Best Busts Poems
That Andrea’s a devil.
Would you ever guess
a pointed tail lies well-hid
underneath her dress?
And don’t you know it’s with red
that she paints her hair?
(Camouflage for two horns
covered up in there.)
While good folks are dreaming of
mansions. . . .she is not.
She’s just basking in the sun
where it’s nice and hot.
Thinking she’s some unicorn
sipping at a brook.
Instead, she’s in her bed with. . .
a grisly horror book.
And her fascination with
numerology;
Now doesn’t that sound “fishy?”
Or is it just me?
Acting like a little imp
almost every day,
she becomes annoyed if life
is more work than play.
Whining on the internet
of her small bad luck
while her hubby busts his butt
driving semi-truck.
Yes, Andrea’s a devil
And I ought to know
‘cause she made me write this poem
just to tell you so!
*inspired by my desire to do a parody
on Linda Marie's poem she wrote for me,
"Andrea's an Angel." (this one is much
closer to the real me!)
I remember those times of unawareness.
The innocent circle of found trust.
Its purity and purpose voicing its strategy, before the fallen chips of caution led to tragedy.
Perhaps spotting our pursuit through these lands of grassy plains, where classy dames sip tequila and deceive the family name.
I struggle with challenge the arrow of cupids aim, in a kevlar suit burning in a sodium lithium flame.
We listen to opinions to make up our own, we hear and we think, and we urge to be grown.
A prophetic miracle some says pathetic to believe in, with an acrid bitterness and refuse what they're seeing.
A distant group of archers camouflaged amongst the woods.
Stood freezing there like statues like hidden busts they would,
Move if they could, but something takes a hold and the rest of us conceal ourselves in the safety of our homes.
Fearing the autonomous and the documents they grasp.
Us occupants are promised choice though its dominance they hand.
Like Romulus I'll disappear in the storm and send the tidal waves to shore like in the bible.
Roaring floods off Babylon for serving other idols.
In this basic life style riled up with rivaling sides of my minds vitals.
Brain child wildly rifling through his lifes cycle.
Once upon a times a lie you live untill the end.
Through these winters discontent hibernating waiting for the summer time again, but summer came and went without the sun, instead was wet.
Self confidence a strength which some of us pretend.
We learn as we grow older like owls grey and wise my friend
You cant take anything you own from life over into death.
It makes sense to have the things you want while you can before the call.
Yet remember when you have it it's not good to want for more.
Come hither with haste and stay with me my saviour, let us break, the ties that bind
together all animosity and hate.
Its an anomaly we face and confessions we should make.
Knowing a smart enemy hits where you surely think you're safe.
(It was 1860 when the English poet Robert Browning
stumbled upon an interesting artefact as he walked
through the city of Florence. It was a file of documents
from an old Italian criminal trial, and he would turn
this material into his masterpiece, "The Ring and the
Book".)
The Old Square Yellow Book
It was the kind of day they call a "stallion"
in Florence, with white sun, surpassing strong.
And it was noon. (In June, to be precise.)
The Englishman came strolling aimlessly
(or was it?) through Piazza San Lorenzo.
And, just as now, a market crammed the square
and foamed around the statue's marble plinth.
Here, plaster busts, there, flaking picture-frames,
and Garibaldi portraits (way back then,
in eighteen-sixty, they were giving birth:
Italian nationhood was in the air).
The tall "inglese", drawn towards the stall
which offered prints and books, picked something up.
He shouted "shop", and put one lira down.
The book was his. He managed to ignore
the girls, a-squabbling over tasseled shawls,
those burly porters, drenching head and neck
in Giovanni's fountain, braying mules,
cacophony and chaos all around,
to read his book. His blood knew, right away.
At last, he'd found the raw material
from which he'd quarry one great masterpiece.
One foot propped on the railing, near the step
which leads down to the fountain by the church,
he read, engrossed. Then, with a sudden laugh,
he threw it in the air, and caught it, safe.
What was it? Well, a book - but more than that.
