With a pending pen, a pensive poet ponders
As he wonders when and where to wedge the next rhyme
To split the rhythm hidden from passerby eyes
Only heard then, by those willing to wander
Daydreaming bare day, with just a hint for misty skies
A hint is but a hint to the tint of a poets eyes
So many wonder why his eyes open amidst his slumbers
When the seemingly soothing rain gently knocks lullabies
Call his name once, you'd think he turned a blind eye
Call his name twice. Do forgive his ventured mind
Bear in mind, like most, he bares the best of tough love
That Mother Nature gives along with swift Father Time
Bare in mind, his mind will write his every struggle
So give him time, peace of mind, a piece of yours shall come
By the boldest boast of thunder post the tundra coast
With his oldest, mostly tattered, tightly tethered poems
Roams the pensive poet - tired - holding on Dear Hope
Such is where the pensive poet's mind would wander most
I'm feeling pensive today
thinking about so many things
my mind is in a busy tizzy
People in need, yesterday, my sons,
my life, my stubborn cat, my schedule,
the world and it's occupants
There is no topic off the table today,
and sometimes, that's ok
my thoughts are my own
But in order to live life, I need to put aside
my strife and ping ponging thoughts
and do what I need to do
morose
sleepless in bed
a grieving poet
his raw emotions
flooding
blank pages
in the dead of twilight
c a l c u l a t i n g
the weight of his grief
paralyzed
by sudden loneliness
his moribund four-legged companion
of a decade and change
couldn't be saved
succumbing to cancer
euthanized
a huge loss
he loved that dog
more than he ever did
most humans
his thoughts
intermittently wandering
toward a particular memory -
a fun game of fetch
at the park with "Lucky" -
his tired eyes
finally flutter shut
heartfelt send-off
unfinished
pen still trapped
between his ink-stained fingers
elegy to be continued...
in the infancy of daybreak
he will ensure
his fellow mourners
know just how much
his beloved "Lucky"
meant to him
Our heart’s intent is by mind translated,
though the tremors are too subtle to catch,
which by resonance is yet created,
as the koel’s coo symbols try to match.
Endless beginnings and endings renewed,
metamorphose whist we are in repose,
enlivening time dissolved solitude,
exuding fragrance of love’s home grown rose.
Shifting to feeling by ceasing thinking,
soul alone knows how soma nectar flows,
so poised thus as awareness unblinking,
we but depict how bliss magnetism grows.
Listen to the sound of a leaf falling ~
What in death do we find so enthralling
The Pensive Poet Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
The Pensive Poet
Last winter it was me,
enveloped safety-
turned into
impromptu dancing-
taking risks,
forgiving
flailing arms
and untamed feet.
Others sidelined
watching,
with faces
that ask-
"How do I get
from here,
to there?"
Today,
camped out
in my chair-
head
overworked,
the body
betraying me-
paralyzed into
perfection,
inspiration fleeting
demanding it be
taken
as is.
Momentarily forgetting,
Two things
can be true
at once
being both
the dancer,
undulating and sinuous,
and the
third grade me,
stalling...
hesitant to jump
into the double dutch.
The Pensive Poet Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom
Soren Kirkegaard
I ignore the voice of someone
shouting at the television
in the living room.
His voice grates.
My hand jitters as I open
the laptop. A blank page waits
and there’s just an hour before
I must go to work.
I desire to pull lines
from the air and let
them breathe.
I take a deep breath
And sigh. There’s so little time—
I recall time lost when scurrying
through life/ Again something
tugs at my sleeve, demanding
attention. I ask for a moment.
Clouds drift through the sky
before the storm, the thunderclap
but I always wait for silence.
- The thought behind a poem is the inside of the feeling
- it shows the direction - // by poet
I am a thoughtful poet
who offers you a dream journey
where fantasy becomes almost reality
That's where it starts
via our senses,
in intersubjective moments of sharing
One must be willing to visit one's own inner self
the challenge may feel intense
but deserves to be protected
If my words send shivers
from your right temple,
past your ear and down your neck
Provide me external and internal motivation
I wandered lonely and lost in a crowd
My mind wrapped in thoughts so keen to expound
The images to which my heart had bowed
Ignoring the rough noises all around
Struggling was I to find just the right word
To paint the picture I had fixed in mind
It all seemed so far fetched and absurd
Why was my harsh muse being so unkind?
I strode on in my stroll, though steeped in pain
Nothing of poetic form ever came
My struggle looked like being all in vain
Was this to be my sad moment of shame?
Then that damn block dissolved to set me free
Who was not startled by my shout of glee?
For the Pensive Poet Contest of Constance La France
"Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, sober steadfast, and demure,
all in a robe of darkest grain, flowing with majestic train." John Milton
The pensive poet writes deep from his soul.
Downstairs into a room he will descend.
To write in secret stillness is his goal.
A pen has he with a magic feathered end.
It is the tool to take away his pain,
used by him when disappointment surges.
Reflections might appear as sad refrains.
