Alone, on my own, with no one to show;
no one to share, no one to care.
My muse, she feeds my hungry craves;
her gifts, are in my notebooks, saved.
My muse, she paints; in quiet space;
reflects on things, within life’s race.
Through time and space, she does meander;
creating schemed, as to her viewpoint, I pander.
Filling pages, with storied delights
and painting dreams, I have at night.
In nooks and crannies, secrets lie;
of course, a few, will always hide.
It’s my prerogative, you see;
and that’s the way, I’ll always be.
The shadows creep and faintly in the sky,
stars begin to come to us with gentle light.
And once more our fancy doth take flight
with man's eternal question " oh God, why?
What place have we when then we die,
railing against the unknown we still fight.
Often that query comes unbidden in the night
as the time of our mortality marches nigh.
Now into the depths of sky man sails
on wings of faith, answers cloaked in mystery.
We beat our breast in anguish, try to understand
the plan that lurks there behind the starry veil.
And so it has been given through all history
that perhaps answers are written only in shifting sand...
the beating of my heart,
alone,with my thoughts;
Without,I see the breeze,
slowly I awake,arise
to another day
a free form half sonnet
Doors within doors within doors within doors
just like some silly three stooge comedy.
Now I am standing on some Scottish moors,
Islamic Jihad is setting out tea.
It just never ends, and it never stops,
this insane babble just plays in my head.
Now this tower of inanity flops
from one subject to the next subject, dread
visions flow to joy, but now no nearer
to divine Godhead than to the blackheads on
my chin. Oh, I'd love to be the bearer
of glad tidings but nirvana's been down
on her luck lately and still needs a fix.
Getting past that third chakra's just a bitch.
I am deprived of my old sweet relief,
Turning the page but turn to the leaf.
I spill out myself to sanction some space
To which I can return, try to compensate.
Contemplate and complicate my own design
I find this a fate to which I cannot resign.
Soaking in the petrichor of each night,
Of every solemnly forsaken fight.
Each decision and each disappointment
So boldly displayed in my temperament.
I need this safety net below me always to move
Even one step forward toward what I pursue,
Simple answers and the life good enough
Hoping life itself does not call my bluff.
What is a man, nay, what am I?
More than just the 350 lbs staring back at myself?
Am I nothing more than a collection of scars and wealth?
Recall, if you would, the line “I can see your soul in your eye”
So am I an eye? Then why even try?
Why attempt to lose the weight, get in better health;
Why talk to a soul, just live alone in stealth?
This seems a grand life for I.
But maybe I’m an eye, an observer
More than that, maybe I’m a catalyst, or a part-
I think I’m not a loner; I’m just scared of the fervor.
Here comes a truth, something closer to the heart
I want to be included in this life, even as just a server
Because serving in the day, is better than sitting in the dark.
He grins like sweet summer sun and dons a musky mojo,
causing the blooms to titter and roll their sweat onto him;
trancing the sage-less, sarky studmuffins to stare in awe;
and I, the shufflebutt, love to lean my days on his beam.
Like sugar pine he is to me that scares not the swallows,
who are in sound search for the fragrance of elysian life.
Critters beyond twilight are no better against his sense
of humor, which oft makes me surely grow in such a rife
for when the banshee wind wails I’ll not be in a pretense.
But when all around him, not calm, or earth is in hollows,
there is this wrath in him that he can wake in a fine line
and prick you without knowing, as if you touch the roses
and sense their thorns. Also, in his choler there is his kind
of love; feel it, be the perfect cone of my heart’s verses.
What Shakespeare didn’t write he left to me
In this, a brand new world and century
The English language lives and breathes, alive
A poet’s job is helping it survive
The Muses use us, soul and body, mind
To write of things that can not be defined
The subject matter always stays the same
It’s love and hate, it’s greed and fear and fame
New words evolve to name the things we see
But subject matter stays through history
Our hands the only instruments of worth
To help the Muses speak and then give birth
Their words are bridges crossing deep divides
That bring to man the peace that truth provides
Petrarchan Sonnet: If no one else breathed in this wide, wide world
If no one else breathed in this wide, wide world
Will one know one exists under this sun
Or how will he guess he’s the only one
If none thought of him in some other world
Will he then climb upon some hill all bold
To announce: Where is there another son
Not just the wayward scowling wind undone
By thunder – great tyrant out to scold
Alone bears this man the pain of mankind
Left to look for answers in porous sky
None else around to guide his erring hand
If he but an instant shut his lone mind
Even an attosecond long gone by
Will earth and sky stay true not second hand.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
April 28, 2010
My Super Sonnet
Multiple overwhelming thoughts trample upon me in a wild way.
