window picking from the pane
a lock of rain
her body starts with its refrain
the little girl's face
everyone wears her masquerade
dark dripping gaze
that glass drains
she's mine to chafe
window picking from the pane
her tender shape
she cracks from the sky's frame
as if a fall could be sustained.
I hate to chortle at the sound of broken laughter,
Just like I refrain from weeping when dancing smoke fills my eyes . . .
But when dogs mourn alone,
I chafe my hands with the cold of tears of solitude.
Monuments and cairns I crave among the icy
Terrains, where dogs’ paws leave eternal marks —
The print-marks of an important visit,
Evidence of life on desiccated earth.
On board The Fram they sailed majestically
In the beginning,
Before joining a steam of blizzards they escaped from,
Returning home, northwards, gelid and depressing,
For a funeral of dogs,
The ceremony of age,
Attended largely by silent yaps of strayed thunder.
Cookiecutter Shark
Deep in the ocean, where shadows reside,
A small, sleek hunter, with nowhere to hide.
The cookiecutter shark, a name so absurd,
For a creature whose bite is truly assured.
No great white's terror, no hammerhead's might,
But a circular cut, in the dark of the night.
With a mouth like a scoop, and teeth sharp and keen,
It carves out its meals, a remarkable scene.
From whales to tuna, no creature is safe,
From the alien mark, a peculiar chafe.
A perfect round wound, left on muscle and skin,
A testament to where the small hunter has been.
It lurks in the deep, a cryptic design,
A parasite predator, truly divine.
So next time you swim in the ocean so wide,
Remember the cookiecutter, and where it might hide.
In the shadows i lay not one to shield
A tender heart , like a daisy in a field.
Yet with theswe broken hands i took my stand
to guard from harm , you , the fairest of all my land
But with each punch i dealt , i only caused you pain
Every step i took , these fists with blood i stain
Each desperate move i made , my bloodlusts dance
i swear i never meant to hurt you under any circumstance
These bloodied hands could never learn to love
no one can change my ways , not even the gods above
In an attempt to embrace your heart and keep it safe
I became the sculptor of its eventual chafe
Hell if i could go back and rewrite this wretched past
To kiss your wounds and heal them at last
On my knees i plead forgiveness for your heart
In seeking to protect i only tore it further apart
A FAIR PAIR
Willy the worm would want to wiggle
Just a joke joining in with joyful jiggle
Gaity I guess, giving guffaw or giggle
Delighted to dig and dive down deep
Why one would wish to walk or weep
Continually checking, caution to keep
As surface security seldom seems safe
Worried to wander as a whining waif
Choices change, yet chancing to chafe
Stop being silly, Sam Snail softly said
I’m slimy and I slither slowly instead
However heavy to hold I have a head
No shame sheltering in a shiny shell
I’ll try to tempt you with tales to tell
Quiet questioning quite easy to quell
My mistake made if I’m mild or meek
Supposing no special space to speak
Being breakfast in a blackbird’s beak
None need know any new unknowns
Both born blind, bare with no bones
Grudgingly, grinds grates and groans
Great, gradually going underground
So silent, simply still sensing no sound
Finer feelings of fairness finally found
Basically being what a bare belly begs
Dripping not drowning, draining dregs
Laughing’s allowed, even lacking legs
September has mottled the forest maples.
South of here, zombie cicadas
chafe heated thighs,
but North of Tippecanoe
Shawnee trails lead into autumn.
We take photographs,
but the green still smothers
scattered red and yellow threads.
You touch a mossy tree trunk,
as if sensing the smoldering fuse
that will soon burn stale air
into golden sparks - a fire
that will paint from the inside out.
Too early, she says.
We head back down I-75,
where summer still consumes
the glut and vapor
of unemptied trash cans.
Close your eyes gently. Breathe deeply and slow.
Take a calm, stolen moment to consider what you know.
Open your eyes slowly. On what do they fall?
You see things all around you. They mean nothing at all.
In every instance, you assign the value of each and every piece.
You give them all the meaning that they will ever have.
All are neutral but become symbols of your deep-seated beliefs,
Whether you understand it or are completely naïve.
Each stare back to reflect and remind you of stronghold beliefs.
They accuse you of attachments and meanings you’re unable to show.
Without them, you would not be able to see your hidden thoughts.
It’s easy to see why it’s so hard to release and let them go.
Consciously, you never give your things a second thought.
You just can’t live without them. Without them you chafe.
They make you feel good; make you feel whole.
Gathered all around you, they make you feel safe.
Unhappy with your life? Look at your symbols.
Each is a symbol of who you believe yourself to be.
Each holds the energy that you have projected.
Let go of the attachments to set your mind free.
