Still the Worst Job Ever
How do I hold thee, let me count the ways.
I hold thee trembling, beneath kitchen sinks
crouched in the darkness of the brightest days
guiding thy beam as his patience shrinks.
I hold thee dulled by lightning’s fearsome flash
shakily awaiting unseen anger
tortured by the inevitable crash
intrigued by the neediness of danger.
I hold thee wide eyed in dirt-floored cellar
your flame slow flickering on edge of sight
dimming through the range of yellowed color
draining the darkness from a darkened night.
I hold thee, for my brothers all have fled
I hold thee, not knowing what they dread.
Submitted for - Sara Kendrick - Jobs – Poetry Contest
My whinny,crabby, hungry teen
Your stinky,spoiled and quite mean
You want, you need, you have to have
The latest,newest, modern fad
Your greasy, grimy, hands smear
My wall, light switches, and the mirror
Empty snack bags,with sweet and sour
Create tall,extensive buildings that tower
Your messy,your dirty,in need of a shower
Please make it quick,not loiter an hour
Your smelly,nasty, disgusting shoes
Are slowly poisoning every room
Even with big mouth,rolling eyes and sighs
I would not trade you, I surmise
I know a scamp who chortles frabjously
as in the springtime galumphing he goes.
And just to show how wacky he can be,
he makes his tongue point up to touch his nose!
He has no wicked claws or eyes with flame
to match those of the manxome Jabberwock.
But just beware his jaws. Although he’s tame,
he can’t be stopped once he begins to talk!
I vouch that he can jabber endlessly
and have me at the end of my short rope.
My ears just might fall off one day, for he
gyres gibberish just like a gyroscope.
I dub my beamish grandson “Jabberwack”
for how he acts and how he loves to yak!
For Debbie Guzzi's "Go Ask Alice" Contest
Cruising down the road
Wind blowing his hair
A smile on his face
Not an ounce of fear
No more asking dad
Can I use your car
No more asking mom
Can I go so far
He got his first car
A grin ear to ear
Can leave if he wants
He could disappear
His dad had a plan
A boy's now a man
Our love had been built on a firm foundation
Trust, compassion and fidelity as well
I thought there’d be no cause for consternation
We thrived for a time in a magical spell
He was my white knight and I remained his belle
Never a doubt, certainly no confusion
Any misgivings his blue eyes would dispel
But moving in marked the end of illusion
~~~~~~~~~ Volta ~~~~~~~~~~
His son emerged from video seclusion
This twenty-year-old had never worked a day
He found my presence to be an intrusion
He flung jabs in attempts to drive me away
Thought we had it all, but his son was the boss
Now I’m struggling to recover from this loss
*Entry for Dr. Ram's Spenserian Sonnet contest
(based on a picture)
Two metal figures rest on his desk--
A slender black crane and skinny black dog.
For years they have rested there standing on edge
As reminders and guardians of a darker past.
But these things are unknown to the boy;
The grandson who sits on his grandfather's lap.
He reaches for the figures that look like toys;
Like innocent igures meant for his pleasure.
Caught up in the moment, the grandpa relents;
He gives up his memories, gives up the grief
That have been with him as long as these figures
And he watches young hands handle the "toys".
He reflects while watching, his slight smile grim
That recycled gunmetal was used to make them.
Deserve the world my child,my son
If I could give, with heart I'd run
Pray instead, I must for you
Placed many tools to get you through
Life ahead unknown my son
So much I wish, your dreams ignite
Strive for all, please shine that light
Become the man I know you'll be
But please for you and not just me
Dig deep inside with every might
Strive for all thats due, you'll see
Deserving much from world, not me
Kindness, compassion, intelligence too
Owning these gifts, build confidence in you
By example, trust, live life for thee
Accept these words I give from me
My child, a man will come to be
What dream possesses and stays your weary heart,
with nagging persistence, that divining rod?
What constellation sets that heavenly chart?
God gives to each soul a healthy seed planted
down deep in heart's fertile soil, fertile sod.
Don't be lazy, don't take your dreams for granted.
It's your garden to till, where no one impairs,
no one can hinder the plan God has for you;
only yourself, so release the doubts, the cares.
Brought to this moment with your talents to use,
You've learned all that you need, by now it's old shoe,
the dream seed must open and blossom profuse.
What dream possesses and stays your weary heart?
It's your garden to till, where no one impairs.
What is it like to be my little hero?