Stunned as well as in awe I am compelled to rise upon my own.
So then I thought no possible way, I will have to be overthrown.
Yes, I definitely have to be thrillistically creative every single day.
Now I am living it and now I know excellence so longer I stay.
Yeah, I do have it going on and got it all nailed to a white stone.
You see, now it is on! I’m sizzling hot up on my game full-blown.
Yes, yes, yes, we are on some kind of fire would you like to play?
I am going to think about you on this full moon.
Maybe you have dug yourself into a cozy grave.
Maybe you like the way I situate myself so soon.
Maybe its resistible greed or I’m just that brave!
Look! I’m feeling you out bringing you my super sonnet, a tat for tit.
Indeed! I’m your full spread of Par-Kay or Blue Bonnet, I’m up on it!
® Registered: Ann Rich 2010
When I do think on the past days of my life
There seems to be a thread I do realize
From the moment of my birth `tis but a strife
Each step takes me closer to my demise
Life`s a journey, it is often said
A world of mirrors that can bend and stretch
This realm of ghosts, ne`er to know what`s ahead
Struggling till Death comes all of us to fetch
But of that day and hour knoweth no man
We scurry hither and thither, then go suddenly sour
Spoiled so soon; the game we barely began
The ominous bells are tolling, hour after hour
The curtains rise, and fall they must
We are made from, and must return to dust
You sink into the bosom of the chair
And wonder if I too once sat amidst
The chattering, white coffee sipping fare—
The lonely writers ‘pining for a kiss.
Did I peer out over the porce’lain mug
And purse my vulgar mouth over the lip
My eyes a’roll behind my glasses’ fog
My writer turning phrase and spinning quips?
Did I curl my toes under my feet
Threading my fingers ‘round the scolding cup
My yellow molars grinding to the beat
Of meds-a-glee and glutt’nous caffeine ups?
I didn't’t sit cross-legged and introverted—
I flipped through glossy pages and consorted.
A fall wind just did recon down the trail.
It's midsummer, this wind did not belong.
Cold, from the North, it noted all detail
of the terrain, although it didn't stay long.
I caught it unawares as it wove in
and out of trees still green and flowers strong
with scent, grasses while gold had life wthin
Bugs and butterflies still work all day long.
It must have noted that the blackberries were
just starting to ripen, a little slow
to be sure, and the stream was still a lure
to small boys walking against its down flow.
Could it be this wind's report will reveal
summer weak, and that fall will soon prevail?
Plagued by agents of disinformation,
smearing objectivity with a spoof,
as if a lot of followers equals confirmation,
a lie told often enough becomes truth.
Rumours of the Swine and depopulation,
aliens, free energy and speculation,
aur silence and tolerance bring ramification,
we need to stop for a day of contemplation,
it does not take long to realise who control’s each and every nation.
Beneath the facade of illusion,
the puppet master reaps with his confusion.
WAKE UP...tick tick tick... ... ...
Unwilling to trade her time for my rhymes?
Needless to say, this is never the way
Any Poet earns a flirtaceous dime,
Paid whenever efforts are made each day.
Perhaps this task could be too much to ask
Right now. How much time does it take to make
Efforts? Escort sadness behind my mask,
Creating a debating heart that breaks.
Insensitive or misunderstood acts
Always cause questions to be asked of each,
Teaching us to, first, straighten out the facts,
Instead of letting truth get out of reach.
Not showing the things that need to be shown,
Gets in the way of things that should be known.
Honestly, I admit that I hate you
With every fiber of my being,
Because, no matter what I try to do,
My efforts are not what you are seeing.