It was the record of some long-dead trial,
some murder case of many years before,
with statements, pleadings, longhand notes. In this
authentic tangle lay a human tale
of fierce emotion, rich psychology,
if he could tease it out. So off he set,
re-reading as he walked, feeling his way,
along the narrow Giglio, then the broad
Panzani. Via Tornabuoni next,
so long and straight, down to the river.
He passed the Strozzi Palace, crossed the bridge
they call the Trinita. When he reached home,
the cool Felice, there was not a doubt.
His whole life's labour lay there, in his hands.
The deception of “free verse”: Dreams II, Translation of Etiemble’s “L’imposture du vers libre” by T. Wignesan
“Free verse, free not to be verse” – Audiberti
My love is not blue like a lake
my love is not blue like a sky
but red swollen with blood
and of ire
No lapping sounds of oars
playing out a nocturne
Bienne lake or that of Bourget
ever beat out the loping of my heart
My love’s neither blue nor like a lake
nor like a sea of oil
In the cauldron of boiling oil
a witch throws in a thumb
and the formula
My witching love
sputters and bursts out
stinging these busts and this lip
red
Vehement like a she-demon
it dances in a mad whirl
My left temple
wails
with the furious ocean
which rumbles under my pillow
What ships wreck in this sunken heart
still bleeding
of all the hearts it peeled
bleeding bodies of the young girl
And this heart weeps over its deaths
Like those on All Souls’ Day
the old hoary woman weeping
twisted up into wailing somersaults
which pad the cries of skeletons
clinging to rapacious granite
My heart beating on the pillow
muffles the voice of the friend
which begged the evening gone by
“Tell me it’s not over yet!”
And like the ocean cowardly
I collapse into my bed
to better listen to the tolling
of my temples and my heart
a delusionary
song of joy.
Signed: Jean Louverné (pseudonym)
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2014 (Translation
Thinks he's on some cool ish
But really on some bull ish
The type of dude that
You want nothing to do with
This is the type of dude
That will promise you everything
Wont deliver anything
& use excuses endlessly
He'll be acting like a boss
As he undermines your cause
Sometimes you just gotta cut ties n walk
& Whats really wack, is when hes needed most,
Is when he busts out the o'llllll dissapearing act
I say screw him pshhh, who cares where hes at
Coming back deflecting blame & trying to make you carry that
All hes got is this,
Inflateted sense of confidence
And poppin his ballon
Shouldnt take you too long and
Dont benifit him....
Straight to hater mode
No cash to spend....
Straight to do me a favor mode
Behind bars again.....
Staight to prayer mode
Guess mr untouchable
Got caught up in the danger zone
Who needs enimies, with friends like these
This guy all types of nuts, like trader joes
Thinks hes on some cool ish
But really on some bull ish
The type of dude that
You want nothing to do with
Dont let all of his kindness jestures
impress ya
& turn you into a trust despenser
Youll regret the
day you let your guard down,
yes he will pretend to, be genuine
Then switch up from jeckyll 2 hyde
In a few seconds Time, his agendas
to convince ya that hes dependa-
Bull, which is bull, I bet when ya, first met him,
The impression that he left ya
with is a confident man with all the answers like alexa
But guess what
The less ya put creadance into the the things hes speakin
the better off youll be in the long run, yessir
Me and you
And the rest of the crew
Spinning through space
On a looney balloon
Filled to the brim
With the hot air of man
Knots and screws coming loose
Out on the fringe
Without a clue
Of who let us loose
Busting a move
On this looney balloon
As we flip and we fly
Slide side to side
This way and that
All along for the ride
Ashes to ashes
Space dust to dust
How much is enough
Before this thing busts
If not now
I'm pretty sure soon
Putting an end to
This looney balloon
As much as anything,
we are our words --
increments of twists and
turns, joys~ inevitable burns
(one's acrobat of verbal
written being)
As much as anything
what we think we should
feel -- important less right
and wrong~
At our best when together
keeping it real --
Reams of letters freeing
can also be a bound fetter
less important is the letter
If only lines of division
let that paper go up
in flame! We are far
more than our portraits
and names, marble busts,
insatiable art-lusts
States have their politics
and God far above
a mere poet, inclined I am
more often to humbly settle
for simple verses of love --
Naked death
…the barred and sealed cattle wagons
disgorge
at the Konzentrazionslager
the faux pas relief
from urine mud faeces sweat and tears
unkempt armpits buttocks best wear
turned to damp rags
reduced to moaning cattle
nameless
even the heifer wan straggly limp
Alles! Raus!
