Best Analysts Poems
Military and civilian linguists and intelligence analysts, my colleagues and I were monitoring the Balkans troubles, supporting our troops in theater 'down range'. We were working the 'Mids' shift from 11 pm till 7 am at Bad Aibling Station--formerly a military intelligence site. I had read that we were in the western European zone that would experience a total eclipse of the sun that morning. One of the other Serbo-Croatian linguists had a car on post. I voiced the thought "wouldn't it be cool if we drove out to Mount Wendelstein and saw the eclipse from up there?!". He and another agreed. After shift we drove to the base of the mountain, and decided to hike the trail to the top rather than pay to ride the cable car up. Many Bavarians had the same idea, and it was somewhat crowded on the summit. When the eclipse was finally full, it was like standing on shadowy clouds surrounded by a large ring of light--eery, bizarre, and colder than anticipated both due to the elevation and darkness. Two minutes and twenty-six seconds of totality. I had goose bumps for several reasons, and could understand why primitive man would have been so terrified of the experience. Returning back to base, we learned that it had been overcast down there; so local people only saw it get dark, but missed the actual eclipse. However, three Sergeants had been in the right place at the right time, to see the first total eclipse in Europe in forty years, and last one of the twentieth century....August 11th, 1999.
What a name called?
Football a game called,
To known arena called stadium,
Played eleven to eleven side to side each,
Formations of it kinds,
Aims of a two goal post net,
Aims of a trophy,
Aims of winning,
In a color Jersey of its kinds,
In a color booths of it kinds,
Side to side balls picking sons round,
Spectators sat rounding pitch watching,
Centered with a nominated referee officiating,
Lined with a two lines men flagged,
Officials of substitutions in questions,
Pronounced by named commentators,
Red and yellow cards rules in question,
Supported keys of volunteers,
Supported with all sorts of supporters,
Declared a stadium manager jobs,
Declared a team manager jobs,
Host the nations, Host the world,
At moment of a country designated!
At moment of a country authorized!
Called for all practitioners....
Photographers, Cinematography, Press, Medias, Adverts, Sponsors, critics, etc. centred.
What a name called?
Football! football! ! football! ! !
A rounded leather circled!
Circled in its color of its choices,
Declared fifa authorities,
Declared statistical over all game,
Respect covered face to face,
Stretchers officials in uniforms of its officials medications,
Football a game called,
With boots of its kinds worn,
Saddled a whole lot supporters,
Saddled a whole lot analysts,
Presumption for a nation's glory,
Preemptive individuals' desirably for survival,
Football a game called,
Called to the passionate in spirit,
Football a game called,
Embrace understanding to unnamed,
Embrace love to unloved,
Embrace unity to diversities,
Embrace creativity to un-creativity,
Football a game called,
Adore a nature,
Football a game called,
Called to a glorious home,
Football a game called,
A rounded leather circled!
With boots of its played,
With jersey of its kinds,
With choices of many kinds,
Football a game called.
Thronged investors at the allotment bazaar
Large cap bearish
Scripts at fall.
Awaited ingenious and expertise capitalists
Then brought into
Scripts at down.
Mid Cap bullish
Scripts at rise
Wavered SENSEX
And small cap ingress
Gives the once over like a cliffhanger rise.
Beginners rapacity and analysts variegations
Former’s paucity and latter’s accrued funds.
Pulled blue chips
Superior position
And more towering price
Then again a new firm
Offering a bid price.
Broker’s commission and depositories dematerialization
Varied revenue
Over investors capitalization.
Inflation hikes and deflation brought down
Again a widespread decline in the GDP
Brought the whole market to pull down.
Analyst’s accrued funds and NIFTY’s superbia
Top thirties jackpots and investors allocations,
Sharply jerked down.
Brainsick market
And a quidity beer bar,
A full-time financial express
And the morning tea NDTV regular.
Beginners’ luck to fill the pot
And a period later
The crow sated the piggy bank pot.
-------------- X -------------------
If you stick your neck out for a friend, you’re likely to lose your head.
A friend is a potential enemy in disguise as a loving wife just before vowing ties.
Friends are of all kinds but the kind you want them to be.
A friend you use is a friend you abuse and who has no use of you.
The friend you call upon in need is always in greater need.
