I've carried time like a coffin — an eternity.
Feels heavier than dark gravity
Devotion that cruel peculiarity;
in me, it shattered — clarity
now it's just deathly polarity.
Structured, then... infirmity
Silence bloated with verbosity!
Thank you expendability
to reach low generality;
close my chest cavity
With immensurability,
blessed by fate's absurd
decree I kiss the
edge of certainty.
My unthinkability —
death offers no pity,
It's just a bullet
labeled tragedy.
To me...
Finally
My mom, she, when I was just three,
Would binge operas of soaps, and she
Tethered to the television, after her sail
Home from Pearl Harbor, would not fail
To hug and kiss our butterfly eyes and cheeks.
She’d store mama’s milk in freeze for weeks.
As we’d march off to church crammed in car,
Mom saw her binge as a sin and went as far
As to stop watching all three, especially as
We’d call them Mama’s Soaps. Her new jazz
Is God and the bible, and her church friends.
Some have kids our age. On weekends
We’d go to explore the beach, but then
We all moved and Mama said Amen.
My brother, once said, Mom, you’re not old enough to
knit and crochet. She said, Then how do we learn to?
Rolling eyes…as at some point, she
Started writing, took up poetry.
Those rolling eyes and whys, recorded for posterity,
She reads to us one, two, three - her peculiarity.
loose, lacy, white - a flowing blouse
the muse left clues in green-gray eyes
an outlier near the lighthouse-ocean
the seabreeze salty and windswept
foreshadowing of quill and paper
before she knew what to say
before the euphoria of surf
leapt up and touched her fingertips
before she learned to grasp
shadows and shapes, beyond the pale
moon and muted sun
dandelion seeds and towering
sunflowers kissed the blue sky
she’s a mere child, shy and unseen
seeded by the realm of poets
that came before her
the unknowns with journals
antique paper with vanishing ink
the poets with landscapes
that look out of their lighthouses
and see potential
perspicuity, peculiarity
themselves as a child
and open the window
let the little girl get a taste
of ebb and flow, pen and ink
SUPREMISTA malevich mondrian
a fifth dimension
white
upon white
hyper orthodox
pure&
absolute
in vigorous
peculiarity
Peculiar habit of the poet:
Search Pure Poetry
In nonexistent latitudes!
Between Iraq OEF and Afghanistan ISAF I did about 120 months OCONUS..
A peculiarity about Bagram Airfield which housed about 40,000 people, mostly US enlisted soldiers from all 5 groups and the off shoots.. Well, obviously there were a bunch of horny kids with high testosterone on both sides of the fence and sleazy third country nationals .. It was no secret that some of the fat s.kanks from the US Army were there to make a buck.. Most US enlisted person in uniform had to wear a reflector belt at all times, pigs that were selling it wore 'pink belts'... no one else would be caught dead.. These ' women ' made a pile of money.. From what i heard, $150 USD per throw.. these skanks, and there were hundreds, easily raked in five times there take home per day, minimum.. frankly i cant the blame them... good lord they were hideous..
I stung my glory to Dakar
Where I portray my lovely '66'
Without no more melancholy
I played to save me precious '66' in Dakar
Referred to as a ***** I stood my ground
Blossoming into the heights and
Portraying the ability of unseen peculiarity
I slander no more to the very angels of mortality
Now right at the heart of success I stung again
But this time I stung harder than ever
Paving way for the angels to freeze their visual mortality on my peculiarity
In their devil's box with two horns
I called unto my fellow
To surpass their thoughts
And stand on hills to crave for a trust
In their ***** by building virtues not of bust
In a place called the 'big black'
Let's come together and quench their mortal angel
For we are not mortal like angels
But we have a dignity to stand for
After and while we portray our '77'
The devil's eye box will always play our
Melodious themes for the angels to sing in their solemnity
I will always long to praise my '77'
Though the past has gone to the dust
And the youths know it no more
"I will live to stand my '77' for a greater forever"
What an unusual pragmatism conundrum.
We drum in our kids a sense of quantum.
Then, a few days later, we express our pain,
When we gaze on persons with the same stain.
We maintain tabs on the culprits responsible,
Similar views of the notion that we never boggle.
They also discuss the necessity for integrity.
Possibility of enduring unbearable agony.
Amidst all, we will mainly overlook the peculiarity.
