Best Burgeon Poems
Variations on the Malay Pantun : The Old Man and the Short Story - VII-IX Continued
for Georges VOISSET, the "Master Keeper-Nurturer" of the Malay Pantun
Check out: www.stateless.mysite.com/Pantouns-20-Aout-2017.pdf
(The pantun line varies between 8 and 12 syllables and is most commonly found in the anonymous quatrain form. Cf " Poietics of the Pantun ", pp. 49-67 in T. Wignesan. Sporadic Striving amid Echoed Voices, Mirrored Images and Stereotypic Posturing in Malaysian-Singaporean Literatures. Allahabad : Cyberwit, 2008, xix-244p.)
VII
The One-Act Play's the favourite Old Men's roman fleuve
Experience shows Old Men how to keep the Wench in hell
They know how to stoke the Imagination with love
They need no how-to softwares to write a novel
VIII
The One-Act Play they say is still Old Men's mainstay
Though on Freytag's Triangle they slip down climax
The Wench cannot make Old Men still come up their way
Not so the Youngster his horns gore Wench's false syntax
IX
The Wench always seeks to milk Old Men in side-burns
Old Men know One-Act Plays don't box-office burgeon
Nor drips invested in banks ensure big returns
Not so the Youngster who banks his bit in oven
© T. Wignesan - Paris, November 11, 2018
Hell-and-gone, my dreams are the bane of angels
Crimped with light, yet ceded to swim in shadows
Darkened wings that tremble with aching portent
Yesterday's heaven
I'm the fool that wandered the Van Gogh grasses
Just a jest, with love made there in the meadow
Callow flesh, thus burning for more than sunlight
Merging in madness
Bright and light, on toe-shoes a girl came dancing
How she twirled, with tempo to set my heartbeats
Dark desires through waterfalls and the moonlight
Joined at the marrow
Life did cleave us, bound to a course its choosing
Washed and swept by fates to a distant shoreline
Breaths and death left nothing to us but distance
Partings, unspoken
'Leave them gone', those angels now softly whisper
Broken dreams are nightmares so left unspoken
Turn your head to sight your eyes on the moment
Wisdom's sweet burgeon.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Sapphic Stanza With A Jux" Poetry Contest, Craig Cornish, Judge & Sponsor.
My people
if only you would see
the beauty in you
if for an instant
feel all the emotions
of the buried love deep inside you
Such a glorious day would burgeon forth
released from all the human anthem
would lift the world
to the heavens
If only you would see
as you were made and meant to be
and from the mires and pits
open the gates
to be released
If you could but comprehend
your potential
AH the world would ring resounding
in such joyous unison
would raise up
all that it is
in grateful salutation
My people
if you would but believe
in you
A shinning future
upon this pedestal of earth would rest
in final liberation
this recognition in tender mercifulness
would come
and all tears be wept in compassion
This is you
my people
Too long all your resilience
given to the struggle
too long shoveled into survival
AH my people, awake
for there is more courage
more fortitude
and more love inside you
than you ever dreamed possible
Awake my people
awake.
When my body begins to burgeon,
I go to see my plastic surgeon.
His magic tucks and nips
will make me smaller hips;
but he just smiles and says, “Stop splurgin'.”
Acts of contrition, on knees if I recount
Beatitudes, eight, sermon on the mount
Charity given, is blessings received
Dalai Lama, a Buddhist deity
Ecumenism, it understands and unites
Fascism erodes individual rights
Gaia, Greek goddess of our mother earth
Heresy, one's belief, another's mirth
Idolatry, the worship of false gods
Jehovahs Witnesses, the sidewalks they trod
Kama, Hindu god of the erotic
Lex talionis, is somewhat exotic
Mary, Christmas holds that she was a virgin
Naturalism, this belief seems to burgeon
Orthodoxy, keeping with old traditions
Penance, requires sin and admissions
Quaker, informal for Society of Friends
Ramadan, are you relieved when it ends?
Sabbath, is it Saturday or the day after?
Talismans, sometimes, subject of laughter
Universalism, bring us together?
Values the thought of happy ever afters
Whatever your dogma, does it really matter?
X amine your heart, reject idle chatter
You should maybe contact your Spirit Guides
Zenith of acceptance with us resides
beautiful photo of the church taken by Jackie on Instagram @jacci_eo
Sugar hill
Placebo pill
Candy cane
Taps on my window pane.
St. Patrick’s Day is a big thrill.
Morning glory
Telling stories.
Birth flower,
In the morning hours.
Smell the flora!
Four leaf clovers
Such a quarry
Findings are two leaves, three.
Sitting in the lea
Telling stories.
Leprechaun gold
Pay the tolls.
Riding bikes with no shoes on.
Having so much fawn.
Life to behold!
_________________________|
Penned March 06, 2015!
Here I stand before creation,
a fleeting flower fragile against the elements…
Intoxicating is my beauty in strength,
for I am a transient in time a floral fugitive…
Demanding devotion and moisture,
a fugacious flaunting fragrance…
Look upon me in brevity,
for my bashful beauty will not last the dawn…
I only exist for your perennial pleasure,
and decay in nature’s nefarious night…
A blossoming burgeon amongst,
the melodic meadows pullulating with pride…
I am the catalyst between lovers,
whose exotic expressions manipulate the amorous air…
The pomposity perfume of the goddesses,
enamoring the euphoric climax.