If you give a friend an helping-hand, make sure you take it back as soon as you can.
If you trust your friend with your girl, you’re the biggest dope in the world.
When friends meet, they always talk about beating meat.
If you take a friend to dine, make sure he leaves his horse behind.
The friend with daughters is the kind you wished sported blinkers.
A friend who works in banks, we always drop in - in person - to say thanks.
The friend’s wife even if she’s a bad cook is no chinook to hook.
If friends go on vacation with their wives, they always know who connives.
Friends who live close-up always end-up in the lock-up.
A friend with an axe to grind always uses it on some friend’s uterine.
A friendly father is one who takes a lasting interest in his daughter’s girl friends.
A friend who loans you some dough is always knocking on your door.
Only a friend who walks his dog picks the hour your wife goes out for a jog.
A friend at your beck and call must be wondering why you don’t him enthrall.
A friend by any other name is a still a friend you can put to shame.
A friend is someone you can entrust your shame with, but never your fame.
Keep your distance from the friend who shouts in your face for it’s a downright disgrace he spits in your face.
Friends who work for rival companies tend to share daily work memories.
Friends who work in different embassies are thick as thieves.
The greatest friends are those married couples with very large families who realize far too late they are/were really homo-sexuals.
Friends who give one another too many presents ought to look for friends who only give presents.
The best friends are those who need no psycho-analysts for they can see each other without waiting for appointments.
Childhood friends always end-up wishing their friends on other friends.
A friend of a friend always turns up for a spend or a lend.
Long lost friends who meet to go out for the night leave behind wives happy, whallop-py and tight.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
these brick bound boxes
fill this equinox of smart headed people
of these independent achievable people
critical analysts of this 21 century
ready to be presentable to the unmighty
smaller population of antisocial teenage children
willing them to be
not to be free, but inside these brick bound boxes
that fill the human intelligence with total
literate irrelevance to who we should be
to who can be
ultimately like them
filled in these brick bound boxes
with mental instimulance
of a mix of lies, creation and motives
see, I don’t have a problem with any of them
just these brick bound boxes that hold them
hold this unforgettable willing mind
of someone we chose to leave behind
in these brick bound boxes
that encompass first the mind and then the soul
but who wants all this control?
society can speak of a whole.
an incredible strong mental image
of how life is to be--
within these brick bound boxes.
My life isn’t based in these brick bound boxes
but it soon will
creating a song of the monotone dead
longing to be passed on from generation to generation
but can't you see
can't you forget that this is not who we ought to be
unless we need to spontaneously combust
in this equinox till it metastasizes
catastro sizes to an everlasting dust
even you must ought to smell the musk.
So tell me, how do thee?
how do thee live with these brick bound boxes
filling up every empty not-yet-set concrete whole
implying of who you are before you could even
have some kind of control over yourself
its swept under the rug.
no biggie, you're just a kiddie
no actual value to this reality
yet before you can buy alcohol
and I’m someone to sound big
I just don’t want to fill these lonely brick bound boxes
where the death of every living will cease to be a beginning
in this equinox of the everlasting dust,
so do you must, live in these brick bound boxes?
You want it all.
The lakes and tar sands
Fresh water and fish
Arctic diamonds
Pipelines that confine
The caribou
And make the hunt ridiculous.
Forests for the churning
Of lusty, gossip press
And row houses
Like card houses
In six figure excess.
You set the price
You peg the share return
You fudge prospectus
Upon contingent prospectus.
You eyeball Brazil’s rubber
Argentina’s beef
And the yen’s stability.
Look for bottom line
In a bombshell.
You feed the college factories
With student debt
And prevarication.
You ruin IT marvels of innovation
With the barbs of bribed analysts.
You forestall needful medicines.
Your food franchises gorge your towns
And starve your staffs.
You stuff the sanctuaries
With hype and lifestyle
And trendy powerless slogans.
And dandle politicians
Like Punch and Judy.
But no one is laughing.
Moving jobs like pawns off-shore.
Buying justice by the pound.
You are the ravening
And the implacable.
You kill this place
In increments.
Chanting with pounded fist
“Business is business”.
And the odd one of us
Builds a cabin in the bush
And marvels at the night music
And lights.