There is a true cure for all our zealotry idiocy,
Our exquisite was driven to beauty, God's grace.
Over halcyon deeds, people in need, and peace.
We view a frail side within; it's a sort of plague.
There is no particular heal; thus, care is vague.
Written: November 25, 2021
All I do is be set in some form of pandemonium.
I'm sick of the same ripe, dull daily mind-numbing
How will I be urged if I lose my equilibrium?
Is life's symbiosis likely to be tedious scaling?
Everything appears to me to be rendered nugatory.
Similar to a grave where a covered body is decaying.
With a driven heart, I have for you high expectancy.
Since I induced the fantasies around your trembling.
What's extra, I hear you moaning in the wings, enunciation,
"I'm a long way from your stream; continue to scratch."
My heart is for the domain of passion, its constitution.
For what reason did you peruse it with a skewed outmarch.
Eros won't permit his sprouts to be stifled cautiously.
I opine he'll be revolted by your outrageous peculiarity.
Written: September 3rd 2021
prancing ponies of peculiarity
quintessential quips of quality
rapidly revitalize and rejuvenate me
showing sensitive shards of sincerity
transmogrifying tingling tangle of truth
underlying and unifying undying unity.
round as the world —
round and round we go...
a merry go ‘round, of
multicultural colors,
like chromatic ponies
on a carousel.
a slide puzzled
a brow —
“not possible,” says the baby teen.
possibly the craziest ex-cube
circumnavigates,
surrounds
the inner core
of happiness.
the slip and slide,
a splash of huge
smiles and sighs.
peculiarity of pixels,
a mixup tottered by a thumb,
exciting as a magic-8 ball,
skaken, assured
of endless challenges
computer never runs
out of fun.
1/3/2021
If the Rubik's cube was round Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kai Neumann
Trump- a man with peculiarity,
on the road to unpopularity;
he leaves a sad legacy,
Donald is all jealousy;
and he will be gone momentarily !
__________________________
November 21, 2020
Poetry/Limerick/A Sad Legacy
Copyright Protected, ID 11-1306-456-21
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Out on a Lim
sponsor, Joseph May, Judged 11/29/20
Second Place
It is said time moves ever onward…at a slow and steady climb…
but there is a wrinkle in that theory…a peculiarity in time.
The time that’s measured by our clocks marches forward…absolutely
The time that ages our once young bodies advances resolutely.
But there is a category, a kind of time that plays by different rules
defying all the lessons we once were taught in school.
It’s when old friends get together…for no matter how much time’s amassed
suddenly they are young again...as if time has never passed.
This is the wrinkle in the time continuum, a wrinkle all friends know
allowing them to pick up from where they left off years ago.
And for the time they’re back together…they feel a certain thrill
standing in a moment…where time is standing still…
If you want to see this wrinkle in time…it’s simple…
watch as old friends come together…then…
keep watching for the moment when they are young again.
Life is a salad bowl of failures-- too painful
It's sauce and drizzle is a cauldron of tears
More often bitter-- not swallowable
In order to digest, it takes years.
At times, it tastes tangy and sweet
Like an icing on top of a custard cake
Melts in your mouth, sweeps you off your feet
If consumed, ailment is what you take.
Yet, no matter how steamy the soup is
You savor it while hunger is lingering
The searing pain causes ironic bliss
But won't fill your whole being.
The peculiarity of defeat's aftermath
Brings forth horrendous trauma
Leaves you fully concealed of fear and wrath
Truly, life is mysteriously an enigma.
I don't, and probably won't
know the truth of her fate,
I don't know whether she left us,
but I do remember her well.
Tall, slim, quiet and shy,
I remember her deep orange hair,
and an awkward prettiness that grew.
But more than the sight of her,
and the lack of sound of her,
I remember a peculiarity.
She was there every day,
and then she was not there
almost every day.
Many I've seen since
and suddenly not seen since.
Each had their own story,
stories that I'll never know.
I don't, and probably won't
know the truth of their fate.
We chattered with amusement,
callous or unknowing,
when she appeared for a day at a time.
A day at a time,
two, maybe three times a year
for a year-and-half or two.
Later I heard a whisper,
dread disease, it said,
and it all made nasty sense.
Moments past midnight I awoke
to the horrible understanding
that perhaps she wanted only
to feel normal for a day.
11th August 2018
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