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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
Temptations crooking fingers pinched a nerve
seducing me in moments of distress,
and I, so hungry for the calming curves;
I flirted with my old desire I guess.
The lapse perhaps is just a lapse and yet
the guilt is still too raw, the smoke too fresh.
How can I cure a failure and forget
the rituals that haunt my tainted chest?
Ah, time, sweet time won't fleece this strung-out fool
of weaknesses that count backwards to when
I worshipped you by cartons, let you rule
just as I let you rule my moods again.
I've not forgotten you, not one small trace,
the cough, the rasp, the residue I taste.