Best Brigands Poems
The Fountain
Where have you been my love
Did the hours slip from the pools of your thoughts
To go wandering heights in vacant skies
Did they capture their images on high
As you floated through the siphoned mist of your dreams
I stood on the golden rim
Where comes this shimmer quiet in your eyes
Did the blessed heavens kiss away your sadness
Flushed you seem with a new coy brilliance
Coquette by your demeanour disregards my question
I drank from a sacred stream
This sleeping softness sensual pressed to warmth
Pervades the corners of your mouth; teasing brigands
Have those loose moments retaliated their freedom
And gathered the snippets of lust once again into ragged ball of passion
I lay naked in the dust
The tip of your finger is playing upon a pharyngeal string; my love
Purring cat you are stretched bare skinned on a Persian rug
Your playful whispers intone in those exquisite curves
Flexing white porcelain opening of slow swan wings
And I held the source spring of my heart
Impatient now edges the tangled slides of your auburn curls
This gesture turns your shoulder; from behind lowered lashes you look
A predator’s toy in scratching claws lays its throat willingly bare
Ready to be devoured by a single word; of love
I stepped from the golden rim
Your palms carry the visions you have seen entranced
Coursing through your touch with eclectic imagery
There is a moment of succumb, of slavery, in you, my love
Relinquishing all but dignity, proud, honest, capitulation and senses devastation
I drink from the eternal fountain
Sire she's been sighted
two miles south of Sinai,
our sentinels say she has brought a river,
her baggage train stretches into the ancient sands,
the envoys of her retinue spoke of marvelous gifts,
beasts and creatures of the Orient
gems that glitter like the eyes of children
summer baskets of gold bullion
and satchels of spice from Siam,
our men said they could smell the barrels of balsam Sire...
To travel with such unmistakable wealth
the Queen must have brought a war machine along,
have desert brigands been spotted near the route...
No my King, no raider encampments have been observed,
just the regular rabble and agape villagers,
it's been confirmed that her associates
are passing to the people pouches of cinnamon...
I don't trust the Egyptians,
they may try to incite the Bedouins to foolhardy thievery,
our Nation's honor demands
that not even the dust of the devil's danger
deign to dry upon the clothes of her most distant servants,
if the House of Zion can secure a partnership
with the trading powerhouse of Sheba
our supremacy over the Babylonians will be indomitable...
I pledge my life, and that of my family's
to her caravan's safety Sire...
So mote it be General,
your loyalty is my blessing,
may it be as strong as the staff of Moses,
dispatch 333 of the Lion's Legion
to reinforce the Queen's guard
and send a circuit of 15 water wagons...
What does a Queen dream of
in the calm desert nights...
I dream of roses melting
into snake bitten hearts,
I've dreamt of citadels broken
by the grips of greed,
I've seen a child walking out of a tomb,
what does a King dream of
in the shadow of paradise...
I dream of thorned stars,
the division of labor and wages,
of priests and Judges
whom wish to rule quietly without blame...
Do you know what thrilled me the most
about the Court reception...
Tell me, my cinnamon Queen...
The seduction of your Servants' silence
as I entered your meticulous throne room...
I understood their awe,
you moved so gracefully,
your body like an ancient lust
your face a flame of royalty...
I think I fell in love with your eyes,
there is something rough about you Solomon,
but your eyes and lips
relay a sweet mercy to me...
Mercy is never free Veronica...
I will pay the price...
We will pay the love cost together...
J.A.B.