A morning chat would mean great adventure
A ride with your imaginary aero
Would fly us to places never gone before
Inside your world, we made things possible
We are both so strong to save the world
With unique powers, you are unstoppable
Put an end to villains with your mighty hurled
Within you, I see my own reflection
Full of imagination and a dreamer
Someday your dream would have a clear perception
What best for you, I would be your defender
Every day is like a blink of an eye
At 7 years old, time hastily flies
Noel N. Villarosa
19 April 2014
Posted also in: www.pinoylifefacts.blogspot.com
Mother and son, a moment in time,
One wants to live, the other to drive.
First of firsts, young son at her wheel,
Both on a journey, spanning their lives.
Indian summer, bluebonnet skies,
Escaping together into painted fields.
One from the cage with its rigid design,
And one from the sadness that family yields.
Exhilaration, he drives through his fears,
Faster and faster, wheels hum and glide.
Silent emotion, she tempers her tears,
Out on the highway they sit side by side.
All those years later, with memory pure,
His son sits beside him, steady and sure.
Forgiveness of Sins / God's Love & Mercy
Then he said, "A man had two sons, and the younger son said to his father, 'Father, give me the share of your estate that should come to me.'
So the father divided the property between them. After a few days, the younger son collected all his belongings and set off to a distant country where he squandered his inheritance on a life of dissipation.
When he had freely spent everything, a severe famine struck that country, and he found himself in dire need.
Coming to his senses he thought, 'How many of my father's hired workers have more than enough food to eat, but here am I, dying from hunger.
I shall get up and go to my father and I shall say to him, "Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you.
I no longer deserve to be called your son; treat me as you would treat one of your hired workers."'
So he got up and went back to his father.
While he was still a long way off, his father caught sight of him, and was filled with compassion.
He ran to his son, embraced him and kissed him; His son said to him,
'Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you; I no longer deserve to be called your son.
But his father ordered his servants, 'Quickly bring the finest robe and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet...
Then let us celebrate with a feast, because this son of mine was dead, and has come to life again; he was lost, and has been found.' Then the celebration began.
Now the older son had been out in the field and, on his way back, as he neared the house, he heard the sound of music and dancing. He became angry, and when he refused to enter the house, his father came out and pleaded with him.
He said to him, 'My son, you are here with me always; everything I have is yours; but now we must celebrate and rejoice, because your brother was dead and has come to life again; he was lost and has been found.'" (Taken from LK 15:11-14, 17-25, 28, 31-32)
(A Blank Verse Sonnet)
The couch, a central theme in room's décor
of hunter green, sky blue and dusty mauve,
served well for years as extra bed for guests,
a restful place for favored pet to nap,
and seat where Grandkids loved to watch cartoons.
Though loath to part with such a gem, we gave
the couch a home in daughter's basement den,
until son's wife gave notice of divorce
and he was forced to find a new abode.
He shopped and found the perfect couch and chair
but finance rate has caused him to desist.
Although the condo's empty rooms brought gloom
he put his dreams on hold, agreed to wait,
then claimed the sturdy couch to serve once more.
Mine are the firstfruits out of clay and dust
That to one patient in hope bear reward:
A boy whose reason is kindly and just,
And who, well affectioned, is well adored!
Do that the burdened profit by your hand -
If trespass you must, so do in selfhood:
Recompense good for good - in truth upstand,
And purpose yourself that others so would.
Therefore be not wise in your own conceits
Nor debtor to love and unrighteous breadth:
Walk safely in the world in all your feats
Lest it suffer me and quicken my death.
Make your way like Him ragged and unshod,
And bend your knee unto no-one but God.
Not a true Sonnet: Poetry Form: Sonakit
I'm ripped to pieces like the creature flung,
torn down by claws of hunger driven bear
who stalks the night. She kills to feed her young
on wooded paths which deer and humans share.
I cannot watch this on TV.
I leave the room, avoid the kill.
My days are sliced in minor slots of time,
each one consumed by scheduled task of rote.
The weight of duty hammers like this rhyme,
and yet, success defines my morning coat.
"It's the natural food chain, Grandma,"
this from Grandson number one.
We dare not waste the time we own with slack
and drag through space as aimless torpid slugs.
Our life demands we work and transfer back
the sum of weal with which we've filled our jugs.
His dad and grandpa love to hunt for game;
in this he sees the natural order of life.
Result arrayed from labor spent allay
fatigue from struggle's bent to win the day.
I know my son was inside with their dogs
And women dressed in uniforms who held
Their sharpened knives and made my son undress.
This is the way Americans fight war.
Confusing thoughts enter my mind
Combined with anger, sadness. ****.