I have to tell you that you are the most
Arrogant, obnoxious, self-absorbed wretch,
Who has no character of which to boast,
Which has been proven through this game of fetch.
You are entertained by your own rudeness,
Thus making yourself look quite pathetic.
And, adding that element of crudeness,
Provides an unattractive aesthetic.
I said all of this to "secure 'a win,'"
And now I must say, "Thank you, come again!"
Journey's end evades, ever evading
Pleasures trampled upon, beached, down wind
Though hopeful, lone strangers keep rescinding
Flights of wanton fancy bedazzle me
Hard facts in consequences I have binned
Though in searching no-one seems to agree
Overland territories in spatial climes
Amalgamate in their entirety
Fingers filter currency, cents and dimes
Cast off to foreign shores, I would be bound
Oh to be wealthy wise, accrue plenty
Feted, lauded, plaudits crowned
Journey's end evades, ever evading
Overland territories in spatial climes
Of youth, I dare not say ado, yet wait
upon the willing heart that I be spared
that visit standing at the Pearly Gates,
I bide my time, not hurried to go there.
For on this Earth I tarry not to die,
believing soul and body to unite,
hence, the tongue in silence gives no cry,
with my Lord I stand in glorious light.
Grim Reaper, oh dreaded one, be not proud
for many, not I alone, must now fight
to keep our youth in the maddening crowd,
and know that never we should fear the night.
Alas, 'tis not from aging I dispair
but from telling mirror I must beware.
Every second passes by me unseen
But I can feel the weight of one minute
After each hour my mind becomes keen:
That these days are adding up bit by bit.
Each week my personality alters
A year goes by and my mind starts to twist
Decades pass and it seems as time falters,
My mentality gets lost in time’s mist.
Yet when I am with you the clock stands still
If only I could exploit these feelings
I could stop the sands of time at my will
But I’m not capable of these dealings
Time now steals what I already forgot
My mind starts to fade but our love will not
When first the world we enter
We must needs be shaped for use.
Attention then does close upon us centre
Wherein we learn our true selves to lose.
Wrapped warmly in strong belief and prejudice
That is the time we learn to love and hate.
We march on blindly to confront and dismiss
Those whom we ridicule and slate.
When close to the end we approach
With clearer insight we can survey our journey.
Then will our hearts be burning with reproach
At the cruel havoc wrought by our cruel army.
Forgiveness must be our ultimate desire
For all our flaws and faults ,ere we expire.
I touched upon a dream perfectly chorographic
as a ballet troupe of sardines avoiding predators.
A dance where no one applauds and everyone
is a loser, sad except for the mysterious beauty
of shimmering silver in a bottle- green ocean.
I touched upon a dream sparkling as fizzy wine
bobbles clung to cool glass disappearing with
plop- a momentarily rush of happiness- murmour
of voices; then the wine was still, yet for a second
the of mysterious wonder is remembered.
I touched upon a dream cold as a winter forest,
blue, frosty mist wrapped around trees; layers
of snow on the lake of recollection, but one day
a mysterious flash; and all will be remembered.
Now ... tell me the truth at 80 spaces .
Oh yes monthly at no extracted cost ,
trumpet swans announcing "All-New" "Chases"
... Gameshow w-/ only purpose " Just stay lost".
scratch that ... start at the count ... three Faces.
flicker on screen , once more , spider webbed frost.
Pulse of cheekbone ; paper Artic traces ...
Hailing to the Fanatic's RoseArm crossed.
... Why just imagine , All times // All places ...
Daydream reality clearly embossed
by Our pristine chords reading "All's Debased" ...
Job to do ... hands join ... Avert as off tossed
I may stain ... lip gloss ... gulp of life wasted.
All Presents, Our Situation Hostage .
They call my home the mountain state
Though, also has many large hills.
Crazy curves that swerve sway, around.
Slipping sides of the roads do show.
These may be negatives to some.
However, deliver such sights
The glorious colors that flaunt,
During all the seasons that live.
Mountains stand tall over the hills.
Foliage of every hue,
Wooded centers flow all over.