A game of musical chairs has just begun in earnest. A pot and kettle band arrives
through the dining rooms’ French doors following the Valentine Queen. A putrid pink
flamingo with a croquet ball stuck in its beak settles it’s derrière onto a fine caramel
leather seat. His humor is short lived. A snort echoes from each of the six bullhorns
forming his head. “Got him that time, you really did, Matilda!” laughed Lucky, the
horn-backed chair. A single, rose-pink, button pops off Matilda’s back and lands in
the hatless brigands’ teapot, just as he is placing a silver tea ball inside. “Ou a le
petite fille?” Matilda groans. Around the far end of the table chasing a set of
disembodied eyes with a cat tail, a girl child runs screeching. “She looks familiar,
don’t she?” Windy whistles beneath the lacy tablecloth, tickling Mattie’s fancy. “Her
name ain’t Louise,” as with a plop, a brigand crushes Laddie’s rushes. The windsor
replies. “Geeeeeeeeez Louise!” the ladder-back mutters, between its back straps. A
top hat flies through the air and landed on the top knob of the lanky ladder backed
chair. The child righted herself, wiping her nose on the errant apron string. She lisps
through the spider web pattern of her seat. “Awww now what a shame,” Mary
whispers to Tex. The loose tails of her apron caught beneath Mary’s rocker and the
child tumbled face forward into a full cup of Assam tea. A girl child resplendent in
golden locks and white pinafore tore into the room planting herself on the caned
ladies rocker Mary. “Mon Dieu” She moans. “Ya’ll see that nasty monster splatter
chocolate icing on my skirt?” A knob kneed, potbellied prig, holding a cupcake,
shoves his way onto Matilda, the little ladies slipper chair. Tex the horned back chair
at the tables girdle chortles. “Do you know who’s been invited to this soiree?” The
rabbit topples over backward, his watch bashing his delicate pink nose. Windy
sneezes.“Aahhh chhhooo!” Tufts of fanny fur tickled between his spokes.
“Good golly Miss Molly,” shrieks Windy the windsor chair at the far end of the table,
as a wild-eyed, white rabbit with a gold watch plunked into his well-worn seat.
*Refer to "The Chairs Have it"
This poem can be read from the backwards too ;)
A sudden awakening,
An urgent hand shaking my shoulder,
Through weary eyes I see the valley blackening,
Their steady thunderous march animates river and boulder,
Allowing only a moment's reprieve in the timid morning light,
Somber clouds and solemn faces,
Ashen skies and scarlet fields,
Shattered shields and fractured maces,
Orphaned swords with scarcely an arm to wield,
The shrieking wind rattling through the city wall's carapace,
Echoed by scouts' shrill cries from atop a battered tower's terrace,
Marking the end of the end,
All eyes turn to me,
Warriors and brigands,
Farmers and merchants,
The infirmed and elderly,
Their condolences and pity cannot allay my crippled conscience,
When staring at my daughter's lifeless body,
I ignite her boat and set it adrift,
Trusting that the flames surrounding her will mimic her father's touch,
Silently praying that my own death will arrive as swift,
And let go this life I tenuously clutch,
So that I may rejoin my wife and daughter,
A deafening crack and the gate is cloven,
Their arrows spurn the sun donning the land in a decade's first night,
With mechanized frenzy they swarm the city,
The rational flee while the courageous fight,
I lay down my weapons,
Embracing my family,
As the first spear pierces me.
RECIPE: “Poulet Roti” French Style - Ballade Le Chant Royal 6
(NOTE: This French “ballade” is being composed on permutations of the number ONE repeated twice, I.e., 11. Eleven syllables to the line in iamb or anapeste, interposed with dactyls, I guess, and of course with the ENVOI added. Eleven lines to the STANZA in eleven in res media “instalments”involving the minutely PERSONAL in interaction with the larger hoi polloi in relation to the STATE and its tentacular authoritarian apparatuses designed to keep the independent INDIVIDUAL always nailed in limbo.) T Wignesan
STANZA VI
“So why don’tya get out of this Third World hell !”
Near-East stronghold now in Maghreb stranglehold
Where Asians and Africans mingle pell-mell
Where the French affix sign-boards on their soil: “SOLD!”
The moonlight flit now turned to Indian rope trick
Where East Europeans come thick and homesick
To join the ranks of those from South-Euro lands
Who make much of the Far Right extremist brigands
Les français de souche* still commute to keep jobs
Like they once nostalgic did in foreign lands
The migrant refugee does odd jobs and robs
ENVOI
French lasses push prams with babes sunburnt inlands
No Tariq Ali* need turn back for want of bans
May the World colourless be sans hapless gods
Or will it taken over be by hooligans
The migrant refugee does odd jobs and robs
*Les français de souche: the French of stolid French ancestry.
