Long Tufts Poems
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In the terrain of deplorable deprivation manifest
in the wasteland of wretched desertion,
the obscure tufts of the subdued slender grass
struggle to rise through the cleavage of stony destiny.
The frail faces shaping the artifacts of spiteful fate,
flicker with the fading smile of residual innocence,
borrowed from the remnant rays of the forsaken sun,
already sunk in the depth of their desolate dark horizon.
The children when they should bloom like flowers,
wander withered to nowhere, uncared and soiled
in the harsh squall of the juvenile servile servitude
under the unbound sky lacking the flair of freedom.
The infantile dewdrops devoid of pristine patina
no longer bejewel the puerile grass of our meadows.
Tarnished by the grime of our malevolent times
the deranged dreams of disowned dew dry premature.
In the twilight hour on the penultimate journey,
I wish I could give the last rays of my setting sun,
suffused with the spectrum of embellishing empathy,
to the relics of the dewdrops so they can glow awhile.
For their innocent smile not to desiccate in inimical world
one thing we need to change is stop their exploitation,
show the dispossessed children of the lesser God
the pearly dreams of unblemished dew that never die.
A tranquil silence hovers
over the arroyo canyons
after the winter rain.
Dewdrops sparkle
like liquid fireflies
delicately shimmering
in the morning light.
I walk through drenched paths
enveloped by cool, musty smells
and revel in the stark serenity.
Tufts of verdant green grass
peak up around moss speckled
mosaic rocks and branches.
Traversing through leafless trees
I see hints of wildflowers
shyly showing off their bright colors.
I hear cheery twitters
of finches and sparrows
and soothing sounds
of a gurgling creek
trickling over slippery river rocks.
Thin, colorless clouds
streak across the distant gray blue sky
a few dead trees stand
in contrast to the muted background
of winter’s faded pallet.
Oh, to marvel in nature’s glory
a daily treasure, often overlooked
yet a joy to those who discover it anew.
Written on 2/1/2019
Some people call a dandelion a weed,
but to me it is a pretty wildflower indeed.
With yellow petals at the top of each one,
like golden rays just like the sun.
Blooming like stars in the meadows and grass,
bigger, bigger and bigger as hot days pass.
Under the rain clouds or bright blue skies,
they are visited by insects and butterflies.
Then, all of a sudden one day,
they fold up their petals and the yellow tumbles away.
And instead they now have fluffy tufts delicate and white.
so fragile, lovely and light.
They send flying the fluffy tufts in the wind happily freed,
oh, each one is a new dandelion seed.
Soon they find a place to grow and grow,
sending their roots deep into the soil below.
New buds in no time open to the sky,
and soon we find yellow wildflowers growing high.
Now you can make a yellow bouquet for mommy,
or daddy or even your sweet gran-mommy.
________________________
March 6, 2021
Poetry/Nursery Rhyme/Dandelion
Copyright Protected, ID 03-1334-406-06
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Nursery Rhyme
sponsor, Eve Roper, Judged 03/11/2021
First Place
In a land full of fancy and fun, I will try,
To spin you a yarn that will float and then fly.
With words that will bounce and then skip and then hop,
A tale of a fellow, right here, at the top.
His name was Ned Fuddle, a very odd man,
With fuzz on his chin, the color of span-
-akopita filling, all green and quite grey,
He’d wake up at noon and start his odd day.
He wore on his head a tall hat, soft and red,
With three tiny bells that would jingle and shred
The silence with Ting-a-ling, Clang, and a Boing,
A sound that made all of the neighbors avoid
His yard, where he grew the most curious things,
Like Putter-Puff Petals and Zingy-Wing Springs.
His house wasn’t normal; it wasn’t quite straight,
It leaned to the left, which the mailman would hate.
The windows were bubbly, the door round and purple,
The chimney let out a whoosh and then a gurple.
He’d wake up and say, with a stretch and a yawn,
“The sniggle-snuff day has begun with the dawn!
I’ll find my Glick-Glide and my best walking stick,
And give it a flick and a flip and a quick
Little tap on the ground, to see what would pop out,
A Grizzwald? A Splatter? A shy little Sprout?”
He’d walk with a skip and a thump and a whack,
A musical pattern, a rhythm to track.
His Glick-Glide would shimmer, all silver and bright,
And summon strange creatures from morning till night.
There were Zizzers and Zazzers, with stripes long and black,
Who’d zoom all around with a loud Clickity-Clack!
And three-toed Gleep-Gleepers, who would sit and stare,
With eyes big as saucers and tufts of green hair.
Ned Fuddle would giggle, “Oh, what a fine view!
The world is alive! It is shining and new!
It’s brimming with wonder, with wiggle and fizz,
The best kind of day that there probably is!”
He’d sit on a mushroom, a great big blue ‘shroom,
And play his own flute, with a Toot and a Vroom.
The music would float through the air, sweet and clear,
A sound that would banish all worry and fear.
So if you feel gloomy, or glum, or quite cross,
Remember Ned Fuddle, the world’s strangest boss,
Of sillies and sillies, of wiggles and jigs,
Who danced with the Zizzers, and Gleepers, and pigs,
And knew in his heart, from his hat to his shoe,
That feeling’s quite happy is the best thing to do!
