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Best Poems Written by X F Lacasse

Below are the all-time best X F Lacasse poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Frozen Side of the Sun - May 4

She, who had seemed my sun some bygone time,
feels now much icier than even far 
forsaken   pluto’s   sunless hemisphere.
Please! reckless Universe! enable rhyme

to unriddle unreason’s paradigm!
—The frozen side of the sun!—What bizarre
world bears such contradiction? Bringing near
fire and frost? both deform eachother’s frame!

And so: she never was my flame—nor now
my glacial winter—.No, she simply was 
a human hurting, a someone hurting
me.—a cornered creature caught converting 
an inward chatter(,adisconcertingbuzz,)
whichever way her body would allow.

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Periods and Commas, to be or not to be

 after Poetry is a Recited Art, by Brian Strand 


i am a written not a talking work
and were i there with you to speak this piece
i’d do it as you wish no extra grease
but the medium is wrote that’s it’s quirk

Victor Borge his name i’ll give it’s mark
makes humour of the topic we caprice
my opinion is the fun does not decrease
by giving poems their lurches and a smirk

Ah! See here how, with my punctuation,
I guide your eye, move the rhythm of my
words. A pause, at a natural junction,
Is given you by clever notation—
Don’t be so quick to slander and decry
the period and comma’s vital function.

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Foray into ?Experiment? - Apr 8

Meet me—by the abandoned houses—>there
not here<—, for it’s a danger! to be seen
in such ill company as I__I mean:
if strangers knew how strange was our affair,

they’d **** us!—meet me when night has grown fair,
bring gifts (flowers) (for nothing’s more obscene
in such situation as we are keen).
Though I’m well loath to leave you unaware,

you’ll must need hear silence ‘stead my full name;
—(it’s customary practice;)—tell me not
yours either; I want to know as little
as possible,—so to go without blame,
and still to lick the flame:to spill the plot:
to linger - - - on your delightful spittle.

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The Heifer and the Ox - Mar 17

Said the Heifer to the Ox: “O‘ sorry Ox,
How terrible to work your heavy yoke,
All day to wheel around that grinding spoke!” 
She lay lazy in the shade of nearby rocks. 

But Ox plowed onwards. Hearing Heifer’s knocks,
And paying no heed to her pitiful smoke,
He laboured, knowing well the dreadful joke
Which soon was to repay her mindless mocks. 

And just then came a large procession near,
Garbed in diadems and resplendent frills;
“O‘ Heifer, if only you’d known your lot,
You’d have held your tongue and lived life in fear!“
The priests, dragging Heifer to the high hills,
Offered her to gods whose favors they sought.


(Inspired by Aesop's "The Heifer and the Ox".)

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Pickle - Mar 19

Pow! the pale powder pumps power into 
The pastor’s panicked pulse. Peeing his pants, 
He pulls his parcel and pitter-patters
To the piss-pot, paying his penile penance.

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Said in the Same Breath as Freedom - May 8

“O’!, work, work, work away,—ignore your thirst
and shovel steadily—keep nourrishing the coals
of locomotive life!(the cost is but your souls);
All other occupations?—to hell dispersed!

“Amen! your bosses, with cash (to be disbursed),  
busy their hands with myriad controls
made to mold you for your determined roles; 
Yes… yes!, because the silence would be worst!

“Aye! Men! your calling is made manifest!
my stores, my mines, my workshops, factories
come crawling, groveling on their sore knees
to beg: ‘Please! healthy muscle![sic]—invest!’
What else would you do with your God given time
if not that I could earn you my damn dime?”

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Prisoner of Poetry - Mar 22

My bars the words, the prison guard my verse,
Rattling the staves of this poetic cell,
I struggle vainly, locked up in this jail. 
Yea, thus is my predicament, my curse.

Oh, how jealously, you smirking blank verse,
I look upon what freedom guides your quill;
For formal phrasing does of me compel
Stubborn structures—the styles which I rehearse. 

But, boldy bumbling, art is now arising!
Walls becoming my score, and tallies tones, ?Confined to meter, bound by rigid rhyme, 
I yet find measures full of surprising 
Motifs. The modern poet at sonnets groans,
But I, I do believe they’re quite sublime.

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Shipped - Mar 8

Where went my package, ordered long ago? 
The app displays delivered, but no proof waits
At the door, nor at the store—no box, no crates, 
Whereto my package? I simply don’t know…

Was it stolen, picked up by some joe schmo?
Or lost in transit, misplaced, dropped, as fate’s 
Great comedy, with mischievous whim dictates? 
Whereto my package? I really don’t know…

This stupid app is just no help, I swear,
The tracking code is gone, the “Contact us”
Is missing, or hiding in some strange place,
Tucked away from consumers unaware. 
Oh! and to what end, all this tedious fuss?
Where is my package? There’s not a damn trace…

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Ballerina

To twirl like a dancer upon paper,
And execute the swirling pirouettes,
One needs to keep a balance of the pen;
So step by step the stage is swept in strokes. 

Now left, now right, and two and four, the beat
Pulses, pulls the body up to the brink,
Draws back, recedes. Silent is the hall. Now, 

The ballpoint tip toeing the lines of ink,
Building momentum, movement towards

Climax — the bliss of literature achieved!

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Mantra - Mar 9

Through melting meadows and misty mazes, 
The madman maestro moves the merry music; 
Mystic mountains at the morn’ of magic
Make massive the melody of meek man.