…the last quick dab of face powder
the lipstick dried blood tan
the felt hat lying soggy stained
through bellowed haste
on the mudcaked barrack floor
the wampumpeag plucked by the helmeted claw
stabbing on sole-cold cutting cement platform
averting glances on sapped sagging busts
shoulders hunched buckled in
fingers reaching to scratch loins
nostrils quivering
whose the naughty stench
then the trooped Indian file
stray belongings dumped
in a wasteproduct pile
the once highheeled gait
slumping to a side
from the hips down to a jaggedknee limp
prodding the miasmal mist
the exposed varicose veins
the knotty pubis
the mons veneris
the intimate warts and moles
last year’s Ceasarian stitches
the rump twitched less
the lack lustre sentry gazes
the unmasked leer
the disdainful pursed lips
neither shame nor pudeur
and then the last gangway to nowhere
the Ave-Maria road to Himmelweg
a reprieve
From the privately pub. coll. (re-worked 2016): longhand notes ( a binding of poems), 1999, 115p.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 1999/2016
If everyday was a sunny day,
then what would a sunny day be?
The answer...
it would be like everyday,
I say this to say. Despite all your past ways,
we have all had obstacle in our pathways
and I choose to believe that life isn't just black and white
there are many shades of gray.
In the past you've been through it all,
stumbles and pitfalls,
even going on journeys blind through fields where the grass is to tall,
You still seem to make it through it all.
And that shows character. I'm not talking Spongbob or Patrick,
they say big things come in small packages
and in you,
with qualities so fine it obvious that it all depend on how u package it.
Pressure busts pipes, but it can also make a diamond,
and in order for it to do so you have to put time in.
Time and patients,
and if a “broken heart” was a medical condition the emergency room would be
full of patients.
Lord knows you have seen your fair share of scares,
and the craziest part is it hurt you the most because you care.
When I stare right into your deep ocean,
after all the crashed waves and commotion,
I see your devotion.
Your willingness to face the weather head on like a beanie.
You overcome the storms,
You control the rain with your pain,
Your smile tames the wild.
Your love melt the snow,
and you light up the world with your glow.
See you are a sunny day,
and it because of your bad weather that allow me
to appreciate your powers,
the nourishment from your sun shine
to my flowers.
Tahron Watkins
RED SUN
( O BLESS US )
One who dispels misery,
Busts illusions, grants wishes,
Lifts away darkness, and is
Ever eternal ;
Sustainer of life, soft yet
Severe, tender yet tough, the
Ultimate Truth, world’s witness,
Sooryaya Namah:
Form: Dodoitsu (sylls: 7-7-7-5 )/Acrostic.
@ 20 jun 2013
For Anne Currin's 'Any poem'.
Notes:
1)“Sooryaya namah” is Sanskrit, has 5 syllables, and it means “Salutations to the Sun”.