July.08.2020
The Flower, The Thorn Or Both Poetry
Sponsored by~ Chantelle Anne Cooke
Placed 6'th...Thank You
rushing rapturous rhapsody
I heard since morning light
bathe the dried earth afresh
tumbling on burgeon swells
bulging to bubble breathe
an intoxicating balm, spice
waking sombre sojourners'
sighs ~ ah!
amidst a floating fragrances
tweedles of birdies romping
and so are giggles of chaps
dancing, playing, prancing
the skirt of trees bow languid
tired from onslaught winds
arms weak they fracture a few
yet standing still, up
High! ~
There once was a Scotch lassie called Sturgeon
Who ,in her youth ,was quite a curmudgeon
But when she took over from Salmond
She found that quite calming
And her better nature started to burgeon.
I must refrain from
wearing a mask of depression,
Still retain joy in this deep
recession. Give America a
reason to be, but I must also
decree; that if this world goes
under, society must not
stumble.
But in a dark age of oppression,
we must rise up, and make the
difficult decisions. To keep the
world in disposition, to rise up
and recondition. In this new
world government, we must
rebuild. Reconstruct and regain
tranquility, rather then passing
new bills for these new issues
that arrived because of thee.
We must amalgamate, to
create an environment that is
suitable. For the future of the
commonwealth, retire these
decrepit values, upon which
this country was propagated.
In order for this earth to
burgeon, the earth’s population
must reconciliate. Any being,
man or women, any race
abiding within our communal
purlieus.
For these reasons I must ask
the world to not accept the
future, but instead make a
change to better it. Hopefully
society will never relapse, and
cause another fatal collapse.
DEAD SNAKE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE TRAIL
SNAKE! I see you!
I see you tightly curled around that rock
waiting, in your evilness
to attack a man, passing. Why?
I walk this trail, daily, almost.
It is something I have to do. I
did not see you yesterday. Were you here then,
lurking evilly to get me?
Or were you hunting, as God intended,
to secure your subsistence? Perhaps you were
enjoying Nature's radiance on a sunkissed
asphalt trail, a creature's bliss, sustained by God?
now, here you are - -
DEAD! That rock killed you. It
lay on your head, immorally thrown
by one who hates, or fears you.
It could be nothing less
that caused your death, oh snake.
Primordial fears, shaking hate
casts man into a reality of . . .
Killing snakes. Because . . .
The snake was feared,
The rock was there
and loathing man,
knew no better.
REFRAIN:
(Who else would wantonly kill the creatures of God
until the scent of their beauty, the taste of their bounty,
has dissolved into a wistful dream of barrenness?
Man, the hating antipathy of Nature's burgeon.)
(The Kyoto Protocol, an international
treaty signed in December 1997, commits
member states to reduce their carbon
dioxide emissions. The United States is
the only First World nation not to ratify
the treaty.)
Spend it, squander, swill down, swallow,
waste it, wassail, welter, wallow.
There's no "I" in America.
(Well, maybe one.)
Billow, burn up, bloat and burgeon,
Don't stint (see stomach-stapling surgeon).
There's no "me" in America.
(Well, maybe one.)
Blow up. Bulge. Indulge your senses.
Guzzle, grab, gorge - don't heed no fences.
There's no "crime" in America,
no restraints, no consequences.
(Well, maybe one.)
Let the name be forgotten
Let the skin tone be rotten
Burn the face; kill the looks
Let the identity be unknown
Alone let the wanderer wander
Shapeless; intangible to gusts of emotions
No one to ask; no one to be shown
And beyond the world of bigots,
Who claim to be different but are different
Who smile at face but stab at back
Let the shapeless stray
Let the thoughts prevail and burgeon
Beyond spoilers of I and thee
Let the faceless smile; let the wanderer be free
Ida Oaks
1827-1919
John gave me a good home.
Not one with plumbing and power,
But one with a solid slab, and a full well.
And while living in this Quaker homestead,
We found that life was precise and persistent.
But it pleased me to provide good food, and
Medicinal solace for my meager family.
Through those unyielding years we learned
To accept the twists and turns of fate,
And to continue the never-ending bows to prayer.
Death was a returning customer indeed, but
We learned to be silent, stoic and still,
When sovereign Lord Yeshua silently paid a call.
But we had indeed found paradise out west,
Out here in tranquil Whittier town!
Where it never snows at winter,
And the hills here burgeon with wild flowers!
But God was good to us,
And John worked hard to provide a good life for me.
But, Oh! To smell again, just one more time,
The wonderful heavenly fragrances
Of ten thousand Valencia blossoms,
All crowned with white dancers at springtime!
You can't call back the things you've done,
Nor stop the words you've spoken.
Accusing one another now,
Will not mend pledges broken.
The past is but a memory,
Of old things done and over,
Merely shades of times gone by,
That cannot be lived over.
One cannot live one's whole life through,
Beneath a darksome burden,
To hurl dark spears of wrath o'er long,
Will cause a fearsome burgeon;
A growth that kills the good in life,
And leaves but empty shells;
It's best to leave the past alone,
Just memorys on the shelf.
Judy Ball
"FOR WHERE ENVY AND STRIFE IS, THERE IS CONFUSION AND EVERY EVIL WORK."
James 3:16
It's a lot easier to hurt someone who cares about you than someone who doesn't.
For A Fragment Of Life Contest by Constance LaFrance - Aug. 20.2011