Chula Fleming © August 13, 2024
A word which first takes the mind straight to sin
And as soon to evil one could not win:
Always remember ‘spiritual exam’
For what you and I weigh in Divine Gram…
You can guess the examiner: Satan,
Sometimes, choosing an uncaring Nathan:
The too-good-at-cracking-the-harshest joke
And you could not but his face in blood soak…
In the world of lust a kiss made a must
And she’s another’s wife, not counted cost;
In the game of cards staking a Million
One had borrowed from a bank’s strict bullion…
In the field of writing, plagiarism,
No thought about its sure cataclysm
I could argue: behind many murders
By killers sure they’d still see their mothers:
More broadly, taking the risky for safe,
Then, realizing that it does hard skin chafe…
That which we could escape its penalty
But this takes not to a finality…
A building is not a home,
Because it’s got a nice foam:
There has to be some blood ties
One can feel their truths and lies
Or man and woman with rings
That control their reckless wings…
A building is not a home
For looking like ones in Rome:
It has to be rather safe:
The skins there should not just chafe…
You get to like Homes caring:
The best place for child-rearing,
Children strict ideas grabbing
But for soon sniffed ones grubbing…
A building is not a home
For its finished top like office:
The White House is an office
Don’t in your home office fix.
Caring when others think it makes no sense,
and when you are accused of being dense.
Some may even think that you are not wise,
while others may your caring ways despise.
Risking when others think it is not safe,
even when your riskiness makes them chafe.
When others describe you as being mad,
their negative words do not make you sad.
Dreaming beyond what others think is real,
and being ready to dig in your heel.
Pushing the bounds of the practical realm,
and standing strong when you are at the helm.
Expecting what may seem impossible,
and not ever creating a big fuss.
Seeing what to others may be unseen,
with an inner vision that is so keen.
Performing always at a high level,
while mates in mediocrity revel.
Ever striving to be the best you can,
and making the most of your short lifespan.
Striving for continuous improvement,
as onward, upward through this life you move.
Never settling for less than the best,
these are the stepping stones to reach the crest.
(Tucker’s Wet Dream!)
It seems ‘twenty-four/seven’ Republicans choose
to subject us, our nation to “Screw O’Clock News”
as if Truth’s all that exits their Trinity holes!
What they say is pure gold! You have doubts? Check the polls
that Fox scripts and then pays for (though fools do resist
who are closer to monkeys - most dark-skinned!) Sun-kissed
to pick cotton, from day’s dawn till dusk (if poor’s genes
chafe a bit, most are blessed by such labor). It means
they’ve served ‘Light’ (in a way!) For a ‘Darkie’ it’s play!
Yes, Tuck Carlson “hates” Trump (In his soul! Gosh! Who knew?)
though he puckers right up when Trump’s rump is in view
AND Tuck’s paycheck gets bump! Sure, Tuck smiles (swells with pride),
his tongue forked like a snake’s! Proof he’s on the “Right’s Side!”
The Conservative’s Mantra’s that taxes deserve
to be paid by the poor for they’ve less to conserve!)
Watch how wealth dribbles down! There’s more cotton to pick,
when the rich hoard their gold (the truth’s poor don’t get sick!)
Poor man’s liquid desert – faux gold trickle, not spurt!
Long Tooth
March 14th in 2023
"Our times and life will always be changing, but
the strength that dwells within us never changes."
Quote by _Constance
Time is changing how we live life,
because danger is a cruel knife;
not sure that my country is safe,
I read news with anger and chafe.
With family- cannot share throes,
for too many of them repose;
My life friends are dwindling away,
for only the true will not stray.
My building neighbors come and go,
there are none to share my sad woe;
though a few are friendly and nice,
at church- so hard to break the ice.
I do like social internet,
oh, hundreds with the same mindset;
sharing thoughts and feelings on Soup,
and also with my Facebook group.
________________________
February 07, 2023
Poetry/Rhyme/Times Are Changing
Copyright Protected, ID 02-1523-845-07
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Acquaintance and Neighborhood
sponsor, Sotto Poet, Judged 02/20/2023
First Place
the roaring tides rolled in anger
sat beside me nothing else as I
began to slowly slip into my self
consciousness consoling my inner
most thoughts catering to a rather
chafe metaphor beseeching counsel
embracing righteousness anxiously
covenanting bitterness wildly tamed
emotions creating solitude a vague
rapture mastered my minds eye
withering madness sunk into a sultry
need for wrath in a strange time of day
capturing malice reaching morbidly
for candid cries the seas mist kissed
the shore once more balancing upon
fragile shoulders of vintage broad banks
slashing stone into the rivers edge
entering myself hence soothing the Nile
How easily he handles things
Pouring out his joy
Without worrying over nothings
Just like a faithful busyboy
Who keeps away his anger
Though burning and crazy
Yet, it affects no one, not even an abuser
Gift is that to whoever finds it
Dear pastor, live well and stay safe
As you rock it softly together in spirit
Even when Corona stops not to chafe
As you keep enduring for Christ
Be no weary of world's trouble well spiced
Humanity shall return
To the glory of God which worth the burn
Thanks be to God for His gift in you
Stop not been genuine and true
Congratulations on your day
Have a blast setting off delay...
The winds of disappointment are cold
They sting the face and chafe the heart
They fill the eyes with tears
Relentless are the winds of fear
They alter everything we see
They still the path we follow
The winds of hopelessness are fierce
They offer nothing but despair
They tempt the mind to fail
Yet winds can change and hearts can heal
And fear not always has the win
And hope forever lives
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