Nature abounds gloriously.
West Virginia hills majestic.
Almost Heaven, they say, so free.
A civilization is outraged.
The hydra-headed monster
Of terrorism prepares coffins for the innocent.
A six month old's flesh is scarred.
Petrol bombs at Godhara*
Mocking at the concept of human rights.
Where are fundamental rights?
Where is humanism?
Where is secularism?
Where is socialism?
Nowhere, nowhere, nowhere.
Only the naked opportunism of politicians.
Godhara reminding the poet of 9/11. **
But, in India nobody sheds a single tear for the immense loss of life.
*Godhara is a place in Gujrat, India. During the early half of 2002,a
severe tragedy occurred there. Petrol bombs (i.e. burning bottles
full of petrol) were thrown at a train, killing a number of hapless people.
** On this date, there was terrorist attack on WTC of USA.
When I stop to observe and think at length,
I see why the twig wants to be a tree,
While standing in the shadow of such strength,
Reminded of what he could never be.
The twig could never achieve such a girth,
Though his desire grows every day,
Because this mass was predestined at birth,
Before the seed had received the sun's ray.
The finished product is all the twig views,
Because this height is all that the twig knows,
Since he does not want to hear the real news
About how long it took the tree to grow.
He should abandon his need to be big,
And find a use for himself as a twig.
I sit here on a fine spring evening,
watching as a slight breeze eases the leaves
in the twilight. I am seeking meaning
in a world where a widow, silent, grieves
in Falluja. I sit here keyboarding,
wondering whether to have one more bowl
of ice cream, secure in my wondering,
whether the knee that causes me to howl
and slow my tennis game would get me caught
in cross fire in Tikrit, how I might fare
as a non-violent soul in a land wrought
in hatred. Unwilling to act or care
as I relax for the next morn's travel,
of my complicity in that land's travail.
They say that success is a sharpened blade,
And I whet mine each day so carefully.
In the steel my reflection ever ablaze
My eyes glint with blunt functionality.
Slicing precisely—a delicate process
of practiced strokes sliding back and forth
each gesticulation into the pith causes
the blood to gush under the traumatic blunt force
and to splatter upon—ever so faint
the bleached cutting board, collecting the bloodstains
and the inscriptions of countless knife strokes.
Relics of the grind—the daily rituals—
—Wherein I often lose myself, and become like this blade
more and more dull with each passing day.
I am a piece of reinforced concrete,
I can withstand a lot of punishment.
I am frequently used to make pavement,
Since I can absorb the impact of feet.
My bones are parallel prestrained steel rods,
Placed along my body to add more strength.
Steel becomes stiffer when you stretch its length,
And my flesh mixed of ground rock and dirt clods.
In modern times I have many a niche,
Into any shape I am pourable.
I serve the needs of the poor and the rich,
Being strong, versatile, and durable.
Bridge, foundation, and irrigation ditch;
For any project I am feasible.
Fleeting moments suspended in freezing air,
One-sided passion burning like a cigarette,
A taste of feigned innocence and feigned lack of care
Moving to the music of dreams we will soon forget.
So tell me now; kiss the bottle and spin the girl.
Our lips show off the unsecrets they know about
And greedily caress inspired skin, unfurl
A thousand fleshy rose petals and what's left out:
Our sins in ashes of our bodies, smoldering
Coals in retrospect. Dance in the flames that consume
Our thoughts and actions-a distant sense of folding,
A closer sense of cloud cover: impending doom.
Our bodies touch, they bloom, and quickly they will wilt
Upon the gravestones of the emotions we killed.
Why doth the rich consume their wine with blood
And sprinkle salt on mouths that starve of meat
Ye say ye praise his death on Roman wood
But fill thy gut with malice and deceit
In hunger cometh man and wife and child
That knocks the door and sing ye praise and vote
Why doth thou evil act modest and mild
Pretending to hearken to every note
A gold for gold, pennies for gold without
The children without shelter doth not smile
Ye say ye practice what thy preach and shout
But money be thou root grown inward vile
Thou eat the flesh and freely giveth bone
But if thy eyes look back thou would be stone