My sorrowful spirit rose high above the rainbow,
higher yet, until it reached the snowy peaks
of the ragged mountain. It was cold there,
though above the severe sun blazed hard.
Here and there rivulets tumbled roughly
down the mountainsides, and occasionally
meet to form a river that cascaded downwards
towards the high cliff beneath the hills.
The icy waters fell towards the crags,
forming a waterfall of fresh water, producing
a constant melody as the waters hit the plain,
forming a delightful and narrow lake.
Birds above twittered delightfully,
a serene sight and sound that pleased my sad spirit.
Tall verdant pines exuded delightful fragrance.
How I wish I could stay there forever.
But my tired body beckoned
and my spirit returned to my lonesome solitary bed.
Reclined under the shade of a snag tree,
A babbler piqued my curiosity.
Staggered by the companionship, initially.
Then pleased.
I discerned a lamenting warble...
The massif offered commiserations to him,
With an echo.
A lorikeet adjoined him, ensuingly
And, she twittered a novel...
Which was beyond my comprehension.
Nefarious humans are certainly not shaped,
To perceive this heavenly beauty.
His agonised warble was altered;
Now sings a euphonious trill.
Fare-thee-well, they exclaimed to the departing sun.
Much obliged, sings the song of love.
she was gone
no longer filling an earthly place
but, the world went on
people walked and talked
cars drove on the road
the wind fluttered the leaves
but I
felt like an empty shell
walking aimlessly
with no destination
finally, I stopped to rest
on a park bench
and was quickly joined
by a pretty colorful chirping songbird
oh, how he chattered and twittered
a precious song
and I could not help but smile
and let my tears fall
I think he was a little bird angel
sent by Mom
__________________
January 19, 2023
Poetry/Verse/bird angel
Copyright Protected, ID 01-1518-805-19
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Posted to Facebook 01/27/2023
Written for the Premiere contest, Brian Strand, No 1172
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 01/19/2023
Butterfly elf man had a reputation for being a softie
Even though he looked stern, borderline determined even.
Not that it’s a bad thing, but he did not look whimsical or frolicking.
He looked serious, yet still, butterflies flocked to him.
Is he almost mean? Someone wondered aloud.
The butterflies tittered and twittered at this.
They knew he had to keep a rough expression because he was soft.
If people knew how soft, they would trick and swindle him.
Out of his treasures, his wealth, his whatnots and whatevers.
He did not dare wink or blink when other humans approached.
Keeping a stern look that fooled everyone except butterflies.
A girl met boy,
it was early spring,
she fell in love
and blossoms flourished.
She did all the right things,
to please just him.
If birds twittered
she flew into his arms,
made him love her in return.
Times were when she thought
they weren’t meant to be,
she wallowed in his embrace.
Trees grew, fruits formed,
she smiled in contentment,
quelled her conscience with a smile.
She lost her heart.
As autumn came and trees
shed their rusty leaves.
Still he made her smile.
She believed in fairy tales.
He made her laugh,
she believed in him.
He was her dream.
The trees were bare,
snow covered the ground.
She left her home,
knocked on his door
but he didn’t open it.
She stood there in the snow,
her tears mingling with ice.
Can one die from broken heart?
He could paint the air and draw the winds.
Of course that brief eulogy
was only spoken after his demise;
while alive he was often considered a clod and a bore.
Foreseeing no such post-mortem fame
he kept writing on water
knowing that there was an archive of his works
in an after-life waiting to be discovered
by his wandering soul.
In the meantime, ducks quacked, geese honked
and the little birds in his still beating heart
twittered on.
He came the hallowed night of haints,
face a kaleidoscope of paints.
He looked all around
until he had found
The source of all the complaints.
The girl enraged was named Sally.
She had’nt time for dilly dally.
Her makeup was spoiled,
evening plans destroyed.
Her spirits low as the valley.
She watched him enter quite sadly,
thought he’d behaved rather badly.
The clown he sat down
exclaimed with a frown
"But Sister, Halloween is comradely."
His sister, she reconsidered.
She need not be so embittered.
She once was his age
tomfoolery plagued
“Trick or treat!” the siblings twittered.
My virtual friends have virtually become my besties.
I could see my human friends if we were not having a pandemic
But we are, and I have grown closer to my besties now.
They are more open, more willing to share their feelings.
