The workshop doesn't teach poetry.
It simply preserves
the threads of voices
woven into
words and emotions.
The diwata believes that every poem carries
a piece of its poet's soul.
Time stands still
in this enchanted world.
In the cloudless sky,
the stars dance
around the moon.
Beyond the window,
alitaptap drift
across endless fields
of sampaguita flowers.
Their fragrance lingers
in every corner
of the workshop.
In a room without walls,
stars lie scattered across a long workbench,
each one dimmed in a different way~
some cracked at the edges,
some holding a faint pulse
like a memory trying to stay lit.
Tools hang from nothing:
a hammer made of cooled starlight,
a spool of night threaded with silence,
a brush that leaves a trail
only the dark can read.
Someone
or something shaped like someone~
leans over a fractured constellation,
turning it slowly in their hands
as though checking where the story failed.
A soft sound rises,
not quite sorrow,
more like the sigh a myth makes
when it realizes it can’t return
to the shape it once held.
Pieces of old legends
glow on the floor,
still warm from the moment
they fell out of belief.
A wing, a vow,
a name that used to matter~
all waiting to be reassembled
into whatever truth remains.
And in the far corner,
a single star brightens,
not repaired,
not restored,
just choosing to shine
despite the fracture
running through its center.
There is a workshop tucked away from the sun,
hidden somewhere between
dusk and dawn.
No one can see it—
unless invited.
Some find it during the darkest moments of their lives.
Some arrive after accidentally taking the wrong jeep home.
Others swear they simply followed a page torn from their diary,
carried by the wind.
Every guest is given three things:
a blank page,
a pen,
and one instruction.
Create for the soul your heart wishes to reach.
Every piece finds its way.
The meandering cobblestone path,
Dotted with holly, brushed with laurel blush,
Led me to an opening — silent, spellbound.
I thought Santa’s magic lived afar,
Yet here it glimmered, close and clear.
In twilight’s glow, red and green interplayed,
Gold and silver showed the way —
Candy canes, wreaths, and mistletoe,
Stars and ribbons, warm hearts aglow.
The wooden toys in stacks so neat,
The mushroom stools — in red they gleam,
Santa himself, in pomp and cheer,
Giving a tour of his workshop dear.
Christmas vibes one can soak,
Christmas aura the place radiates,
Christmas cheer makes the heart aglow,
Christmas faith one cherishes and creates.
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
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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
Sub Categories
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