Heart problem? That's common to all; and nobody is exempted!
"I'm well; I'm healthy." You and I can declare such, when prompted...
Yet... the nagging question keeps on reverberating - - -
Like you, I'll face it - not resisting; and then, deal with it... unrelenting.
“The heart of the problem,” the analysts say
“…is the problem of the heart*.” I agree anyway
For out of the heart are life’s issues verily…
Thus is what God’s precept affirms assertively.
Today, I’m yielding myself to the heart Doctor
My Creator, life’s Designer, Operator
For Him to reveal my lingering heart ailment
That I ignore, deny, hide with guilt’s settlement.
Here am I, under the heart Expert’s scrutiny
Exposing common heart aches’ source that seems tiny;
Oh, how I cringe in pain as He names what’s the main…
In my inward parts there sits on the throne the villain.
Diagnosis shows pride exalting self’s glory
Highlighting selfishness’ ecstatic victory
Revolving around the I, me, myself and mine
With envy, covetousness, and greed next in line.
Midst the heart Specialist’s examination
I’m failing… and now fainting in deep exhaustion…
Gripped am I with feelings of doubt, confusion, shame
Though hurting, I come to God; His healing – I claim.
Now, I admit my severe heart-infirmities
And receive His cleansing for my impurities
“Lord, I thank Your mercy, grace, love that never lack
To safeguard me surely from fatal heart attack.”
*Psalm 19:14 Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of my heart, be acceptable in thy sight, O LORD, my strength, and my redeemer.
May 4, 2018
2nd place, "What Do We Have in Common" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Kim Rodrigues; judged on May 21, 2018.
I do not like the atheists and the pagans
Nor the slutty politicians or butterfly political analysts
With the religious people whom I now hate to talk with
I could give you all the reasons one by one
But I do not care the whole world
I do not see films or listen to songs as such
If the concerned people do not care me, too
And do not read my poems
I would not be a sad man
As I have alreaday left them in the lurch
It does not mean I am alone
And face the wolves of loneliness
Here I am with my darling
On the bank of my life playing with my mind in solitude.
(Here, Clark Gable is speaking.
Gaylord Langland was the character
he played in the just-completed
movie. "Trotsky" is his nickname
for Arthur Miller and the "little
girl" is Marilyn Monroe. Gable did
not attend the wrap party and died
of a hreat attack the following day.)
Gaylord
Everything just happened wrong.
It'll do that, sometimes.
A movie set is like a ship, I guess.
Some are happy, some not.
I'll skip the party.
I've seen enough,
and I'm feeling kind of rough.
Trotsky? I won't bad-mouth the guy.
He knows so many things,
but he doesn't know women.
It was sad to watch him try.
When a woman decides, inside,
to pass on you, you're screwed.
Not even dynamite will do.
I told him, "Don't cling.
Stop thinking you can change things."
His intellect is all he had,
and he certainly deployed it.
But pain is part of the deal.
Can't none of us avoid it.
The little girl? We had a fling.
She's not like anybody thinks.
The brassy, buxom *****
is some ad-man's creation.
She's a brittle little child.
Her skin is too thin.
You cut your hand, she feels it.
In my philosophy,
it's a simple equation:
they pay me, I show,
ready to go. I don't know
why they need these
analysts and therapists.
Business before show.
She asked a bunch of stuff,
couldn't get enough.
Wanted my suggestions.
Hungry to hear about Harlow,
got me over a barrel
on Yvonne De Carlo.
Even asked about Carole.
I said, "Easy, Harietta.
You'll never know a man better
by asking him questions.
She’s a pretty little cottage with a pretty picket fence
She snuggles in the forest where the trees grow tall and dense
A gravelled path runs by her so the mailman can deliver
But nothing gets delivered now, since something made him shiver
The pretty little cottage isn’t pretty all the time
Something happens anytime no sun nor moon does shine
It’s only meant to happen on those starless, moonless nights
When logic takes a hike and someone turns out all the lights
Only owls and bats and big eyed creatures get to see
What happens when this happens in low visibility
The ivy, bramble and the nettle overrun the walls
While cobwebs fill the window frames to tuneless, haunting calls
Inside in total darkness something dead and awful moans
But no one, once the sun goes down, should hear these ghoulish groans
Of course its true that in the daytime our sun never dips
But neither should the mailman come… during an eclipse
*
But no one really knows what happened on that dark, dark day
The quacks and all the analysts could never make him say
He muttered that he listened to the chorus of the lark
And then repeated these two words, “The dark, the dark, the dark!”