They post photos of their breakfast on social media.
I never see what my three-dimensional friends had for breakfast.
They tell me when they are steamed about something.
Nothing is hidden. It is all twittered and tweeted.
My human friends have been replaced by my word with friends friends.
People I have never met, and yet I play games with them for hours at a time.
My dog and my cat are the only non-virtual friends I have.
I barely remember to feed them anymore.
Feeding them takes me away from my computer, away from my I-pad.
Away from my Zooms and FaceTimes and game playing with my besties.
My life is different now. I can speak to friends in the middle of the night.
They are wonderful to have around to help me deal with boredom and insomnia.
Went for a walk and problems I leave behind,
trees are still all bare but the birds do not care;
songbirds twittered giving me such peace of mind.
Sweet it will be when there is warmth again in the air,
the garden is waiting and soon my blooms will be twined;
every seedling planted inside is thriving- even have lots to share.
_________________________
April 16, 2020
Poetry/Harrisham/Rhyme/The Garden is Waiting
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1244-346-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the contest, Each Letter Threads The Verse
sponsor, Joseph May
Third Place
This is a form called "The Harrisham Rhyme", created by Harrisham Minhas,
from Punjab, India. It is a six-line poem with the rhyme scheme: ababab. In
this form, the last letter of the first word of each line, is the first letter
of the first word of the next line.
The garden lush and fresh with flowers in every hue,
oh, how you loved to play and rest yourself in shade;
I buried you in your sweet cat place with flowers blue,
how, I wept upon your repose until the stars did fade;
and birds twittered at dawn- yet still, still I stayed.
________________________________
June 14, 2019 (Edit January 29, 2020)
Poetry/Quintain/My Beauty in Repose
Copyright Protected, ID 19 -1220-444-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Ah,rebellious spirit wanting space
With my finger on the map I paced
I climbed Helvellyn, fell off Striding Edge
Spent a lifetime hanging off a ledge
Meanwhile our kind teacher twittered on
Thomas Hardy, Hopkins., we were numb
She never mentioned she saw my escape
How the nuns hurt me, the cruel rape
I slipped on High White Stones and almost dropped
My feet were dangling off the fearsome rocks
No-one knew for I was climbing last
Know me please but never learn my past
How quickly life has run since I could climb
Now I merely sit here draped in rhymes
He twittered close to me
one wobble at a time
without a chirp without a sound
just feathers, beady eyes
He found
a pine cone on the ground
and with his beak
he tossed it
this way ...that
Then suddenly he flew away,
leaving me at the window
watching
like a morning starved girl
before her cafe au lait
Look, a bird flits by the window,
red feathers, scarlet, a cardinal,
taps its beak on glass, it can’t go
past, it stops and darts its head ’round.
Jane, the birds she did always know,
yes, she knew their calls, their habits,
how their songs twittered and would flow
through each not in raw, wild time,
she though each call was so sublime.
The bird-bath outside came from Jane
and also the feeders, three in all,
she’d watch them play to remain sane
when those hard treatments got too much.
Now, at least she feels no more pain,
now an old picture under glass,
she did love sparrow but my brain
saw her red hair and did declare
she was a cardinal, born with flare.
And even when that hair went gray
none ever would say she faded,
so vibrant until that last day,
when cancer had done its dark work,
yet this bird stands proud, here to stay
that the veil is thin, transparent,
loss may make things seem far away,
but I see it all, our fine past
is just a cardinal by the glass.
The hardest thing was to let that telephone ring
Then came along the smartphone's 'ping'...
...to leave us vexed...
What came next?
Trying to ignore that text
And you're surely old, if not bitter
or a technology-quitter --
To never have tweeted or twittered
February 12, 2012
with no contest in mind...
President Trump has rattled Washington's cage
with an unlikely combination of technology and rage
He's twittered and texted sharp barbs, targeted criticism
at oversensitive pols, used to kow-towing and witticisms
He's shaken up the stuffed shirts of the established order
by trying to stop criminal aliens with a wall at the border
He's gone toe-to-toe with the demagogues of Russia and China
unlike his predecessors, who've caved in to the Soviet-Sinos
And he's raised a crucial issue, from which productive discussion has strayed:
If our government won't protect its citizenry, why should its workers get paid?
February 13, 2019
Entry in "A Positive President Trump" Contest
Sponsor: Anthony Slausin
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