The Lord, is my child to die?
If it is your will, please end him.
How could the Lord let this happen?
My sweet poor boy and his humility
He is nothing but a toy to women.
This is the way Americans fight war.
My family weeps for my son.
My country prays for their own sons.
It is no small mercy, no small ransom,
No trifling importance favoured on me:
You are a child in time whose time has come,
And I love you, Little Man, desperately!
For I am cheerful in hope and all things
That the bright stars are yours to noble aim,
And guide you to the Valley of the Kings
Or ghost ship treasure on the Spanish Main.
Let adventure and crossing fill your days
And may God watch over you to your grave!
So learn well beginning in youthful gaze
That time is your master and not your slave.
You are to me by a nature so great
Living proof good things come to those who wait.
By the grace given me one year older
Great is the bearer of my salvation;
And I, of love and life a beholder,
Glory in the sum of my creation!
Follow your heart and speak its depth and scope,
And let not dreams be spoken of as fear.
Remember to remain joyful in hope,
Patient in affliction, faithful in prayer!
Do not spoil or vex but contrary do
When this world means to oppose or revenge;
Be steadfast in what you know to be true
And forsake what is not yours to avenge.
To you ascribed are the fortunes of youth,
And virtue in the service of the truth.
Comes a time when the strength is not to fight,
And forgiveness not for saints and martyrs:
When the soil grown sour and the vine in blight
Reap the fruit of the Sins of the Fathers!
Comes a breath that enters but does not leave
When all that remains is a beggar's pride:
'Tis then he that gives will richly receive,
And he that stumbles will suffer his chide.
Comes a reckoning the bells do carry -
A great heralding too loud to ignore,
For in its virtue not wont to tarry
It tolls for the man of steel - not of straw!
Comes a peace when all steadfastness is done
And all is right between Father and Son.
Would the Memories Devour Her?
Sarah Jean sat slumped in the old black chair
She could only muster a cold blank stare
Since the death of her son she didn’t care
Memories assaulted her-“Unfair!”
To take her youngest son and leave her here
She flinched at the thought of him leaving home
He dribbled the ball, spun, snatched the keys from the hook
His golden grilled smile would be her last look
Lawrence leaped before her like a hologram
She could hear his voice playful even with a demand
“T’ Lady this just is not what we do
You taught me life was for living
Now you’re claiming that your life is through”
“Call me Mama, boy” she scolded “or I’m going to get you!”
The sunrise in dullness lies on eastern horizon
Nothing spectacular about the sky
A little time before duties have begun
Small amount of space to think about why
To think about the coming son who will
Set this captive free from the chains of sin
A little color on horizon still
No longer dull but some purple_apricot begin
Brillant apricot at fireball's center
My window boxes need watering now
Some of the plants wilting has occured
Sun now is up gold light filters through boughs.
The sun has revealed fog that was hidden
Thank you God for great light by son given...
When only in my state of thanksgiving
I count riches and all avail it brings;
I am imbued of great joy reliving
And I am wiser to wonderful things.
Memento Mori and Carpe Diem!
There is much to see and much to begin,
So live well and long that in years to come
You not look back and muse what might have been!
Now if from your helping cause I abstain,
Or when in lonesome brooding I am sad
In futile excess, I'll beg once again
To hear you curing say "I love you dad!"
Oh wife and child it's you and only you
That makes me love and do the things I do.
Memento Mori is Latin for "remember you are mortal"
Carpe Diem is Latin for "seize the day"
Hark! Out of the mouth of babes echoes "Car!"
And points he the bended finger waving:
In my close held orbit his rising star
Shines in playful hugs and smooches craving!
Wise an old head on little shoulders sit -
That likeness of face, O that heart of song:
The torch of wonder in a child's mind lit,
I see it all and know that you belong.
That first smile, first speak, first kiss bestowing,
Makes able what was aforetime estranged:
I am now that strength which comes from knowing
How you were begotten and I was changed.
My darling boy two years a gentle soul,
Always know how much I love and extol.
'Twas early spring in my thirty-ninth year
When that which I covet most brought new lease:
And on my first watch would elated stare
Upon worshipped eyes shut in newborn peace.
Thirty-nine years before first gazed my own -
My tiny hands clutched in my father's palms:
O but that love was hidden and not shown,
And thus I shall spare you no such alarms!
In your helpless lay - in first sleep of babes,
The future becomes yours, and now I trust
I will see your own before my life trades -
And remember to wait if wait I must.
When I look at you looking back at me
I see an avatar of God's glory.
