It began when I was a young girl, oh I did not scavenge,
in the mud or float in the river but I was known to collect;
rocks and shells by the shores of lakes and rivers, and ocean,
but, one of my favorite things to do was to go on a scavenge,
hunt in the woods, I was like any good Mudlark seeking a treasure;
I called this an adventure. "Where are you going?" mother asked,
"on an adventure !" Was my reply . . .
Now, I am grown but I am still gathering things, I love to skulk,
and prowl second hand book stores and all the junk stores;
and I am not opposed to getting on my hands and knees to explore,
a hidden tattered box, and finding a treasure within making my day;
and once I bring these things home- like an old book, vintage jewelry,
or dish of some sort that becomes my treasured possession . . .
My motto is "just because something is old it still has value"
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April 5, 2020
Poetry/Narrative/Scavenging for Treasure
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1241-647-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Toms scavenging hard
An elder, a young
Scraps, wraps and boxes
In gardens and streets
A meal of litter
A home is there
All clothes are worn
Love is alive
School-friends hunting
Strategy
Accomplished
Strong technique
“Got food?”
“Finished?”
Hungry
Food
A buzzard dancing
in a field,
bone in claw
clicking,
picking further
cannot be real,
in foaming masks
of blood
he basks
A death of beauty
as ether flies,
the buzzards watch
as spirit denies,
a lasting breath
right to last,
and his appetite
grows vast
All to survive
watching
the weak,
awaiting
their date,
death is fleeting but
supper is made,
magnolia leaves
are floating to bay,
this conundrum of dreams
but who’s to say
A Native with
the lancing spear
wreathed in snakes,
bead to eye
now buzzards in
some dinner make,
reflex-ed out
in bone to ground,
oozing to
not breathe a sound,
as death did greet
old friends eyes,
they smiled and said
‘You took awhile’
Pass upon me thus in silent rain
a frequent silver blush in dripping tears
silent to ignite, repeat, refrain
as washing pools of silent, silver years
mounted in the wells and darkest pain
a swelling of an aquifer of fears
mourning silk to lap and leave it's stain
while holding all the thunder in arrears
storm of soul and spirit thus to wane
upon the passerby's to look, endear
rivers bent on sorrow to attain
to swallow now, in haste, and hold quite near.