*Tariq Ali, the Berber Moor alighted on the rock of Gibraltar, in 709 C. E. , with 30,000 horsemen, and by 711 had over-run the Iberian Peninsula, but Abdul Rahman al-Gafiqi, the Governor General of al-Andalus, who tried to extend the conquests further into Europe was halted in his tracks by the Frank Charles Martel at the Battle of Poitiers/Tours in 732.
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
In the season of the ballot
He came on his knees
Like a servant and saint
He sought to be crowned leader
He reminded us of his humble breeding
In the creeks of our land
He was our very own
And so, we chanted slogans
In the hinterland and on the highways
We had found our servant leader
The true Man of the citizens had come
To do the will of WE THE PEOPLE
And so, we chanted from dawn to nightfall
We had found the one to bring down
The torsos of former despots
That sting our eyes from accursed daises
Along roads they refused to tar
And so, we defied the scorch and downpour
To defend the ballots to secure his mandate
With his left hand on the Holy Book
And the right raised to the Heavens
He swore to lead us like none had done before
Then he entered the Palace and inhaled the air
Then he tasted the food and drank the wine
Then he sat on the sofa and laid on the bed
Then he slept and arose with roses at his feet
Then the spirit of the palace possessed him
In a short sequence our very own was altered
We who chanted on the streets and the creeks
Became brigands in his eyes and had to be quelled
Before our eyes, the servant leader turned sovereign
The servant leader turned builder of statues
He brought down busts of former lords and planted
On pothole-riddled bridges horrid statues of himself
In every town, large and small stood a statue of him
Made of limestone, wood, bronze, marble and clay
He likened his images to that of the Redeemer
And those of Liberty and the Sphinx
Upon all his name is engraved
Those who dared not to worship the sovereign leader
Were sentenced to piteous fates
What men labored for decades to build
He pulled down by decree between the sun and moon
Once a Man of the Citizens, the servant leader
Sought immortality by abolishing the ballot
To attain everlastingness, he opened the vaults
And the lords proposed that he be beatified
Even while blood flowed in his veins
Thus, the servant-leader became a Saint among us
Now, having long abandoned the companion of his youth
He sought our wives and daughters to quench his lust
But the curses of our naked Mothers spoke for us
Alas! We hear the servant-leader pleads for mercy
But to forgive him will be counted as sin unto us
For he betrayed the trust of WE THE PEOPLE
Imagine ships glissading into harbour,
their masts scraping the sky, sails aloft,
billowy, like great bird wings fluttering.
Captains navigate their ships into port,
return voyages that crossed the seven seas,
riding the waves, north and south, east and west
from Jamaica to London to Timbuktu,
ship holds filled with bananas, sugar, rum
and molasses from sunny far-off lands.
Wives awaiting husbands’ safe return home,
pacing the widows walk, reading letters
sent months ago, hint of hardships and
menaces at sea that fuels anxiety:
imaginations run wild, spiralling –
fierce brigands besieging vessels at sea;
sudden squalls threaten ships, tossed to and fro,
waves like a leviathan, thrashes and roils,
wrecks run aground, pummelled by pounding surf.
Snapped down shirts, scuffed up boots
Puffing larger than life chests
Dime-store pokes, showing colors
Peacock struts and sailor jokes
Twangs from the jukebox
Begging for two-steps
Cheap draws flowing
Cue sticks chalked and
Propped on end.
Balls on the felt waiting to roll in corners
A quick spit, one more shot of Crow
Then eyeing, sizing, and circling like
Brigands in the woods,
Angling the bank, then with a bend
And swift slide of stick-
One stripe in the pocket
Quick tilt of hat, a strut and swell
Another snap-click and cue ball falls
Side glance and a snort
One quick shove and the gloves are off
Suds, fists, and blood
Well hell... Another good night ends with
"Last call for alcohol!"
Just 'fore words formed inside my head
as my mother put me to bed
her sweet voice would rhyme to lull me
tales of children wild and misled.
Who ran and played and sang and danced
deep in teepees as in a trance.
Or climbing atop the walls of castles
dueled with broom stick used as lance.
The children’s hour was our time
to kiss and snuggle laugh and sigh.
