You were sought for your beauty
captured in mid flight
swept away and abducted
euthanized in your prime
pinned spread eagle
for display and framed
so everyone can ponder
the cost of beauty's immortality
AP: 2nd place 2026, 3rd place 2026
You
Have Made
Life
So Much
Better...
She Said.
In Ways
You Can
Never...
Imagine.
***
In Leaves
Ochre-
Winter-Green-
Scarlet...
Distorted
By
Shimmering
Rain.
***
In The Sprig
Of A Branch
Grasping
Spread-Eagle...
Arising From
Ripe
Musky Moss.
Was it Mercury in retrograde,
Or the moon in Capricorn?
Did my horoscope predict this fate?
Was it destined the day I was born?
When love let me down
I was walking the track
With a train coming on,
And a bullseye on my back.
Was my magic crystal counterfeit?
My aura inauspicious?
Did the healing drum, and the circle dance,
And the sweat lodge not redeem us?
When love let me down
She’d done broken the bank
With no gold left to dig,
And no gas left in the tank.
It’s not transcendent wisdom,
Just common sense is all.
When a fantasy’s deflated
By acupuncture needles,
And the numerology doesn’t add up,
It can cause a man to stumble
On all the New Age mumbo-jumbo,
And lay him out spread-eagle, to his shame.
When love let me down
I got back on my feet.
Worked hard, bought a house,
Ended up on Easy Street.
Yeah, that’s the life for me.
oh, how I loved my mother's garden
where I would run and play all day
and in the nearby forest explore with father.
often, I would lay spread-eagle on the grass
and sometimes I would creep among shaded trees
climbing the branches to fathers horror
where I would sit listening to the birds twitter
later, I would pluck some wildflower blossoms
and place them in a pickle jar for mother
and she would exclaim happily- thank you
and in our back yard I liked to watch
the birds play in the bird bath father put there
oh, I remember it all so clear
but now, the garden is but a thorny field
and mother and father have departed this realm
and I ... I grew up and found out that life is cruel
that happiness and delight are rare gems to find
yet, in my moments of deep solitude
I can be that child again
________________
June 3, 2021
Poetry/Verse/I Can Be That Child Again
Copyright Protected, ID 06-1350-961-03
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, All Yours (Jun 5)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 06/05/2021
First Place
People go along in their life and then bam. Dead. Deceased. Kaput.
Survivors sit by a headstone and talk to them. I am not kidding!
They are not in there, folks.
Their body is nothing. The soul is their essence.
The sitters are now spread eagle on the graves, sobbing.
What the what? Do they not believe in a soul? I am gob-smacked.
Curious, all those Sundays spent in church and they think dead is dead.
Sure, the body is gone; going faster and faster, turning to dust.
But what about the soul people?
Do you not realize the soul cannot die?
The soul is busy, rolling her eyes at your silliness.
Pay attention to the soul; she has gone on with her life.
The soul is real, more real than this flesh life ever was.
It was a shell, a suit, a costume. Get off the grave. It is nothing.
A waste of money even.
Your memories and photos are the real deal.
Pick yourself up and go home, where your loved one occasionally visits.
Better yet, ask them for a visitation dream.
Sometimes it is the only way to get one.
What’s she doing here
shes a missouri opossum
spread out on a tree
started yesterday
my grandchild said whats that
had to look up
she was spread eagle
against the bark of a tree
I had to research
I recall days long departed when I was just a kid
oh, how I loved mother's garden
I would run in the sun and play all day
down paths now vanished . . .
I would lay spread-eagle on the scented grass
of an emerald carpet laid just for me
I would creep among the shade trees
and climb to the highest branches
where I would sit for hours and hours
listening to the birds twitter and dance
I would pluck some blossoms
place them in a pickle jar for mother
and she would exclaim happily
at what a delightful child I was
my childhood was full of happiness
watching the little birds play in the bird bath
but no more for now the garden is but a thorny field
and mother is long, long gone
and I . . . I grew up
_______________________
August 27, 2012
Poetry/Free Verse/Days Long Departed
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1097-552-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted into the Contest No 150, Standard
Brian Strand
First Place
Acing awesome atomic axel jumps
Baffling backflips and butterfly jumps
Completing camel spins and cross strokes
Dance jumps, dance lifts and death spirals
Eclipsing extensions and edge jumping
Fearless heights for fan spirals and flying spins
Gracefully gliding across galactic ice
High-handed hydroblading holiday headliners
Icebreaking intensity involving idealistic idols
Jagged jump jabbing combos and sequences
Kicking back killer knockout maneuvers
Landing leg wraps and laudable lasso lifts
Music momentum for mirror skating moves
Negotiating nifty new nimble numbers
Orchestrating an opening outrageous act
Performing in front of passionate patrons
Quantum quality quadruple jumps
Rehearsed till radically racy and riveting
Striving for split jumps and split twists spread eagle
Traveling toe step and throw loop and triple flips
Winter gymnastics on ice eagerly awaited year to year
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Sty all your bodied waters
And libelous pretensions.
Hang leather headed juries
Beside some tethered eddies.
Drown me down
In new baptismal rivers.
Spread eagle me upon
Some granite black outcroppings.
And let my liver ribbon
From beaks of shadowed ravens.
Let my thigh bones
Fossil on the rocks.
Should I be buried under
When cliffs calf shuddered thunders,
No words of prayer be spoken
Just leave and let me be.
We drank cheap beer in a rusted-out shed.
Buzzing before our 8:00 AM English class.