Then such wistful poetry emerges.
The feather on the pen can come, then go
depending on the poet’s need to bleed
the pondering that from his pen can flow,
but when he’s spent, his notions all recede.
The feather vanishes; he leaves his room
till thoughts profound regrow the magic plume.
Written: August 4, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Constance La France
Quote: "A pensive poet looks around and stays where quiet deepens, accumulating shards of what is felt but never expressed until even sadness finds a tongue." By Poet
************
The dusk leans in, and rests upon the hill,
A quiet weight that sinks into my chest.
I walk the worn-out path, half-lost, half-still,
Letting memories rise at their behest.
The sky grows pale and folds into the trees,
Its silver fading through the cooling air—
I pause, as though the hush were meant to ease,
the restless thoughts I never learned to share.
A distant light begins to warm the stone,
A soft light that moors a wandering mind.
I am in the dusk, no longer alone—
And feeling the calm that time left behind.
My muse may wane, but leaves me all her heart.
Silken oracle flame might forge fair art.
Constance La France's The Pensive Poet's Contest
Reminiscences are yet revived by the glory
of Now mirroring slivers of past traces' ~ by poet
This thinning pen lays on a shed
of damp grasses where there are
no flowers to daringly explore---
A gasping star wanes
into the ash of light;
emptiness raking its only shape -
neutral as dunked rays greying the skyline.
Dreary as a poet's last whimper,
unfinished phrases gather
to rest... anticipating
drooped wake of winter petals,
as blots of ink
trace the calligraphy of langour,
the shadow play from past revelries
and adult slow- burn despair : how pensive
sighs offer their chánts
to a rising moon--- and buds of waving lime,
of the sky cascading
all the hums of vintage music evanesce ,
soft sheen of paper crumpling thoughts
so darn mellow , gathering on thé barks
of yesteryears where pages
of innocence and grief múst now
be rendered to memorials' grave...
For The Pensive Poet Poetry Contest sponsored by Constance La France
"Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter." ~ Keats
I'd like to travel, widely, near and far,
out rambling, leaving not a spot, untread;
but wandering by plane, or train, or car
is hard. Instead, I travel in my head.
My brain is, sometimes, also the place where
I struggle to eliminate regret.
to forgive "me" and those for whom I care,
though I haven't succeeded as of yet.
I often like to daydream and recall
pleasurable escapades of young love,
or when the world was new and I was small,
and puffy clouds danced in the sky above.
Now, my aging body has "gone to pot",
and I'm glad when I can be lost in thought.
(A new poem written for Constance La France's "The Pensive Poet" Contest)
The taste of the accidentally swallowed ink is still making me nauseous.
The blue stains on the left side of my mouth and face look like I was on the losing end of a pugilistic bout.
There is no salvaging my good white shirt which caught the leaking ink before it reached my trousers.
Chewing on the end of my pen during pensive moments of writers’ block is a habit I really must quit.
And still the ink has not put any rhyming words on the blank sheet of paper on my desk mocking me.
Perhaps it is time to make friends with the laptop PC my son bought for me and the word processing applications that intimidate me.
Although a blank screen is no more comforting than a blank piece of paper.
And, I am not sure my fingernails are willing to make the sacrifice of replacing the end of a Bic pen.
Poetry is my paramour; pensivity, her jealous lover.
Contest-The Pensive Poet-Sponsor-Constance La France 8/2/26
The realm of reflection endlessly floats in my mind
shedding fragments of pictures from yesterdays
where I wonder if changes had been made
would it have made a difference?
though quiet, my mind speaks without sound
sometimes telling of star-dust memories
when beauty was all encompassing
from emotions shared
sometimes telling of failure and regrets
from choices made
remnants of passing days and a life lived
spent tethered to the bounty of the times
when understanding was a moment of growth
so now I wonder as tomorrow becomes yesterdays
how many fragments of pictures will replace
the ones that are slowly vanishing
will they cling to the walls of my mind
like those that came before?
looking back, I find myself
in the silence of the moment and wonder
what was worthless
and what was jeweled moments of beauty
and satisfaction
knowing only, I hold these particular memories
they are a personal treasure, a personal burden
shared only in my dreams where I wander
through the landscape of my life
in nightly reflections of fragmented memory
The Pensive Poet Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
*
“When at night sleep becomes evasive,
pensive poets become creative”
Quote poet’s own.
* *Ever since I saw the good Lord’s Light
I trust everything will be alright
For it is His love for one and all
That saves us from a ghastly downfall.
Praise God for His everlasting care
For listening to everyone’s prayer
And for blessing the path that we tread
That leads us to peace and happiness.
Give thanks for our share of daily bread
That sees our souls are graciously fed
So we can shine our radiance too
Every day for our whole lives through.
Our hearts are our torch, the shine of life
To help us show others the gleaming Light
So they experience the wondrous glow
And radiate Light where’er they go.
* * *
Feeling pensive on this long lonely night
Finding it difficult to sleep, so I write.
* * * *
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