And she taught me of Paul Revere
of his rushed ride with red coats nigh.
So many Longfellow tales told
of bold, real or imagined feats
that never did I want her voice
to stop or pause or to repeat.
Tennyson could tell a tale of
charging brigands in full retreat.
But, none could met the glory of
Longfellow’s stories so replete!
*Longfellow wrote Hiawatha, The Chidren's Hour, and Paul Revere's Ride
among dozens of other poem stories. In the 1920's children were taught
history through the use of poetry.
Yesterday,
It was just yesterday in September,
He was laid to rest in golden casket,
Though he lived a golden life to deserve more.
Yet as men do,
The celebration of hypocrites comes after the death of kings.
Rare Wig gawk the myriads in honor, a true luminary.
Yesterday,
It was just yesterday,
He was Jailed for truth by criminals who deserves his fetters,
hunted and tortured by oppressors and the monster in Minna,
Resisting illegality where chickens bowed in shame,
Berated like common criminal by state sponsored arm and brigands,
Yesterday,
It was just yesterday,
He roared in courts against oppressors, despising the hazards of detention
A burning passionate loathing of poli-tricks of established criminals,
Exposing furtive murderer, masquerading as President in the Rock
Gani, Renown, revered, amongst true patriots.
Yesterday,
It was just yesterday,
He was stripped of a long deserved honor,
Senior Advocate of the Nation (SAN).
Yet Honored by Students, as
Senior Advocate of the Masses (SAM).
Yesterday
It was Just Yesterday,
The Tyrant of Minna, confined him to Military incarceration at Apapa,
The dark dome where he lost his eyes,
abandoned by the masses whom he suffered to protect,
Tyrants shirked to disdain the true leader of the masses,
Scholars rose over their stupidity and proclaimed him
The First SAM, though murdered for Truth
Yesterday,
It was just yesterday,
He pierced their conscience, with a party
To revive the dignity of leadership by a single involvement
Alas, Gani was rigged out by the oppressors who still hold on to power.
evil men wearied Gani to his grave,
Ganiyu Oyesola Fawehinmi,
You won in our hearts, though denied by the criminals
Yesterday,
It was just yesterday,
He was numbered with great world changers
Like, Mandela, Luther,
Will be remembered not only as mere Lawyer,
SAM or SAN in sand
But as a true fighter,
an indefatigable orator,
with an unswerving ardor,
defender of the oppressed,
the voiceless poor masses,
It was Just Yesterday,
sleep on Gani
Silence
is
The silent yet lousily kneading minds
To the quiescent stormy thought
Silent, yet choruses noiselessly on callused hands
Amen on the lips of pagan, frightened fingers at the feet of the tyrant
Silence speaks
The noiseful nudge,
Grenades in the grin
of errant unworthy fathers
What silence says is loud
Across the disappearing lawns of life
Mangled by few wayward clones
I hear from the distance
The laughter of once somnolent silence
as the land is baked stiff by brigands
Silence eternally shall crown their lust
In the abyss of thunderous lashes
How will eyes take these sights of our page into your head...brimming us into shape,
Shapening us into a Perfect and Humble salient form,
We gave time for much Travel,Leisure and more of our attending grace,
Highands,No sights of second world war Brigands...Sahara,Sahel,Atacama and Two salient
hold downs.
The days are drawing nigh For Roman Ranks...Spartan hands...Laity of peace,
Those Jabociks,Bejovics,Seignors and Two plates of Mastedons,
All washed down with half a glass of strng "Jacob's Troubles-On-The-Rocks",
Is that my callup to a more Imperial post of 'Two Royal seats and a crown' How good how
Comely...let's thank God for his Awesomeness,His grace and In our life HIS Radiant FACE.
Nucleic fused words...Fragile was what they labeled it,
Agile was the very Verb your Human Monkeys use to keep guard on Earth's Territorial
Jagged Fronters,
Science and Ficton who endorsed the patent to Run-on two like..and Unlike poles.
The evident Race against a Heart's Pace.
