The owner's ten-story building
Rises up, whooshing, growing vast.
While the worker's humble two-sloped roof
Erodes and wastes in the wind's fierce blast.
“Look deep into nature and you’ll understand everything better.”
Albert Einstein
I stood on the sloped path near the waterfall.
Mesmerised by the sound of falling water.
All around grew green-leafed ferns,
While tall poplars and redwoods provided
Ample shade that covered the running stream.
Tall purple pickerel plants, scarlet cardinal plants,
Everything contributed to a sublime, picturesque sight.
A symphony of sounds emanated completely around.
Frogs croaked in great abundance, jumping in and out,
Of the clear stream where fish swam toward the sea.
And all around, busy bees fluttered over exotic flowers,
Where nectar provided them with such sweet nourishment.
Placed 1
Somewhere in the general melee
we lost our imaginary horses,
their ghostly neighing
added pathos to this momentous moment.
It was decided, we boys, and one sister
of a boy we hardly knew,
that Custer must die, the Indians win,
there could be no sudden victories
plucked from certain disaster.
We had no Indians,
one bow with a rubber-tipped arrow
does not make a gathering of the tribes.
We had no Custer,
six dark haired kids, no long flowing hair,
no mustaches. Undaunted
we marched on to meet our heroic death,
lip-bugles tooting, makeshift flags flying.
A fertile field of battle was selected.
At the site of our coming glory,
it was disheartening to discover,
a growling construction site,
giant bull dozers,
tractors, and iron-toothed diggers
busily tearing up
our hallowed ground.
Jim (my best pal),
loudly proclaimed: " fork it,"
to no one in particular,
then sloped away,
hands in pockets -
an event which I now consider sadly ironic,
for ever since,
we have lost all sorts of battles
over many a fertile field.
The Ziggurat
So.
I am completed now,
and what have you learned
that you did not already know?
Closer to the gods, I suppose,
who seem somewhat indifferent
if you ask me.
You are the ones making all the noise.
I have no complaint.
You treat me well.
You lavished millions of man-hours
to forge and lay my bricks.
You commissioned the finest work of artisans
to inscribe my walls.
I am admired,
worshiped perhaps, by many
(not all, I notice - I will keep their secret).
I do stand tall and imposing,
and the view is quite nice.
The birds, in particular, seem to be appreciative,
catching soft thermals from my sloped sides.
They glide without effort at the pinnacle;
some even daring to land.
And that’s about it for me.
What did YOU have in mind?
Florid banshees recoiled, neck and hankering sneer.
A succinctly exuberant suggestion when selective.
Came on, fell flat with laconic ornamentation.
A miniature jaunt, interment; glove comparted.
Pin-striped foxtails attuned tune maddening clairvoyants.
Precisely predisposed, wine-flavored latten tobaccos.
A wooden-tipped juxtaposition, stilling waisted.
Bygone midge nonguarded, slunk olive drabbing on bayou.
Thicken handkerchief lightly dabbing brow.
Darkness entrapment, fiat practice gymnastics.
Money management, coinage magnet, honored in mathematics.
Backflipping,
Backtracking,
Backpacking.
Super-Soaker moisture, quickie; quickly, socks on prickly.
Sloped incline, inside Mount Saint Helens' Slip 'n Slide.
Venture advances, the future ... occurs,
the White Willow trees, best found by rivers
edge. Salix alba, and 'Tristis' means sad,
hence, 'Weeping', yet the essence seems to add
a picturesque of a draped graceful scene,
nay gloomy but most tranquil, and serene.
The whitish tones of the leaf's undersides
evolved the tree's name. A meter trunk, wide's,
diameter, thirty-meter stretch that
leans caused by sloped limbs that bring its Top Hat
tilted downward. A bow ... accentuates,
or curtsey, being a deciduous
tree, where the flower's genders grow distinct,
genteel parade cascades in white trimmed linked.
Skiing steep sloped slaloms one snowy week,
Knowing my courses from every stark peak.
In whiteouts of bitter blizzards bleak
Which lacked hazards to frighten me to freak.
Nothing was too risky to stop my streak,
Getting ski heroes poled into a creek.
They wend their way through Sunshine City
Cobblestoned, sloped, and Old World pretty;
And lined with colorful, homes in glad unity,
Streets linked heart to heart, in deep affinity.
Up one crooked path, and down to the river,
As rosy birds sing in green trees that quiver;
And soon arises pearl moon, a glowing sliver,
Making the roads to everywhere a bit clearer.
