322.
The Philippine Eagle: A Monument
Behold the Philippine Eagle, King of Birds!
The tallest eagle, terror of monkey herds
Its crest stands tall like a rooster on the roll
Hear its vibrant, authoritative call
Like a mythical griffin, it has the cover of a lion
That's why in our nation it's called “Haribon”.
Discovered by a man from United Kingdom
The faithful, monogamous Haribon (King of Birds) is only from
The Philippines, my country…a valiant country
First known to Europeans in our year of gallantry
When our national hero, Rizal, was brutally slain
By our first conqueror – the kingly Spain
This glorious bird is our monument of courage
A living emblem of our struggle for golden age
Its dignified countenance on our coin chiseled
So splendid & adorable like a handsome young man muscled
The starring on our national basketball team's logo
This is our national bird – adore, preserve & lo!
-01/27/2015
(Dumarao)
*Defense of the Animals Collection
QUEEN Afareen designed a perfume bottle
she herself exuded a scent of untainted ambergris, orris wafted as her heavenly cue
lime with jasmine spritz her exuberant brew
a black swan neck curved crystal female form
this bottle crafted in alexandrite, mirroring her
pharaoh shaped silhouette, gold sun rays embedded facade, stopper of opal warm
ruby inlays rested languidly at bottle base
slivers of pearl and aquamarine laced
replica of Aphrodite she encased in Myanmar teak, sculpted with elk ivory, reclining bottle
in Muga silk before a river lilting lily wattle
then gifted herself her own bottle, liquid tomb
nimble fingers twisting opal top for perfume
her unique irreplaceable exuding essence
imperceptibly drifting reverent presence
drinking the last undistilled drops from
edenic perfume bottle, QUEEN Afareen
extinguished herself gracefully into muscled
arms of Adonis, as bottle drifted downstream
towards turquoise ocean emptied, beamed
a sorrowed counterploy buried, it screamed
____________
An Ice Fishing House, Abandoned, in Need of Repair
That same shed waits
by the trees.
Waits on its skids
for the lake to freeze,
and the for the creaking
joints of bickering
stoop-shouldered men
as they push it out to the center
of a pool of glass.
It houses the stories of fishing
in winter, pulling sustenance,
wriggling, through chiseled
portals into another realm.
Old men would wait
like death, slow,
their breath
turning to steam
until they could abduct
their prey from the world below.
Trout would flop
with the thickness of a muscled fist,
striking ice like distillery rage unhinged.
They would twist and corkscrew,
mottled black and silver slapping
the frozen pane of the lake,
waiting for suffocation to take them,
as the old men drifted up in
the steam of twice-warmed coffee,
and the willow-the-wisp exhalations
of ribald stories, retold, and finally forgotten.
A spring poem
I try to write a poem since it is the first of Mars
The spring sun was looking huge, but not for long
A black cloud bigger than the sun muscled in
Stop! You are trying to write a poem, not tell us
About the weather, but since you are at it did
the cloud shed cold rain
I can’t say, I was indoors in my bedroom looking out
a poet never arises before noon
joy and sadness tangled fate
one came home extremely late
my gleeful sons rods in hand deceitful river, fish they planned
shifting forest running free
twisting turns among the trees grinning water spies the meal
two young boys come to heel
laughing, spinning noonday sun
they bait their hooks in hopes of fun jumping floating rock to rock
follows the stream with no dock
fluidic arm grasps the child
muscled water river wild
lost in waves shifting death
small boy lost, weight and breath
searching, yelling, hoping, praying darkling dusk a night in making silent moan, shifting white
brought my son to my sight.
along the banks among the trees
lay my boy who coughed and wheezed
in my arms my son returned
the memory forever burned
love, live in moments they say
So often time just slips away
my sons they grew
thank god for two
could have been one...
or none
Vendetta machine scammed me again.
I put in a buck fifty for a dime's worth of chocolate.
It responded with nothing but disgust.
The metal hook just wouldn't let the package go.
Wiggling it in front of my greasy nose
Like a pugilist in his muscled prime.
I quickly struck the metal man from both sides.
left right-left right...
Then a quick jab
to its laughing glass eye.
I tried rocking it
front to back, front to back.
It looked like a drunkard
wobbling along a broken railroad track.
But the metal hook still held fast.
At my mental end and out of breath.
I stuffed a wad of toilet paper in its metal grin.
To warn others of the sugar scam within.
A co-worker rounded the corner and bubbled "happy Monday".
Ditto, I grumbled...walking quickly away.
Without the blessing of a chocolate bar.
You sighed...
... but none heard.
You were angry,
Met only with stares from innocent minds.
... Then you cried
In the mystique of the night,
Muffled sobs escaping to the horizon.
You longed for the company of a muscled arm,
More than sympathy from tale bearers.
You wished for a warm bed on winter’s morn—
... but there was none.
Like the runaway proverbial son,
He abandoned you for another,
Leaving in his wake four likenesses of himself.
Snapping Turtle
Brawny and mean,
The reptile is seen
Oozing out of the mire
Like a prehistoric monster.
The snapper stares
While smelling the air,
Keenly attentive
For lurking predators.