Welcome to the British isles, where cash is flowing
Where much resides, history on every side of killer
Kings and queens provide, a tapestry of style and wiles
Villan's and villein and many wreckers; rode tides; attuned to
The chance to profit as much, was all their integrity as such
These brigands did thrive, just as long as the lord wardens
Purse, got more than a song? i e; reimbursed' collaterol does open doors
As many a knight, and damsel and burghers have sworn upon
Like those who rested at saltwood; just before they got to
Canterbury grand, on holy stones they stalked a man.' And
Slaughtered Thomas saint of God, then reported to henry
Of tudor blood, and so it was..Come and see the ancient
Walls, and briney sea, here normans landed and saxons
Fought.' Celts forged metal and Romans did route, and built
The roads, as arrows straight up and out' to Yorks
City gates, where vikings shouts once rang out' along the river Ouse, they husbanded cattle, and and fasioned shoes.' Here cash is welcome
In the modern day, here freedom is valued.' Despite the
Rage and run; of hostile agents, and past lockdowns glum, some despot
Would be's are in the wings, poisened of tounge with
Readied slings, yet never mind, come in freedoms name
Unleash some cash, and get some heritage in your veins.'
Antiestablishmentarian inherent malevolent violence
wracks human species, a most brutish and nasty beast.
An embittered nihilistic teenager
grown haggard and old,
hence not surprisingly yours truly
crafts pseudo dystopian reasonable rhyme.
An evangelized atheistic adherent,
I aver evolutionary theory
posits prelapsarian Eden
of astonishing plentitude
gone to hell in a handbasket.
Ever since human species stood erect
exhibiting prehensile appendages did allow
cupped fingers upon brow,
whereat vista unveiled to succor chow.
Dawn of consciousness begat
superstitious vagaries daunting
present day Democrat
and/or Republican to issue fiat
denouncing extremist militant uprising
raging across Capitol Hill habitat.
2021 presidential inauguration
today January twentieth
(broadcast right now)
augurs horrific repeat January sixth,
when bedlam and mayhem
rocked Washington District of Columbia,
where hoodlums ran amuck lionizing violence.
Lawlessness bled constitution white
marauding bands of hooligans
bombarded, desecrated, fueled,
harmed, jackknifed, leveled, nailed,
pummeled, rioted, terrorized, vandalized...
with glee and spite
yielded windfall regarding
headline grabbing newsnight
motley film crews recorded
gangsters scaling storied height
(cue spiderman/woman)
think rescuers quick
as greased lightning they did alight.
If only real and/or
fictional life action heroes/heroines
came to the rescue
to avenge forces of evil,
where virtue dispensed,
and trumpeted courtesy better angels.
Meanwhile indefatigable defenders
of human rights
dole out just desserts
upon the heads
of self styled lawless brigands
militaristic thugs hell bent
to wreak havoc
upon cradle of liberty
including complex edifices
linkedin and embody
blood, sweat and tears
of freedom fighters
arrayed against merciless
demonic forces upending
foundation upholding enshrined
nearly divinely inspired principles
quantum leaps since
early man/woman trod
across terrestrial firmament.
I experienced exhilaration
upon witnessing confirmation
genuflection, liberation, restitution
espoused by Joseph Robinette Biden Jr.
forty sixth president of United States.
The weather is chill and pleasant
Diwali fervor is round the corner
Yet my soul is not in synch
My mind doesn’t budge to tyranny
Will there be a cracker of a time
When firecrackers are banished
No: age cannot wither her;
Nor custom stale; in her infinite glory
Goddess Lakshmi is supreme!
Despots on prowl for exploits
State in cahoots with alien drill
It isn’t the strength of enemy
It is about Hindu gone astray
Having an unholy union
Diwali is victory of good over evil
It is about destroying the wicked
It is against villains spewing venom
It dispels gloom and darkness!
The smoke from burning embers
In the stomach of a billion Hindu
Will soon balloon to a wrath
The impact of which will witness
“Narakasura” perishing soon
Satyabhama’s ire will cause fire.
Charred bodies will lay strewn
Casting ultimate indignity fo
vexatious brigands.
Diwali is the Festival of Lights
It is knowledge to counter ignorance
Diwali is a festival of hope and happiness
It rings in prosperity to all
A very colorful event that
Usher cheer in people’s life!