I write
you into
my upturned world,
gift you wings and transformation,
strewing pixie dust through silenced skies,
aching to see you sparkle and soar,
like an eagle-winged fairy
metamorphosed
into the highest ether,
where peace is more
than a poetic phrase,
and love ~
baptized by the blues of butterfly ink,
no longer a prisoner of pain ~
caged by chaos,
as the world never knew
the burden buried beneath
your blissful smile, and lyrical laughter…..
Tonight
I miss you,
when the haze above untouched seas
bleeds nothingness,
I remember us,
when the music of grieving night
fills my life
in captivating cadence,
and I will forever
write to the swirling stars
to sigh our serene song
when the telepathic moon wanes in weariness,
for even the sky knows
we are more than
just a memoir
pressed between
purple pages of
perfumed
truth…
‘When will I anchor here again?’
The sailor’s heart then cried.
He asked it of the wind and wave,
but ‘shh’, the sea replied.
The horizon called and still he stalled,
looking long from the landward side.
He wanted to shout his farewell out,
but ‘shh’, the sea replied.
The mist began to veil the hills
where he left his weeping bride.
Would she hear his wretched sad goodbye?
But ‘shh’, the sea replied.
The captain’s call and the bosun’s pipe
could not now be denied -
so he whispered prayer to return back there,
but ‘shh’, the sea replied.
And for all the moons and different stars
and a thousand change of tide,
he raged to be away from home,
but ‘shh’, the sea replied.
The storms blew and the cannons roared
and somehow our sailor died.
His bonnie over the ocean wept
and ‘shh’, the sea replied.
These petals held the blush of summer when
you handed me this gift. It raged with life
still, moments after falling to the knife.
Sweet sap was seeping out. But that was then.
If once a Ghibelline, it’s now a Guelph.
As taut as parchment, brittle, crackle-thin.
The wine-bowl of its bloom has been crushed-in,
prey to unyielding hardbacks on my shelf.
And if I flip the flimsy skeleton,
palpating it between my fingers: let
these petal-remnants quiver on my lip,
I find the thorns no longer hurt. And yet
a rose is still a rose. So, six months on,
I hold it thus... but who is in whose grip?
(a collaboration with Dilly Dally, great fun, thank you)
Lost as the night wraps its ebony shades
round red lips like the petals on roses unfurled;
in the mist, the soft crimson of beckoning smiles
leave me hopeless to shun a temptation like this.
Watching eyes in the dark now hang in the air,
mouths smothered in silence, are untouched and alone
~ through the fog, mute impressions choke a voice that was mine
before sliding to sleep in a vulnerable dream...
In the air, like the scent, of a fresh blooming rose
drifts the musk, like a bee to the pollen I'm drawn,
so...in willing surrender, I contentedly fall,
though beware of the thorns and the danger they pose.
Wide awake in my dream
the night lingers ~ trapped in place,
'til I once again fall and surrender my will
~ restless dreams, tangled thoughts,
stems stinging with fears.
What sweet peril we chase
through the gardens of dreams,
drowning in tears for what might have been
left forgotten and pressed in the pages of time...
You sometimes remember but then forget,
that high fever causes your cheeks to flush;
The softest parts inside remain at risk,
pure happiness is a dangerous bet;
In the midst of that adrenaline rush
now you’re believing that it can exist;
So close to the accord that you deserve
careful that white flag is not an ambush;
Held prisoner subjected to a frisk;
To find someone not thrown off by a curve?
Hard pressed.
By my decision, and fortitude; I will not ever allow it to flourish, or to grow
Finding nothing positive; when "depression" reaches a certain life's low
Working through it; nothing worthwhile, is ever gone
Choosing to rearrange the word; you'll find, "I pressed on"
You come back
with your mind
full of treasures.
Today, there was a leaf
plucked from a tree still coated
in whispers, a shard of sunlight
and a bird call you managed
to extricate from the sticky
strands of a banksia.
Yesterday there were
shadows rolled up
like rubber matts,
a butterfly wing
and the crystallized tears
of a child who was weeping
for the moon.
What will they do
with the pickings
you've piled up over years.
Will they empty
all the boxes
and throw away the dried
remnants of a life
kept between the pages
like pressed flowers.
And who will return
the tears shed
for the moon.
To make a superb drink that is unique, grapes must be crushed to make wine.
It makes the meal even tastier when friends and family together dine.
To obtain the sparkle and brilliance, diamonds form under tons of tremendous pressure.
Success cannot be obtained without turmoil, loss, or trials in obtaining a life of leisure.
Olives are pressed to release their oil.
In order to reach a destination, there must be a certain amount of effort and toil.
Seeds germinate in darkness before their flower and their fruit reaches out to the light.
Whenever you feel crushed, under pressure, pressed or in darkness, you are in a powerful place of transformation coming into sight.
Once the stillness comes into your life, the mind also becomes solemnly still.
When your mind becomes still your intelligence explodes finding unknown secrets from within that move my quill.
hand-pressed peruvian water
curated by endangered otters
pressed upon
laid back, coral bells and red roses
pretty petals impressed
scents and shapes, unfurled
regality in the trivial
ah, the memory
the piquancy
5/3/2022
pressed rose
memories of love
sadness
Syllable count 2-5-2
Pixabay image Ri_Ya
.
presss girlie
any uv me
I'm
your
energy
plug
me
in
woven are my pages of poetic verse and rhyme
threads of my deepest feeling I have put to paper
you will find sorrow, tears, remorse and eternal love
words of wisdom, prayers of faith, and poems healing
I reach deep, deep into that place within my soul
to find the the pain, the grief- then, I bleed the words
so my poems can be set free like a flock of wild birds
to fly, glide, drift, and float all over the world
perhaps they reach Heaven . . . .
and each one I keep pressed to my heart
_________________________
February 6, 2021
Poetry/Verse/pressed to my heart
Copyright Protected, ID 02-1326-592-06
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Your Choice (Feb 7)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 02/08/2021
Hanging at the edge of depression
Since, never I've known a face of expression
A thought of a depressed overthinker
Is just like a tear in a river
It haunts!
For they say am a fey
What's left to, but bray?
Nothing, did I not adore?
But now, everything I abhor?
It haunts!
Left tormented in a void
By friends who alike avoid
All I speak, quickly they chide
Still not enough, they deride?
It haunts!
They say am not in form
Can I? When am out of the norm?
Always, am trying to battle
Can you? What you can't handle?
It haunts!
Then, I was warm and did glow
Now, so cold and empty as snow
I espy only my friend nature
And conjure with rain's enemy azure
It haunts!
This abyss a bridge to death
So dense and dark to breath
Sucking you caressingly to drown
You ought to know, you down
It haunts!
When it's time to behead
Try too to befriend
By being coherent to understand
Only shall we start to withstand
It haunts!
Bending over she glides the hot iron
smoothing creases
easing folds
running
lines
pressed
over
stubborn folds
waiting their turn
to be folded neatly with two warm palms.
Photo No.2
Dated 16.11.2020
Sponsor: Eve Roper.
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