I sit rolled in a corner
Almost forgotten
Quietly ignored
Crimson velveteen tufts
Densely packed
Underlay visible
Obscuring the majesty
Only ever ceremoniously unfurled
When dignitaries visit
The streets I cover
Usually covered in dust
Dirty and dank
Freshly cleaned
To impress and fool
In the fetid air
The tang of fresh paint
Dingy corners spruced
The homeless ushered away
Children beautifully laundered
Flowers lavishly garlanded
Overflowing bins emptied
So when I am laid out
And smart soles
Tread on my blushing fibres
The illusion is complete
And with my presence
The bare truth hidden
Fleetingly…
Till they have gone
And I am rolled away
Then in my absence
The putrid decay
Of real life resumes
The air slowly fills
with curly pungent wafts of steam
billowing up from a
hot freshly brewed cup of coffee.
Raising the baton to
conduct the dawn chorus
of bird songs and plans
mulled to begin.
I love to see and feel
the ringlet tufts of steam
getting up my nose, blurring and
opening up my eyes,
like a curtain raise,
to conduct the symphony to begin.
The trills and tweets,
chirps and cheeps,
whistles and trills,
caws and chortles,
are all entwined and garnered
in the first sips, of the first cuppa,
taken at wake of day.
The steam and songs
unspool a cotton thread of
memories and reflections,
hopes and fears,
to be weft, warped,
shuffled and shuttled,
through the loom
to weave the coming day.
I recline with my cherry tree musings…
a fount of blossoms rise
and curve up from the ground
up into a heaven-and-cloud scene
to spread in splendor a festoon of blooms
like cumulus-puffs plucked from above
placed in tufts to fluff graceful branches
plush with clusters the pink of an ingenue’s
blush captured within her maiden buds
before she even knew how to bloom
born of Nature’s wealth
she is rich with frilly flourish
steeped in scent of morning dew —mist and moss
heaped with pollen-gold pursed within
petal-pouches 'til unfurled like hooped petticoats
each bloom thriving with a thrill yet only for the span
of a brief fantasy conjured by the cosmos
she wears the fuchsia mantle of a romance regent
a spring queen amongst peasant green
but her reign not designed to last beyond
the swoon of April's rouged moon
..and I the lowly grateful grass beneath her class
am charmed and soothed
by the aestheticism of her coral confetti rain
as her flowers relinquish control
reaching into their shared soul
realizing it’s time to let go… falling
oh f a l l i n g from heights of her feminine fame—
a shower of rosy carnival streamers
—the curtain call of a nirvana-drama-diva
..and I the lowly grateful grass beneath her shade
am humbled by the melancholy of her fading beauty
but cheered to wear her eye catching mantle
and bear her vanilla scented love letters to the earth
transforming me
from the peasantry of chlorophyll unfulfilled
transforming me
from the mundane to the ordained
for in this moment as you gaze upon me
these staid blades of gravestone grass —even I
am e n c h a n t i n g as the last petal falls
He noticed something rather curious in photos of past generations,
That seemed so rife among the male gender of his relations.
All his forebears were hirsute deprived, or bald if you will.
If this was an omen of things to come, him it didn't thrill!
At age twenty-three he sported shaggy, golden locks,
As thick and curly as that of an Asian wild ox.
He nourished his crop with pomades and tender, loving care,
Hoping he could forever keep that beautiful head of hair!
For some reason at age thirty-eight his forehead did expand,
And tufts of hair clogged his comb - this he didn't understand.
He spent hours before the mirror arranging his sparse tresses,
And in this having little success, just added to his stresses!
A shiny patch of skin mysteriously appeared upon his crown,
And around his ears little was left but wispy clumps of down.
At age fifty-two he had no further need for brush or comb.
There wasn't a trace of hair to be found upon his glossy dome!
For his plight he bought a "rug" (more delicately put, a toupee),
But his friends said he looked ridiculous so he tossed it away.
"Bald is beautiful and so provocative", he'd often heard it said.
Still, he hid his gleaming skull 'neath a snappy chapeau instead!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
I keep a box of memories
it’s safely tucked away
but now and then and then again
I bring it out to play
a marble here a matchbook there
and pictures one or two
of things I’ve done and wars I’ve won
and yes there's one of you
my father’s broken pocket watch
my mother’s broken dreams
my sons first tooth, a letter home
and empty space it seems
oh yes sweetheart I see them now
the feathers gold and blue
I marked them with the day and date
of nineteen ninety two
and here's the twigs I kept for you
from your father's nest
and tufts of down to comfort you
from your mother's breast
and yes sweetheart I understand
I dearly love you too
and if I could I’d spread my wings
and fly away with you
Snuggles a cat,
that I love to pieces, pieces;
she is adorable and sort of fat,
our love only increases.
And it never decreases no matter the years,
oh, I adore the tufts on the end of her ears;
sometimes, suddenly she appears-
she likes to chat.
She is light grey,
with long fur that likes to tangle;
she sleeps a lot, meows, eats and likes to play,
watching TV- a toy I dangle.
She lays real close beside me on the bed at night,
and I often listen to her snores of delight;
in the morn' her purr is so polite-
squeaky mice her prey.
______________________________
September 27, 2019
Poetry/Rhyme/I Love Her To Pieces, Pieces
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1219-711-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, My Companion and
Close Friend That Never Complains (new/old)
sponsor, Eve Roper
First Place