A thick-muscled neck
Poised to stretch
With beak agape that says,
“Keep your distance!”
Because it cannot retract
Its head far enough back
To protect it from enemies
And so it snaps at everything.
The turtle claws at the dirt in front,
Pulling itself to where it’s going,
Dragging its spiked tail along
The ground in slow motion.
Aspen leaves flutter like birds
as a breeze ponders the lake's surface
and I brush away a willow leaf of cold jade.
Soon there will be a face in the moon
with its familiar brow arched
over what should be cornflowers
now residing beyond the lambent braids
of feral rye and muscled hillocks.
A miracle in cerulean sprouts in distant concrete,
a bluebell behind a sheet of glass,
unaware of the secret I share with wildflowers,
nor a memory of snow where appeared
an epiphany of morning glories.
I stumbled a dandelion kiss
to be blown on one's lashes, but it disappeared
in a gust of diesel smoke, the shriek of pads
on brash steel.
The rings of felled dogwoods measure seasons
cyan skies ignore. Each spring revealed the promise
of lapis daisies, the rush of violets.
Late summer left barren spikes of amaryllis.
It's been many thaws since I awaited the shy crocus.
Posted 10/3/23
Meant to be humorous…Pangie
Dear Lord, only one sincere wish, I do ask.
And no it’s not for whiskey in a silver flask!
In the life in the awesome, world to come.
A muscled hockey player, I beg to become.
One, with courage and strength to fight.
And cheered on , by cherubim in starlight
A knitter of things,oy, I shall never be.
Just very joyful to crack a few knees!
Hope there will be a large red Zamboni!
After the game, requesting some Spumoni!
LIMERICKS NOT WRITTEN FOR A CONTEST
Men will slobber and drool when at the beach
Cuz bikinied women are out of reach
So eat your hearts out, men
For those girls you will yen
Fine women would consider you a leech
Men are enticed by girls with flat tummies
Though theirs are obese from eating yummies
They can keep dreaming
With beady eyes gleaming
Some of the male gender are such dummies
Men think of untying bikini strings
Of Victoria Secret girls with wings
They'd like to touch their tush
or better yet their.... shush!
Men want to do so many wicked things
Ogling girls clad in skimpy bikinis
Wishing they had three wishes from genies
Each one would be the same
Trying to UP their game
With enlargements for their teeny weenies
Turn about's always considered fair play
Many women would be glad for a lay
With a well muscled stud
Who would heat up her blood
Spendin' a lil time rollin' in the hay
What a beautiful fairy with a face like the sun
She winked at me and then left me to stun
I couldn't feel my breath, I felt none
I've been looking for my missing rib. I wish she was the one
Lost was I in an imagination of romance
How sweet it would be to kiss her at any chance
I felt her lips on mine as I held her in a dance
But she was so muscled that I groped in the dark askance
Yeah, as creamy and tempting it would seem
Hmm boy! It turned out, it was nothing but a dream
Because there was my brother, Johny Klein
hugging me tight with his face close to mine.
I dream of a painting . . .
a beautiful white stallion is galloping
the rider is native . . . muscled and handsome
with flowing hair
feathers entwined
he beckons from the frame . . . come
then, I am a native girl within
wearing a soft beaded doe skin dress
my hair is black as the night
we caress, caress
laying tangled in love
and I trace his battle scars
as he kisses my hair and lips
until, until
weeping my loss . . . I stand alone
in front of the painting
in my dream
_____________________
April 20, 2023
Poetry/Free Verse/a painting
Copyright Protected, ID04-1451-684-20
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Premiere contest, A Brian Strand Premiere Contest, No. 1210
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 04/22/2023
Second Place
Your bare bottom pounds as you glide
across the cloven countryside,
tresses lifting, buoyant breasts,
your stallion savages his breaths.
Pressing knees, you turn him wide,
Pull up below the rivers bridge.
You let him drink low and long
You sing to him a wild song
You lie on moss to bid him see
your treasure space once meant for me.
Withers shining, smoothed by sweat
perfumed where your bodies met,
he throws his head then steps away.
You think of something cruel to say
though not of him, your muscled pet
but of me, below the rivers bridge.
You step to him as if on air
You touch him with a lover’s care
You climb again, pull tight the reins
Then release your grip to run again.
On The Job
In the misty morning light
A parade of characters strolls on site.
I sit there at my portal gate
I check who is sick and those just late
I see burly men, some strapping teens,
lean muscled men in their tight blue jeans
They get right to work with no messing around
digging and plodding across the cold hard ground
As midday rolls on, they are surprising to me
how much work and commitment I see
Do they work for simple praise of job, well done?
Maybe sometimes, there is none
They work hard for families, bills, and cars
some even work for a few beers at the bars
When all their labor is finally through
that tall condo grew and grew
Their sweat and grit have made it shine
with owner's proud to say, it's mine!
After all, is said and done
We have to thank these guys a ton
I tip my cap and say a fond adieu
to this sweaty, dirty working crew
as they pass my gate in the setting sun
and all their toil and labor is done.
Mary Thompson
July 2022
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