*
So when the light returns and all the weeds and cobwebs clear
And there’s no mailman there to tell you to what there is to fear
Then anyone who ventures through the trees so tall and dense
Will find a pretty cottage with a pretty picket fence.
Am I not An American?
I listen to the news
I hear all the political views
The analysts give numbers and statistics
This is all really, quite fantastic
They don’t even ask me
I don’t matter personally
I am just a statistic it seems
Insignificant in the larger scheme
I just don’t understand
Why do I live in this land?
Am I not an American?
We’re sixty five years behind the times
Our healtcare in the naiton is a crime
People die because insurance they cannot buy
Just as the politicians why
The have all kinds of excuses
To then you and I are useless
Unless of course they want our vote
Then suddenly we are in the same boat
Why do I live in the land?
I just don’t understand
Am I not an American?
The Supreme Court said Healthcare was constitutional
But politicians are just too damn institutional
Why should they get healthcare free?
It’s a conspiracy, don’t you see
It’s that that they’re against the law
Therein lies the Congressional flaw
The institution of politics
Play cheap partisan tricks
Why am I in this land?
I just don’t understand
Am I not an American?
It won’t matter when we die
They’ll just get a vote from some other guy
Why should they care?
It just isn’t fair
Why do I live in this land?
I just don’t understand
Am I not an American?
Therapy didn’t work for me
It was like thousands of branches from a tree
Therapy was a morbid curse
This repetitive syndrome made me worse
It made perfect sense to my analysts head
But wasn’t time well spent and left me tense
It just raped my mind and left me behind
More backwards threats than forward steps
I don’t know why it didn’t help
Intentions were good but just wasn’t felt
Maybe I needed therapy after therapy
Although a constant supply might be wasted on me
Now for the conclusion of the brain intrusion
If it works for you and you believe it’s true
Stops you being sad and feeling bad
Then who am I to say otherwise about this clever disguise
Am I beyond help?
Or need things more clearly spelt
Maybe I need to find my own way
Or am I cursed and my pains here to stay
It's always a cacophonous crowd
That speaks out loud
When India loses a match
Or a fielder misses a catch
There are over three billion analysts
Who vehemently argue with raised fists
They talk about batting order blunder
Or announce sudden change of player asunder
Many find faults with the coach
And with impunity his private area encroach
"Players are not in form" someone shouts
And loudly asks captain's whereabouts
The time we waste on analysing cricket
If we invest the same in creative endeavour
India would soon become a superpower!
I was about nine when I got Rusty, a brown and white bundle with a black saddle; a beagle with a happy-go-lucky spirit and a soul of pure gold. He wasn’t quite like old Snoopy, Charlie Brown’s beagle though he did have a lot of bird friends. Through summer days, we wrestled and played, I’d toss a stick and he’d bring it my way; he didn’t quite get it that he had to let go, so I could throw it again. I’ve had so many pets since Rusty’s passing; all of them special in their own way; I have been blessed.
dog
is God spelled backwards –
love
Rusty was pure love in a bundle of fur; the best friend I had in those days as, my human best friend had moved away; I could always rely on Rusty to take up the slack.
animals are
emotional life support –
analysts
1.Virtue does not-kill; committing
yields other sins.
2.Sharing, guarding, available bread,
succeeds collected wisdom.
3.Better not-slaying first,unique
truthfulness comes next.
4.Holy-books’ right path, unthinking
virtuous not-kill beings.
5.Among feared renounced, fearing
not-killing is supreme.
6.Devouring-death uncross life-days of
followers of not-killing.
7.Never kill to save
thy loose life.
8.Slaying some one gainful
wise earning scornful.
9.Analysts of slaying reward
all slayers worthless.
10.Wise recognize slayers by
sicky soreful look.
…………………………………
Dedicated to Thiruvalluvar(31B.C), the author in Tamil
Translated by S.Kandasamy, MUSIRI, TAMILNADU, INDIA
Published in poetrysoup.com on 15-12-13