Me the infant, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s L’Enfant moi by T. Wignesan
The infant a stranger to me who grew up poet
You whom he missed even in his sleep
He who had to disinter himself upon waking
Every day in his quest with increasing effort
He who had not known your breast nor lap
Manically he sought your odour in bed clothes
Sniffed under the covers your sphinge haïr
And searched every bush for your mystic antrum
In vain forgot blackness of breasts in death
More avidly survives the memory of your milk
Longer I live more the haunting infant pleases me
When the eternel Night projects her by the threshold
At death the infant’s visited by the maternal shadow
Dissociated as two blue perfect globular moons
Note : Original rhyme schème of sonnet :
abba cddc effe gh)
( from Sophia, O.C. t. II, p. 348)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, October 15, 2014
Child of sun and light - child of isle and sea,
The moon and stars to my earthly travail:
His the love - not yet guile, not vainglory,
His the power to shine, to triumph, to fail.
He whose armour of faith girds nakedness,
Who must adjure higher interventions
Lest beyond Olympus this world not bless
In mortal youth its vast comprehensions!
Long may the Muses sing when your heart sighs,
True your lyre echo, your mighty bow draw:
Estrange yourself from the wolves in disguise
And trust in the twain who begat and bore.
When the blast of heavenly trumpets come
Yours eternal will be a new kingdom.
By the raised light of Thor at rainbow's end,
On first calendar moons of Mars - a son
Born of this earth and time, and I portend
A new age of blessing is now begun!
From first kicks in utero to gorged teat...
The nuance of Joy! Love! And Piety!
So begins uncertain and incomplete
Till miraculous days for all to see.
O babe in arms - beautiful child: my vow
Is to mind and hold, to acquaintance seek:
To feel soft against mine your heart and brow,
And kiss those sleepy lids and milky cheek.
So hearken, when tiny almond eyes peep,
Papa's birthday vows: - vows I mean to keep.
Thor - the Norse god of thunder from which
Thursday is derived.
Mars - the Roman god of war after which the
month of March is named.
Far you have come and magnified and shown
That love is the opiate of the soul,
And much I have loved and much you have grown
In the anthology of years eightfold.
Be not a hero, nor fool in the throng,
And owe not any man nor him begrudge;
Do right, even in the tumult of wrong,
And let the haughty over this world judge!
If one truth is mine to tell let it be
That no father ever loved his son more;
Thus do I with the fondest frequency
Affectionately hold and gaze in awe.
Behold! I see a lamb with a lion's heart -
I see my whole, and you its greatest part.
Swift the Running Fox - straight his arrowhead:
O you weaver, you spinner, you hatcher,
And long his hair the eagle feathers spread
In the sleep shadow of the dreamcatcher!
My boy the windtalker, the hunter brave,
In buffalo horn and porcupine quills...
A ghost of the warrior in the grave
Whose heart lies on the plains and in the hills:
Where beats a drum and burns a campfire,
A child of the Great Spirit in the sky!
Like the roebuck leaping farther, higher,
Chasing a dream in the wind and the rye.
You are the Indian bark - the sacred tree,
And your love is big medicine to me.
In every artifice there is child's play,
In each fractious enterprise there is good:
And in kindred impulse that is his way
Stands the flesh of my flesh where I once stood.
So it is and so it shall always be,
And it connects me in ways I surmise
To see my own little facsimile,
Rising great in measure and small in size!
I beseech between us a spoken care,
And pray not implied devotion apart:
That knows no disputation, lie, or fear -
Only the virtue of love at its heart.
It is my most constant expectation
That you be my greatest dedication.
Who has it all?
In the clear of day
Some will like to trade condition
Maybe because of his garb
Yet his neck thus bends
Bends on the weight of tribulations
His son puffs and wastes away
Isn’t your son a first class holder?
Learn how to appreciate where thou are
I agree u have no car
Yet he died on his own Infinity
The house he built
Have caused him robbery attacks
Dear, it is all hot everywhere
Even in the underwater
So the heart and soul of youth and esprit
Heat and cool in the pit of fire and ice!
How quick its lapse and artless alchemy,
More dark its trails - more burnt its bitter spice!
Yet what becomes the boy becomes the man,
And I long for the future and its past
When greater filled do your length of days span,
Wider your web, your net and shadow cast.
That countenance so fair and sallies bold -
Fairer still that smitten beauty unseen!
Hearken unto me the days of this world
And let not elder rebuke come between.
So seek not after idols of this realm -
Seek our God and King in Jerusalem.