MY TURN
It was so tragic, I laughed out loud
Not because I am cold or insensitive
But my emotions just got scrambled
An unconscious response or reflex
But it was an inappropriate outburst
In those regrettable circumstances
When sadness should really prevail
And weeping masses tear their hair
Shuffling slowly past that awful sight
Each with their personal suffering
Laden heavy upon sloped shoulders
But to me, this had yet another side
At last, perhaps even a chance for joy
No longer that dead hand of control
Nor a damp blanket choking freedom
Now finally it was my turn. My turn.
Monet in 1893
acquired a house in Giverny
with a garden that sloped
down to a river
it is here that he laid out a flower garden
and a pond
with waterlilies floating
and a Japanese bridge
these became his favorite subjects to paint
as the interplay of water and sun
always created
new impressions depending
on the time of day
the season and weather
Monet's abstract swirls and strokes
forms gentle flowing water
drifting lilies
and glimmering reflections
the blues and greens mingling
in beauty that is eternal
______________________
April 22, 2022
Poetry/Ekphrasis/Monet's Waterlilies
Copyright Protected, ID 04-1450-302-22
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, A Brian Strand Choice
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 04/25/2022
First Place
The strategies that worked just a week ago.
Now are unhelpful as my fear decides to flow.
And so do my thoughts which are no longer churning out reality.
Just a while back- music would spur normality.
But now the notes haunt me, like laughter that evolves.
From friendly laughter, to crowing crowds that refuse to absolve.
The ways I studied in order to cope.
Are now ineffective as my mind is sloped.
Canopy’s aperture, spilled light’s nuance, tinted,
as my eyes arrested, to attest fall’s saga…
A tree proclivity, had me stalled in Ashland,
watching the leaves succumb, leaving stark limbs barren…
Those with temerity, plunged at high speed, head first
Others spun dizzily, tornado-bewildered…
Few flew in gradients, of sideways-sloped descent:
wishes on air sustained, just a little longer…
Some seemed to ride gentle, invisible, sleep-chutes,
touching down easily, with wizened acceptance…
My marrow slowly chilled, as damping moisture crept
But cheer was soon bubbling, as merry maples fell:
swaying in zigs and zags, frolics of to and fro,
to come to a smooth rest, on the glassy brook’s face
Alighting sans ripples, their fate in water’s hold:
floating on a mirror, reflecting their past life,
ere being swept by currents, to their next journey’s start…
(11/4/18 - Repost of Ashland Autumn for P contest hosted by Constance la France)
That every mattress store
should have people jumping on the beds
went into a store called untouchables
ran about touching everything
asked the staff of the pound store
how much everything cost
the guy that cleaned my suit was really dry
asked the staff at a store what they sold
couldn't give me exact details
i think it was a general store
went into one to buy paper and pen
the staff wouldn't move
meet everyone but Cher in one shop
asked if he sold cigarettes
he said he was a Tobogganist
and he sloped away
The park sloped to a river behind trees
The other side was a large burial ground
Where my father’s body lay, bereaved
In the flowered park we sat and grieved
We heard the thwack of tennis balls resound
The park sloped to a river behind trees
Children can’t imagine mother’s pleased
When her strong support lies underground
As my father’s body lay, bereaved
Children torment others , poisoned bees
Sensing sweet fragility inside
The park sloped down to hide behind tall trees
Now my mother lies where I ‘ve dripped tears
As if I hope a flowering shrub will shade
And father’s body lies with mother’s, pleased
Memories may well alter .don’t deny
Our mood affects the colour of the sky
The park sloped to a river. grave the trees
I once hoped that my dead could be retrieved
grappling thoughts
on the edges of dusk
my mind as full
as this moon
rising up
I watch
mesmerized
from the window's panes
as the sky erupts
in crimson and mauve hues
as the blushed moon rises
beyond the skirt
of sloped hills
just above the curves
of the river's beds
i can almost hear
the swiftness of its current
in frames of mind
as i watch the eagle
swooping downward
for a fresh meal
memories escape
from the corners of lips
as i reminisce
in the breaks
of waves and smiles
suddenly i transcend
to another time
another place
frolicking
from deep within
like a mudlark
unearthing treasures
long ago lost
somehow
finding peace
in the dusk
of this evening
i escape
the reality
of solitude
before darkness falls
upon me again
in the shadows
of yesterday
April 6, 2020
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