This is not my body.
Not the one that used to tell everything
to anyone—
I mean everything,
like I thought it might get me somewhere
closer to known.
I sat in a circle today,
some kind of writing thing—
you know the type.
Lots of deep breathing
and soft lighting.
Someone cried reading what they wrote
in the first eight minutes
and I—
well, I flinched.
Not because it wasn’t honest,
but because it was.
Too honest, maybe.
Or just familiar.
I used to be like that—
all exposure and no shape.
Just bleeding out
in lowercase.
And I caught myself thinking,
don’t do it—
as if I could save her
from what happens
when the adrenaline wears off
and all you’re left with
is the echo of your revelation.
But maybe she won’t feel that.
Maybe she’ll never know
what I mean.
And maybe I’m not better now—
just quieter.
Anyway.
This is not my body.
Not anymore.
But I still feel it sometimes,
rattling the old pipes.
a certain rhizz
an essential charm
that provides a
way to speak
the quality and
level of one's
appeal and star value.
The zhuzh is minimal
and often is unspoken
due to the maturity and
professionalism of the staff
associated with the production.
rewilding the area were
filming took place meant
to resspect the fact
that people would be more likely
to tour this area due
to the populay of
the film and the purpose
and message the film has.
the chefs kiss would come
the final days of
production.
One must satisfy the palate.
Care cuvinte te
vorbes ca ale mele
A jolly old elf named Nicolaus
had all the elves in a frightful fuss
he played with the toys
for good girls and boys
and left the workshop in a big muss
An abode for everything,
A home made in us,
A place where we permute and select,
There we create and assemble.
A place in the deep,
There we sow and reap,
There the tools are laid down,
Our hands make their choices.
A place where dawn chauffeurs its elements,
We're caught in different moments,
The unseen takes its shelter,
Gloom and bloom desire a room.
A place where roses are grown,
Shrivelled by the scorching sun,
The garden is a shadow of itself,
Anticipating an awakening.
April 1, 2023.
That Salad Went Right Through Me
I've always wanted to write a poem called
“That Salad Went Right Through Me”.
And I would wager upon its best destiny:
To begin with, there is the Universal Theme--
For who has not gurgled around a conference table
at half past the last radish scrap?
Who, once stalled, has not
persistently punched the flusher
to muffle the borborygmus din?
But on a loftier note, I prefer
to think of my paean emblazoned
in the annals of first line indexes,
where, as one wanders lonely as a cloud
over dactyls and tropes,
“That salad went right through me”
trots right off the page
demanding a fervid flip to its leaf.
And future discourse plied at workshops,
and other such rarefied privies of poesy
might thusly include:
"Did you write a poem for the class today?"
Yes...“That Salad Went Right Through Me”
"Well then, you should consider the cheesecake."
Santa’s workshop was full of singers of every kind of voice.
The loudest one that sounded like gravel was my cousin Joyce.
She was wrapping and humming, and they all sang along.
We are in the best holiday mood! Said the happy elf throng.
They are off key a listening robin said as he stopped to peek.
We don’t care, it is unity, peace, love and harmony we seek!
The robin left, and a heavenly messenger, a red cardinal flew in
Let’s take it from the top, he said. Your voices are all a win!
Hi James,
Thanks for registering. You’ve been added to the waitlist for the following event.
West Side Poetry Writing Workshop
Thursday, May 27, 6:30PM
Virtual
This event is full right now, but you’ll be registered if space becomes available. If you have questions or want to cancel your registration, please call us at 440.885.5362, or visit https://attend.cuyahogalibrary.org/myevents and enter your registration reference number (gn1qsv) and last name. Thank you for your interest and support.
Cuyahoga County Public Library
Settings
Accounts
Sign In Options
There is babies’ workshop
Too much care is the scare
The leanest is in the chair
Hand in the chin thinking
“Today, we make history”
The fattest rises and shouts
“Listen, Mam is most loving
Away from home one seven
Me in bed twenty four seven
No Mam, fingers milk bottle”
The shortest rises, no word
Touches his legless limbs
All the babies cry out loud
“Who are you, one of us sure?