Trying to be cool- to fit in with the "Ins."
Instead, we're becoming the wobbling outcasts.
Spinning further out from the golden Ins.
Ah, the golden center.
Filled with jocks, cheerleaders.
A chorus line of silver thighs and golden pom poms.
Smirking at my pimpled insecurities?
But your long bomb popularity didn't stop that tree.
From slamming into your popularity.
It didn't move aside as you passed by.
Like I used to move aside as you passed by me.
You were popular in that narrow hallway of slow death called adolescence.
Now your football helmet is yellow and cracked.
Destined for a garage sale. Bottom shelf existence.
At the very center of long forgotten.
You with the pom poms and patented dimples.
Nowhere near that cocky cute kitten anymore.
Turned plump, pregnant, abandoned, aborted.
What happened to that sweet cotton tail and golden lips?
That used to pip "you'll never be with me".
Finally, after forty-plus years.
You're lying with me...figuratively.
Spread eagle atop pom pom mountain.
An outcast on the periphery of everything.
Against the wall, down the street,
cuts on my face, brick scraping cheek.
spread eagle I stand, accusations to my head.
"Pollution of the system," accuser said.
Graffiti on the wall, message reads:
"An injustice was done"; someone will bleed!
Maybe today, could be tonight,
threats of conflict make me uptight.
Tasting the mortar, smelling the brick,
what binds this crowded wall I stick?
Who's all here? Is no one free?
Fingertips touch another, positioned like me.
It's my mother, sister, my secret lover,
My father, family, friends, and brother.
A firing sqaud marches, could be shot?
Early in the morning, soon it will be hot.
Maybe turn to a brick or a mortar that binds,
Holding movements toward freedom of every kind.
Up against the wall down on the street,
Cuts on my face, brick scraping cheek.
I lay spread-eagle in a field orchard;
Surrounded on four sides by long-grown, green grass
On a dry, October's noon. Nonchalant.
I watched a small squirrel climb a tree, close;
The branches shaking violently still.
With a soft thud, a bespeckled fruit fell,
And I watched it drift past my outstretched palm.
I thought of a line I'd heard too often;
"No man is an island."- or so they say.
I came to see with what I was content:
Though I could lay in that soft aroma,
Alone with the sweet sound of wind through grass;
Though I enjoyed spending time all alone;
I am afraid of living life lonely.
Terrified of being the star ungazed;
Of leaving nothing behind but my words,
For words can and will always be challenged.
As I stared on all that is celestial,
The constellations of my soul aligned.
In my emotion, the grass became rye;
For whilst I sought to be Camus' Mersault
I was but Salinger's Holden Caulfield-
Painfully aware of the blades of grass;
Too faddish of their personalities,
Yet hurt more mentally by their absence.
Still, the hardest part of this loneliness,
Is living knowing it was my own fault.
Trouble with the motion
is the fact that your devotion is pointless
it is void and so joint less
I am seeing nothing but pain
I am seeing nothing but pain
I am seeing your face in vain
I am thinking
where do your desires lie
Where do you speak your misery cries
How could you become something of a natural
how ever so factual
you moan and you're rendered speechless
You moan and you are spread eagle fleeting
heart is beseeching
speak to me ever
I am always your after
I speak and you listen
carefully you glisten
I am sunshine
you are tremendous
Force begone
I am so long done unjustly found
and so sling with the words you are bound
I am soon quenched
thirst
drenched
In such pain
I am sorry for everything I've done
I am sorry for everything I have become
I am nothing without you
I am ok
I am nothing without you
I am now going to fray
I recall days long departed
When I was just a kid . . .
O, how I loved Mother's garden
I would run in the sun and play all day
Down paths now vanished . . .
I would lay spread-eagle on the scented grass
An emerald carpet laid just for me
I would creep among the shade trees
And climb to the highest branches
Where I would sit for hours and hours
Listening to the birds twitter and dance
I would pluck some blossoms
Place them in a pickle jar for Mother
And she would exclaim happily
At what a delightful child I was . . .
My childhood was full of happiness
Watching the little birds play in the bird bath
O, I remember it all so clear
But no more, now the garden is but a thorny field
And Mother has departed this realm
And I . . .
I grew up and found out that life is cruel
That happiness and delight are rare gems indeed
But . . .
In my mind and solitude
I am that skipping child again
__________________________
August 27, 2012
Poetry/Free Verse/Summer Fun
Copyright Protected, ID 08-416-523-27
All Rights Reserved, 2012, Constance La France
Just a saggy-sad dumbfounded Basset Hound
Got claimed at the doggone-it lost puppy pound
Just hangin' out now and nosing around
Waiting for my supper to get back from town
Hooray! A dog's life for an ole' English lass
Can't hear very good, my rep's rather jaded
Sprawl out by a tree where it's cooler and shaded
Spread eagle, ya' know? Who cares, I been spaded
(I just rolled in something bio-degraded)
Ah so! A dog's life for an ole' English lass
My pack leaders walk on their hind-quarter parts
Go figure how they mastered THAT get-around art
I tried it once ( No it weren't very smart)
Threw out my back, God bless my British heart
Sacre bleu! A dog's life for an ole' English lass
Ah ha! Do I hear the purring of a car?
Door slamming, uh-oh, this is rather bizarre
The big one is carrying that smelly little bar!
C'est la...Wait! That's French (What a POODLE I are)
Blimey! A dog's life for an ole' English Lass
7/6/2012
For Tanya Harrington's "Dog Gone Tales" contest
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