What a marvel, the animals,
Seagull or iguana, no ego,
Lynx or elephant, no ego,
Under the baobab, think the monkey,
What a marvel, the animals,
They inspire all poets,
Who do you take for an owl?
Will you copy the art of the cheetah? ,
What a marvel, the animals,
From the forest, they are the heroes,
elephant or lynx, no ego,
Squirrel or python, no ego,
What a marvel, the animals.
Quelle merveille, les animaux,
Mouette ou iguane, pas d’égo,
Lynx ou éléphant, pas d’égo,
Sous le baobab, pense le singe,
Quelle merveille, les animaux,
Ils inspirent tous les poètes,
Qui prenez vous pour une chouette ?
Copierez vous l’art du guépard ?,
Quelle merveille, les animaux,
De la forêt, ils sont les héros,
éléphant ou lynx, aucun égo,
écureuil ou python, aucun égo,
Quelle merveille, les animaux.
At three, the garden writes itself in slime—
silver calligraphy across the flagstones
where I pace in my wool habit, sweating.
The moths are frantic priests
hurling their small bodies at the lamp’s false sun,
again, again, a liturgy of burning.
I used to call this Devil’s hour.
Now I know there is no Devil,
only the slug’s blind pull toward rot,
the cartography of appetite
mapped in mucus on the path
where saints once walked to Matins.
The hostas are being eaten.
Something is always eating.
I watch a moth singe its wing-dust on the bulb—
that powdery baptism, useless—
and drop stunned to the stones
where a slug begins its pilgrimage across the corpse.
This is the only honest prayer:
mandibles working in darkness,
the chemical shimmer of a slug’s foot
seeking the soft meat of decay.
No one is listening. No one was ever listening.
The garden teaches me its single lesson—
matter consuming matter,
the world folding into itself
like hands at vespers, purposeless,
perfect. The moths know
what I am only learning:
light is not love. Light is just light,
and we are who burn for.
The stench of endless days clings to my name;
My folly, like a rust, but stings not him.
A meek heart paid for by relentless blame,
Youth’s bitter wine- a draught forever grim.
Past twilights reel in cadences untrue,
I fall, a penitent within the flame;
Bound to repentance- ash where roses grew,
My voice, the echo of a sullied name.
O sickle, strike the valleys we once promised,
Lay low the ghosts that haunt my dwindled shore.
Let golden breaths on iron fleece be kissed,
And singe the thought that kept me wanting more.
So let the world unspool what once I wore,
That even ruin might return me pure.
Your heat scorches my heart
Your eyes singe my soul
I'm a willing, wanton, slave,
Free me now, or make me whole.
Bound in blessed bondage,
Brand me with brands of fire.
Dancing flames of passion,
Fans my tepid heart's desire
started out soft singe
then there was a taunting twinge
revealing revenge
Horn Turbulent Trying Haiku
The staticky-stars climax under intense blanket of Winter glow.
Your spouse can’t see your spirited green eyes that burn slow.
The friction of campfire sticks, the satiny slipperiness of moon.
Flames of blue, orange and red won’t be overcome too soon.
Pert rose petals, that once were goosebumpy and ice cold,
scintillate like fireworks until the grand finale’s loosed, uncontrolled.
Warm breath in a cold Winter’s steamy and a restless beast.
Lips lavish over late night feast, matches singe, sate increased.
Squirming under the leisurely complement of coals, coalescing,
Coolness of a blue lake vaingloriously countering, distressing.
A long midnight’s thrashing, sans pillory; the high beams foray.
Pillow talk, a sensuous squeeze, a high-diving elixir bouquet.
Ah those stars brilliantly glowing on a long Winter’s night!
Those limbs blush, rose petals crush, with unfettered light.
when we want revenge
are able to see me twinge
when off skin would singe
Why do I sing such a memory?
You're gone now, I've sung you away.
Recalling a song
or humming a tune
seems not to be enough.
No, I have to sing, to holler, to bellow
and then that recollection will depart;
such noise will take its place
and singe so many ears.
And then they will cringe.