Yours is the golden crown of King and fold
Such as are counted the Children of God;
Soldier of the host great and manifold
To every peaceful realm and battled sod!
Prove incorruptible and heed this wise:
The rule of men are not mighty to save;
Their inward ravenings crudely devise,
And thus their only refuge is the grave!
Divine is the child numbered in his days
Whose shield I hold and whose menace I bear,
Whose stamp of nature does a quiet strength raise -
Cleave to it lest your heart fail you for fear!
Watch and seek, and rewarded you will be,
Else all that becomes you is vanity.
The sweetest herb so bitter on my tongue
Till in great awe I newly held my own;
And when I am old - my Pride and Heir young,
My time's waste remember you early grown!
A righteous boy does a mighty man make,
And for now the snares of men unthwart you;
But swift the silence the lightsabers break
When your broken heart declares "Daddy do!".
Now, my Jedi Knight, your lisp and stammer
Work not to deter reserves of learning,
Only to raise the unflinching clamour
That overjoys that little soul yearning.
One day you'll touch the moon and starry sphere,
One day you'll touch the world, Oscar St.Clair.
Take joy in all youthful felicities
Lest in a moment's gain it is undone:
Mine is the joy of rich simplicities
And, you child, its face to always gladden.
That in some small measure you become me -
Son, so has a light shone on all my days,
And in my image mine own eyes do see
Your beginnings compassed in countless ways!
So permit me my quatrains and couplings,
Forgive my rapture and quixotic state:
Mine is the lexicon of beloved things,
And yours the idioms that resonate.
All I ask from the sinews of my heart
Is that our two swords never smite apart.
Alone on the wings of an angel I feel at home
Far above the earth I must admit I'm not alone
With the early morning wind I kiss your rosy cheeks
And every night before you sleep I take a few peeks
I see you there growing up with each new day
I look down and hear your every fervent pray
I watch the way you walk the way you seem so out of touch
And once again I take this time to say I love you oh so much
I write this now because you seem to think I know you not
But my son I wish to say you make me proud for all you've got
I feel you cry for me when you seem so lost
Remember son I'm here for you, do not forgot
Each and every day I look at you
You always stay within my view
This poem is for my 10 year old son from his father who passed on 4th June
. . .For all the times he cries for him . . . I know Hamza
Irene was the American girl,
the only pretty one I should have based my romantic story on;
and that story is still unwritten...
not having been able to forget the rejection that turned into pain.
Two bright and respectful kids we were,
growing up with Bob Dylan's intellectual poetry,
but mine was the waltz of a beautiful song...
with the words of the truest love I had ever written.
Brown and blue eyes would have made green eyes,
blonde and brown hair would have made auburn hair;
nothing but the handsomest boy or even the prettiest girl...
for us to love and proudly share for many happy years ahead.
But who has been your darling since then?
Have you found tenderness in that man?
You Could never understand me even if you tried
Over 10,000 times you've showed me
that you never even looked beyond the glass
I maybe a disgrace who wish to erase
But the pain is so elaborate, all caused
by you, how isn't it embraced for you?
so many tears you let slip, left to die
condoned I am, but only with your voice alone
If you don't care to know me, leave my life
If you think the dark is scary as it shows, leave my life
If you've failed to keep your mind open, leave my life
If you ever thought I was lesser, Leave my Life
A saddest song within me idly pursed
Is lodged in lyrical melancholy.
A muted voice attempts to sing a verse
But only soundless words escape from me.
Its somber composition might as well
Be blank without a pleasing melody.
The lyrics are lost as sinners in Hell.
The couplet verses filled with self-pity.
An aria within my doleful soul;
A piece that never will be heard by ears.
A single opus creation, surreal
And limited, saddening with no tears.
A song without a voice to sing it's sad
Refrain-enough to drive me raving mad.
Hola, I saw her today with a smile, so sweet and fresh
like the milk she nourished me. She sat, on the back
porch, weaving her passion, creating a web of caress,
for this young heart---the black and white pic of a duck.
I sat, not far, watching her eager hands with patience
of a saint, as she stitched the last image, of her mind;
sometimes, she threw looks at me, perhaps her conscience
bothered her, for letting me, me alone, pass the time.
‘Cos for her, occasional strong wind howls that bother
is her savoring concern, not wanting this young heart
to live and be clothed by its un-gentleness, but rather
be warmed by a mantle of love---her passion, her art.
Hola, I saw her today with a smile, so sweet and fresh
like the milk she nourished me, from her own breasts.