expecting to find him hurt and wailing.
He was smiling as he sat perfectly upright in an empty plant pot,
and said the old lady caught him as he fell and put him in this spot.
We were relieved he was not hurt, did not have a scrape or a scratch,
and thanked our ghost lady of the house for her life saving catch!
2/23/23
Contest: Writing Challenge - G Words- Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
( checked with rhymezone)
* This is a fictional poem but based on an experience I had as a child. We lived in a haunted home. I was four years old and fell over the banister. My parents found me sitting upright in a plant pot, not injured. For years I have wondered if I was helped to safety by a ghost.
Death is a best friend
she visits often to dissolve old cells
tweak dioxyribonucleic acids
carrying silver sword and bamboo pipe
to draw breath, pointing to moon
caped in indigo velvet with hood
her whispers are silent breath on
white pillow
I invite her to sit on my bed
she admires an octagonal quilt red
removing her cape, accepting offering
of camomile tea, her eyes smiling hollows hyena, warrior, eagle, dung beetle
all at once, elegantly slow she settles
closer, fingering my ears, cold breezes
ripple down my legs
With sidelong glance she asks :
“So what is your claim to fame ?”
I reply : “I know not a name. Fame is
a shadowy flame, an orange-purple
one flickering to become lame.
All the same, I claim to be the highest
version of what Source intended
nothing more, nothing less.
This is free fame, oxygenated.
That is my game, if insane, let it not
be a shame, or a blame.”
Smiling, she asks next : “How have
you helped fellow humans ?”
I reply : “With Pluto Sun squared as
a dominant in my Chart, I undertook to
integrate escaping gloom into Light for
Self and others. As God granted Ketu
long periods of rulership over my form
I pulped Self in backwaters, where
angels fear to tread, to be a Presence
for fellow humans.”
Her hollow eyes with high cheekbones
move closer to my face. Sipping from floral teacup, fingers spindly, she asks :
“How erect will your spine be before
THE ALL ?”
I reply : “Not as erect as when I practiced kundalini and hatha yoga, though I detect
zero regrets, bereft of debts, slate clean
as an uncooked bean.”
Laughing, she replies that Divinity
will be pleased with my use of poetics
whispering : “Know that your spine will
revert to 21 years when I draw your
breath into mine, to gently carry to
Divine. You will sway on your way
into a ringlet bay of rosy everlasting days.
17 more good cheer years, hear my Dear.”
I watch quick footsteps across the
garden path. A thoughtform follows
slender caped back : “My claim to fame
is to be what HE-SHE desires me to be
~ Co-Creator of my own destiny.”
Next time Death visits, I will word it this way.
__________________
*[new form: L&N : Letters and Numbers]
Mister Joe, would-be muse,
jangles loose change in his pockets.
Each tiny clang sets forgotten cupboards humming.
Forgotten thoughts spring up, without asking.
Memories jog the journey while he's walking.
The kettle whistles before; the teacup understands.
Old riddles wash, rinse, tumble, and spin.
Rhymes peg themselves upon invisible lines.
The breeze flaps fresh ideas, hung out to dry.
"Finished the laundry, Mister Joe?"
The washing hangs bone-dry on the line.
He gathers the clothes, fluffs them loose.
Now the creases know exactly where to hide.
By dusk, his pockets have quietly grown heavier.
Loose change is dressed in freshly laundered clothes.
Every coin now sounds suspiciously like poems.
Next morning, he empties his pockets, onto the page.....
Sorting the jangles, line by line.
He wants to cast jangles and clangs,
into the minds of his readers, if they'll listen.
To show enough, but to leave enough unsaid.
He wants his words to fish where quiet memories sleep.
Each image leaves another mouth half wide open.
So the reader finds footprints before finding feet.
And a mirror quietly longing, to become a window.
The catch is prodded, puzzled - shaken and stirred.
Some readers smile; some simply stop and stare.
Each little clang becomes another hidden key.
Unlocking rooms he never knew were waiting there.
The poem, once written, quietly triggers,
jingles rattling in the readers' pockets.
Coming home with someone else's change.
For a poem is more than the bell a poet rings~
It is the echoes awakening in waiting bells.
The page is turned... the reader keeps on jingling.
The reader keeps on jingling.
The reader keeps on jingling.
In Ordinary Cups
The blades of winter grind into the ice
like blood on a bitten lip
two lovers spin and twirl
The days pass from teacup to teacup
in the peaceful silence of a solitary nest.
From gentle easy sunrise through sheer white
to the subtle fall of accordion night.
The echoes of childish laughter tremble
across the cracked surface of plaster walls.
Random squeaks in oaken floors return
the footfall of father, coming and going.
Long lost cat's paw prints impress carpet
dragons from Shanghai with ghostly ease,
and every loved and loving one returns
in peace, to rest beneath the tapping fingertips
upon a porcelain cup of tea from China.
11/9/10
Re-formed for Roy the Verse BELOW
The Teetotaler
The blades of winter grind into the ice, flirting
with the rosy cheek of puppy love, snow-crusted mittens
cling, like chapped skin on bitten lips; scarfs twirl; they spin.
As steam rises from the cup, reminisce, the first kiss,
across swamp-grass hummocks, rotten ice, lace tripping
with the rosy cheek of puppy love; snow crusted mittens
cling. Black hair, fair skin, Irish-eyed, he cajoles a grin.
In the steam, not the leaves, she remembers him
across swamp-grass hummocks, rotten ice, lace tripping;
they spin. Assam seeps in porcelain, another cup
she pours. In an empty nest the cup clinks saucer,
in the steam, not the leaves, she remembers him.
From sunrise through fall of white, she sees the mist
falling accordion-like into chinks of memory.
She pours. In an empty nest, the cup clinks saucer.
The recollections of youthful laughter cut, tremble,
across the cracked surfaces of her mind's walls
falling accordion-like into chinks of memory.
Random squeaks in the oaken floors recall returns,
these images mist swirl from the tea-of family,
across the cracked surfaces of her mind's walls.
A long lost cat walks shrouded through silent the scene
in peace, they rest beneath her tapping fingertips
these images mist-swirl from the tea-of family,
Every loved and loving one returns mist-born
within a porcelain cup of tea from China;
in peace, they rest beneath her tapping fingertips.
3/21/15