(4 Oct 2023)
I'm standing still
But at least I'm still standing
Some have their souls spill-
Their souls of reprimanding
Like dead leaves
Blowing in the wind
They wander
But do not go
They are a blanket
Chagrined
Of their souls
As cold as snow
They're ground, cracking at slightest quake
Allowing stones to tumble upon them
And more, lacking might and slamming brakes
Whenever they crumble some
For life yields challenge
There's strifes, the morale singe
But I will not stop when trespassed and infringed
I will not halt to a trouble, to a society unhinged
I will stand still
But, I stand ground
I'm standing still
But I'll never back down
Go
Go stand with your troubles
Go stand with your tears
Go on the snow
While dead leaves skim your tears
And there shall be a day-
If you always stand
There shall be a dusk
When you sprint on the land
Never fall down
Take this-- OUR poem's hand
You can't force a world
But your as for your soul
You're in command
~!
She loved the feeling of the singe,
As she further pushed in the syringe.
(Note: This is about no one. Just a cool rhyme and dark topic.)
In this age of chaos, troubled tunes do chime;
seems elites can't control all the power.
Brawn does drag down ruler's clout over time,
only ones of merit can clutch the hour.
Military might has crushed many a soul
no one escapes, though millions are in play.
Through turbulent times it's taken its toll;
everything said, one must watch what they say.
One slip and an entire empire may fall,
fear Black Angel rumblings that lead to war.
Flicking a sole switch could end it all
in fiery overtures which singe the score.
Burden often flows from buried regrets
battles long fought that memory forgets.
Sonnet 14 lines 105 words 1/7/23
Illustration colored pencil by G. Gaul
Cooler days follow an old Cherokee trail
into a reclaiming Indian summer.
Yellow maple leaf singe at their edges.
Russet hues are browning.
Autumn may linger around town
fraying and wilting
until Halloween cuts down the sun.
We peer sweating through imagined clouds.
Evening bats are strung from charred branches
and droop silently
from their fire-proof strings.
He took my hand gently
his skin soft velveteen
i think he smiled
or at least the corner of his mouth arched
in synchronicity with his perfectly lined eyebrow
as his fingers entwined them selves in mine
and he pulled me slowly closer
his aftershave dying apples and caramel past its point
a trace of his fingernail
as his hand rested
in the nape of my back
Behind tables and friends
disappeared in snarling mists
the music warping squelching
into a single pounding beat
spinning me
as my feet
broke it promise to earth
No bead of sweat
no catch of breath
waiting for some benevolencey-i know this is wrong but i like the sound
to try to cut in
Jesus i can't breathe in hear
but still keep the beat that i here
feel his heat
from his burning chest
Now pins of light peer from the darkness
Tendrilled horny shadow beast
that beg to watch our wanting
wrapped like a slithering
denrut around
he draws his hands through my hair
tucking strands behind my ear
his breath singe skin
eyes refuse to close
lips pursed in forever increasing lines
that splint of light that spits and spills
across lips of ruby named.
He whisper are you mine
nope but soon
(for J.B.P.)
A polarizing figure
A catalyzing force
A man for all seasons
He’s a man called Horse
A strong man in the wheelhouse
A tall man in the field
No crow of ruin touches him
His constitution, steeled
What dragon of today
Could touch that mighty pen?
Demonized, lionized
All faces at once
Like Einstein or Picasso
An immortal eminence
His enemies can’t catch him
Though they try and try
Their straw-man feats of idiocy
Are quickly sent to die
What dragon of today
Could still that mighty voice?
And now he fights the dragon
Of an ideology
That seeks to reinvent the world
And up-end reality
But Saint George has his hood on
His chainmail and his flail
And he’ll take that sword to the cynics’ board
And remove the serpent’s tail
So to prove that truth can’t fail
What dragon of today
Could singe that mighty heart?
mother, again and again I come to visit you
and each time I bring a fresh picked red rose with dew
the bus ride to the cemetery is hours long
and I have miles to go, so I hum your song
I will never forget "I'll be seeing you" was playing
on that horrible day that I ended your suffering
since then, I have been on a very long road
best to unplug said the doctors and how my tears flowed
now forlorn at your tomb I fall to my knees,
mother, how I miss you everyday, forgive me please
there is not a single day, a singe day mother
at least I have comfort that you are with father
you are at peace I hope with trees filigree
oh, my tears could fill the deep blue sea
___________________________
February 16, 2022
Poetry/Couplet/again and again
Copyright Protected, ID 01-1430-667-16
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, A Strand (1075)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 02/17/2022
First Place
Sub Categories
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