2) The first letters of the above 8 lines put together in its order reads “ O BLESS US”
3) This is an abridged and rough rendering of the famous ‘Aditya Hridaya Mantra’( a prayer to the Sun God) from The Ramayana, India’s age-old epic. Chanting of this is supposed to free one from the three kinds of misfortunes of mankind, viz. 1) Soul-related( diseases, pain, hunger etc), 2) Physical surroundings-related ( robbers, beasts, terrorists etc ), 3) Divine in nature ( earthquakes, floods, droughts, hurricanes, Tsunamis etc)
outside she dances/
wind prancin along side of her curves/
she swirves and the breeze wraps around her bust/
that lust literally busts/
she crys out in moves hear me groove/
it's a must to fuss these feelings/
so smooth she's smothered with thoughts/
she sings in distraught/
with her eyes so indulged/
they bulge as she prys through her surroundings/
she tries to live the life of legends/
who sought and fought for the world be their heavens/
so she hereby stand sitting out/
She must be a little tea pot her words are bubbling/
so here they come out this young womans spout/
and they sound troubling trying to figure her meanings whereabouts/
so she still talk and question till her lips & mouth turn drought/
let she continue to recognize and point out the tension/
in a dimension unyet kown to the current peoples obsession/
with not the world but techonology progression/
but she dares not stress for she knows she's blessed/
so here she dances that's me and my words in movement expressed./
visualizing moments from my past
i had friends that were too fast
and now they're pushing up grass
some pulled triggers to prove they were'nt punks
got sent to prison to spend their lives on jail bunks
in this world of wicked people
its seems like um walking a tightrope between good and evil
shedding tears for my peers who passed away
but we cant go back to yesterday
and this world is hard as steel
one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel
so if i slip I'm outta here
I can't cope and since I don't smoke dope I drank a lotta beer
but I can't go to the store and drink a quart of brew
without running into the can I have a quarter crew
it seems they beg so much
their hands look like cups
enough is enough
it's back to doing stickup
killers busts caps
so I bust back
plus these crakheads are birthing little maniac rugrats
I'm changing much like the seasons do
everybody praise the power of the trigger so im squeezing too
if i negotiate they think I'm soft
I guess they can only understand the sound of pistols going off
so if its me or him picture that cat as good as popped
I'd rather lie behind some iron bars than in a wooden box
so send him flowers and bring me ciggarettes
not for a rep but Im going to choose life over death
i guess thats the way of the world and sense I cant change it
then how I feel is how I will bring it.
i
My nomadic guy, please don’t tear my flesh
This lonely chamber isn’t made for one
Come play the lead strings as our grooves refresh,
Oh no funky stardust when you are gone…
Sad moon for me and blazing sun for you;
Life’s a-tumble when the door creaks, “Adieu.”
I got no rhythm in these eyes bloodshot
Just recall most nights’ pure angelic love,
And once you’re back run to me, on the dot
While this babe waits, frantic as evening dove…
Sorely missing your pitter- patter feet,
While hours grow crazy , dear boo, I’m offbeat!
My timeline busts, when you’re so hard to get
Still, I wait down the road numb with longing;
For some reason this wired-up head won’t regret
How I trace the lampposts until grasses sting …
Oh nomadic guy…miles and miles away
I await your rocking arms to dance , to stay!
..........................
9/14/2016
Rock 'n Roll Rhyme FestContest for Phillip Garcia
.........................
Rhyme Scheme: Quatrains with End Couplets
Inspired by the song of U2: Stay ( Far Away, So Close)
Album: Zooropa
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V7da48kn4sE
--------------
*Personally , the essence of this song depicts
a need to create a long-term relationship especially
when one is elusive, fleeting like an angel or a nomad
with lines ‘ just a bang and a clatter”, ‘stay,
and the night would be enough.’ Then again,
Bono of U2 is one great riddle!
I remember nothing but the word hello.
He took the bag of my head and then I saw them.
Wearing nothing on but something to cover their special flowers.
I hear footsteps coming from the outside of this red door.
I rush over to them and watch as the red paint drips on the floor from their faces.
He busts open the door with a bucket of liquid that will keep us refreshed.
I feel the wetness on my skin.
“Get up Phoebe Harken”, he yells from the door.
I stay there like a stick stuck in the mud.
I suddenly become lifted up like a bird and then dumped on the cold floor.
He marked his terrority like a dog.
I could smell it.
I bet a dog would smell better.
Stop! I can hear the girls yell as he continues to take off my warmth covering.
I am now like Adam and Eve.
He becomes like a ram and then punches my inner covering until blood comes from my eyes.
I see blackness.
I awaken with restraints on my freedom a brand on my arm.
Firefly flights fight off nightly resistance
lighting up another gloom disjointed day
booms and busts shoot out into the wind
honest tears turn over and just wait inside
Fading off with scents of bitter almond
strange as that may seem to be fading
magnolias setting off dire bursts of color
blinding the times grasping back at me
Truth lies in the eyes of rightful beholder
knowing yes I'm in love alone forever true
but broken the heart held in faint quarters
heard calling softly to be pulled by the moon