Delectable daze
aligned aesthetic
shimmered swoon
of
bespoke ripples
svelte meander
induced isthmus
vapour vaulting
veracity stoic
conscious cognizant
bard assimilating
aureate archways
seismic
rendered relish
goading effervescent
literary lullaby
interwoven
opportune foramen
tinctured chasm
or otherworld
fractured frisson
bejewelled
template tempter
sonic madrigal
enticing
creative lunge
toward tiered
vanilla visuals
for
ethereal lyric
deft minstrel
of
fermented finesse.
lithe moulder
authorised pen
swimming
enigmatic estuaries
whilst
dance retinue
sunshine swathes
pivotal pirouette
spawning
erudite enjambment
satin weave
gossamer lens
whose
amaranthine fixed
focus eschews
bland doggerel
instead
chatoyant cynosure
replenished quill
lacquers
indigo imbued
bunting’s warble
inducing
hypnotic portrait
surreal verse
delirious
weave web
unravelled
dream denouement
of
epic entablatures
The recent, decent, authorised remaster -
now deeper, fuller, meaningfully vaster,
it’s done its fifty years – this one’s a laster!
I don’t care if you’re reggaeton or Rasta,
you worship Satan, Seti, Zoroaster -
just play this baby for your priest or pastor –
it’s early Fleetwood Mac, but cooler, faster –
so get it grooving on your ghetto blaster!
Abandon Grand Theft Auto, drop your Dune,
and scrap your Patti Smith and Patti Boone:
just get more Gilmour (boy, that boy can croon!)
and Roger Waters, nicely out of tune:
the rest is paltry. Daltrey’s picayune.
I’ll meet you on the Dark Side of the Moon!
What meaning do you give
To lips moving up and down again?
Torn clothes, a broken nose
Drawing a smile on your face with pen
Different ages, different years
A target for abuse, told to refrain
Inside a system punishing the innocent
For going against the grain
Stalking you into a corridor
Eyes from blue collars are eager
To watch as water is thrown in the face
From a foe weak and meagre
Stealing from the weak
This is how it is perceived
Innocent, yet in suspension
Another persecutor craving attention
Together they form a team on a court
Not to play games but to instil fear
To attack those who cannot stand up for themselves
To those who seek approval, merely a sport
A foundation harnessed at home
Anger authorised by a lack of affection
Take responsibility for your child
And for their perception
A foreign remittance is still memorable.
At that time condition was not bit favourable.
A lot of details and queries.
I couldn't reach my branch.
Every moment a new rule my bank's launch.
Foreign branch performed its role.but my own branch can't be ignored.
No reply on my emails it's strange.
After manager's cooperation environment got change.
Foreign branch provided me number.
The number belongs to chief manager.
My branch needs to give a forwarding letter.
The letter authorised by chief manager.
I texted about the remittance need.
Next day unfortunately manager sir took leave.
I tried to convince him that I am geniune.
And wanted a favour for remittance soon.
Finally he accepted my application from email.
the remittance becomes a story tale.
Next day I got forwarding letter ,
My manager was nice but a bit loyal administrative nature.
But the importance really lies in his signature.
He signed and things become resolved.
Finally the remittance mystery was solved.
life is one
all of a piece
everywhere
a life of obediencr
a devotion to detail
we have
but one priest
amongst our prirsthood
of all
access through
Him
within the curtain
to stand &minister
in the Lords name
&rest
content with
the prophetic word
a sense
of divine providence
fruitfulness
peace
as we live
responsively
made
accessible
attainable&
assured
leaving justice
to God in equity
divinely authorised
at onement
covered
caring for the vulnerable
living the created way
in a pure
society
all of a piece
IF ever I had a country : XXIII-XXIV
XXIII
IF ever I had a country
And if ever I were but the Home Secretary
I wouldn't sit on my baked beans doing my level-best to avoid responsibility
While waiting to pat myself on the back on Bastille Day down the Champs Elysée
I'd keep both public and pubic forces from running rampage on every refugee
But set about tidying the House with bleach to rid oath-taking secret skullduggery
That is, if ever I were but the Home Secretary
And even if I never ever had no country
XXIV
IF ever I had a country
And if ever I were but the Interior Secretary
I'd neither arrogate nor take for granted Hobbes's Leviathan-authorised cruelty
I'd seek and demolish local townships' self-appointed chief mafiosi
Who undermine hotel-maids with virile World Bank authority
Who add to the You-Too Hall of Fame Hollywood-producer community
That is, if ever I were but the Interior Sec in Gay Paree
And even if I never ever had no country
© T. Wignesan - Paris, July 10, 2018
From up here
hung between horizons
just below the clouds
time stands still
far below, far away
humanity is teeming
the silent wind is humming
Am I a fool on a hill?
Looking up from the valley floor
The mountain loomed and I felt small
The urge to climb, to conquer all
to reach the sky, escape, explore
Up into the wind like a fly on the wall
to a world of rocks and moor
alone, afraid like a fool
On top of the world
my conquest tamed
The world laid out before me
a town in my giant hand
rain and light fall together
between the sunset and the dawn
The table-cloth is folded
patterned with felt fields, toy trees
A train crawls by in miniature
I am king of it all
my eyes explore the view
of my world
Sheep ignore me
and this place will not notice when I am long gone
The streams will still sing
the sky still run
We come and go
as if we own the place
authorised by pride
But the earth rolled over again
for another day
without us
and a fool went home
some the wiser
A holy war
blessed and authorised by the clergies,
condemned and opposed by God.
day and night cities shed blood,
enraged crusaders fight,
for a course wedded to indoctrination.
"give your life or die" they chant,
having more passion for evil,
in the name of the Lord, they destroy,
justifying black for white, sanity for insanity.
killing creatures in mortal frame,
littering peaceful deserts with corpse.
mad crusaders, use your sense!
GANGSTER’S MOLL
The gangster’s moll now exists
Beyond the proffered film season
Impeaching authorised fiction
With cries, and real tears. For
She and the boss presumably didn’t care
To penetrate the mysterious body
Of God in the Universe, preferring
Hot shots, to the ultimate betrayal.
Of people they grew up with, she doesn’t tease
The short-circuit of big questions, just shrugs
And accepts his disappearance, like cash
Running in and out of a wallet.
Doesn’t take it to heart or too hard,
But she’s praying to get the kids’ hands off the gun.
(c) Rosemarie Rowley
From IN MEMORY OF HER
Is poetry only meant for teaching what is time-honoured
what is authorised
what seeks not to rock the ship of fate
Part Six
Helas! My universally-renowned peerless ancestor!
I’d like to think
You’d be the first to have recognized the always changing world
The first to have accepted the parting of ways
For your intelligence your foresight and hindsight
Your immensely powerful quill
would have sought other remedies
other means to convince
a wayward world
a world far too gone and worldly-wise
to hatch the nuances of your admonishing word
all afresh
N’empêche your name is a comet
hurtling down the ages
©T.Wignesan, December 2001, Paris, France (from the Sequence: "Words for a Lost Sub-Continent", 1999 )
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