No meat, no bone, no juice?”
Another totters to the front
Touches stomach and smiles
“I, you look, no belly, no air”
All babies giggle and giggle
"No belly, no food, no heart"
And the workshop rolls on
Then chair makes roll call
“Mother” - absent, no apology
“Father”- absent, no apology
“Sibling”- absent, no apology
Chair sinks in chair with joy
“Mothers, mother the motherless
Fathers, father the fatherless
All absent no apology, no care
Babies we go build own empire”
A poet's life was all too dull
For good old Harvey Jingle-Bell
He tried the best he could to write
But at age six, gave up the fight
Harv ran off with his girlfriend
Whose proper name was Alicia Jen
Yet in a week, Harv, bored again
Left his love to scratch his yen
To Santa's workshop, off he went
Where tiny elves helped Harv repent
And that's how our hero did get to be
A Christmas melody for you and me
The repetitive saw of metal against metal,
The bashing of steel for designs,
The whir of the copper polished
And the hiss of the patina finished.
The file and sandpaper rasping on the brass
The noise all around
The hammers they pound,
As we create our own sound.
A clutter of wood and dust in cobwebby corners,
and dappled sun shining through dirty windows;
on his work table a drawing; a project in progress,
and tin cans and jars of nails and screws on shelves.
Tools on hooks waiting for hands that will never come,
I touch the old tools like they were the finest of lace;
and I cannot help thinking, who will want all this,
he was a simple man, my father, and I loved him so.
His death was fast, no one expected him to leave,
in a blink he was gone, and all I have are memories;
I linger there with the dust that floats in the sun,
and I weep and weep for what I have lost this day.
Then, I pick up his pencil and on his paper I write,
I write this poem of pain and it is the beginning;
the beginning of my writing with a true poet's soul,
I leave the child within me, and become a poet,
today.
_________________________________
For Father's Day
Poetry/Verse/Dad's Workshop
Copyright Protected, ID
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Poetry workshop —
knowledge springs up
like wild flowers
Year ‘round at the pole;
Banging, clanging echoes ring;
Riding Winter’s winds.
Elves will hone their craft on toys
For children across the world.
We have been in a workshop for two days.
A bunch of us, getting to know each other.
Of course we all nod and agree that change makes sense.
We like the idea of change.
we say.
for the presenter's sake.
It will be fantastic when we get everybody on board.
They will all jump up and down and yell and shout with glee
When the school turns around and every child behaves
And high-fives their teachers, and brings us all cupcakes on Friday.
We are amazingly excited about these possible changes.
We are enthusiastic.
We are ready.
We brag about it in our sessions.
A workshop for teachers.
Yes, we are ready to change. We cannot wait to get back.
We are all secretly thinking ‘we will try it once,” but
Few of us are realizing it takes twenty-one days of
A new way, before any change can take place.
Twenty-one days.
Twenty-one tries.
Some are even thinking this will not work.
We hug each other as we leave the workshop, pretending we are going to implement a new idea.
But doing things instinctively the same way we have always done them even if they have not worked is so much more comfortable. Right?
We were beginning
to gather
at the "Shut up and Write"
workshop on Broadway
I brought a couple
of chapbooks of my
poetry
and an article published
in a collectibles journal
A Hispanic woman
told me she was writing
a memoir
I showed her my
chapbook - she smiled
Last time I came
there was a
prosecutor who wanted to write
"literary fiction"
Also, there was someone
who was heavily
into finishing his
comic book
It seemed that only
the Hispanic woman and
myself have come to
"Shut up and write"
She is busy typing
up her memoir
I start work on a story
Across from me
two young Asians have begun to work
on getting their Series 7 license
They are working intensely
A writing workshop in a coffee shop
"Shut up and Write"
Indeed!
Related Poems