Best Chastising Poems
the waning moonlight thinly enveloped
the dusky canvas obscurely sprawling
across the way from the window I looked,
I knew a park was there with slides and swing
but for the moment dark revealed nothing,
for the moment I didn’t care, either
because in darkness I felt even darker;
I was lying in bed embraced by regret
of decisions of love and time wasted,
spooning the layered sheets of doubt and fret
all thawed out from my heart into my head;
The memories of hurtful comments said
by and to me were chastising voices
of ghostly choices purposed to depress;
As dusk became the night I became lost
in whimsically strewn wishes and pleas
to gods and stars and genies alike, crossed
as eyes crying for mother drowned in seas,
I spoke to nobody but begged for keys
to unlock another time, another place
to start all over again with new space,
To unseen gods I had long since quit on
I prayed, bargained even, another chance
and I’d do everything right this season
- A jobless man needing a pay advance,
But for thirty three years nary a glance
had alpha or omega set on me
and this night I expected no divine decree;
several hours elapsed as I collapsed
in smoldering thoughts of suicide fanned,
- I had outlasted night’s concealing grasp,
and as the morning sun began its planned
ascent, I gave into Hades’ command
through my tenth floor window whispered to me
of hellish suggestions to jump and flee;
on ledge I stood and looked across the way
for one last glimpse of earth and pastel sky,
- a small souvenir of my final day,
My eyes settled on last night’s park from high
above, and that’s when I saw God’s reply,
- an unspoken answer for eyes turned blind,
His deafening promise to all mankind;
by his heavenly brushes came colors
where none had been, transforming lonely space
into one of vibrance and life renewed,
- and it was a different space,
I watched as birds celebrated morning
with songs of praise and thankfulness,
- and I felt a quick waning emptiness,
I heard the children below lining up
for the school bus all on time and ready
to live and learn in this new day granted,
- and I felt like I knew nothing at all;
but then I knew everything all at once,
and I stepped off the ledge ready to live,
ready to embrace
ready to seize life found…
in another time.
A rose held before the dawn, overwhelmed by benevolent beauty,
its virginity violated by hostel hands,
only then will it reveal its blood-stained thorns,
where infatuated innocence is lost...
Days of sunny summer streams and apricot kisses
were surrounded by chastising clouds,
the night kneeled before us as we walked holding hands, side by side,
our love magnified by the monolithic moon...
Adonis and Aphrodite were the gods before us,
for their nectar poured from the heavens to fill our cups of mirth,
the arousing amorous air was abundant with adulation,
we were upon suspended animation in a Venus vortex...
A righteous rose was the catalyst that held our love together,
but then the skies turned to a horrid hue,
an insidious insertion infiltrates with thrusting and piercing providence
the rose has no chance, for now, the rose bleeds,
our beating breaths and love are torn asunder...
The rose withers away, drowning in its excrement,
our innocence has been lost, for now, the thorns prevail.
Music by...
When angels cry -
DJ Lava-Calling angel
April.21.2020
Pick-A-Title, Vol 16 - Free Verse 2
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Placed 1'st...Thank You
King Hypocrite
We have the king of hypocrites, right here on the soup
With more chastising, straight from his stoop
Once again, he points his finger, from high on his wall
A brand new blog with the same childish bawl
Deleted in twenty-four, that’s his usual hit and run
He likes his big words that help hide his fun
He stands at his pulpit, his thesaurus in hand
It makes him feel smart, here in poetry land
He likes to praise your work and then throw a punch
He’ll tuck tail and run and be gone before lunch
He gets his mighty courage straight from the keg
He’ll get blind drunk and then hump your leg
The simple truth will always contradict him
So he looks for new poets and then plays the victim
Like the trolls before him, he’ll wobble on his wall
Then like humpty dumpty, he will crack from his fall
A Golden Steed Gallops
A golden steed gallops in my dreams as of late
echoing sounds of my so darkly imagined fate
chastising my wicked deeds of an ill-spent youth
increasing the chasm between bold lies and truth.
Flowing trails of gleaming pain fly deep with that race
as precious , sweet memories burn up without a trace
flying away , names and faces of girls I so easily left
broken up like fine crystals falling from a high shelf.
An invisible rider brings racing steed to an abrupt halt
as it screams out, "yes you, it's all your damn fault"!
why did you not live a sweeter, kinder and gentler life
blame is on you for lost true love , loss of your first wife!
Golden steed stands at a graveyard filled with no headstones
lying about are several sun-bleached and broken white bones
dark wind races in whispering in a very raspy low moan
you are so dead , now you lay cold, dark and so, so alone!
06-13-2014
Plateau of common sense
Enabling one to step back, far back,
Reasoning on poles of points
Separating right from wrong
Placing trust in the matter at hand
Erasing past failures which interfere
Chastising selfishness, rewarding pure motives
To the well being of all those involved who
Inspire to greatness by the
Vast horizon of thinking which
Enables a decision of worth.
“The Clock on the Wall”
That clock! The clock with cruelty, unmovable.
Telling time to be forever in motion.
The ticking, a deafening sound.
Marked by grime.
Yellowed by generations, grown digital.
By generations choosing to be illiterate.
The face, weathered from gazing faces…from faces.
Forever burdened by the echo.
TOCK!
Each minute, reversing youth.
Spinning hours that grin madly at the crows.
Birds destined to stomp divots into flesh.
Surrounding lids and lashes.
TICK-TOCK!
That hellish clock.
Stealing jewelry and lovers and future plans
Dreams given up in anguish to dead time, in the night.
The second hand, proud, purposeful.
Its movement pushing the aged into graves.
Eternally passing hours.
Laughing wildly at years gone by.
Heckling decades…lost.
TICK, TICK!
The ticking of that god-damned clock!
Mocking the genius gone mad.
A shocking reminder of all that is forgotten.
That all will be…forgotten.
The unforgiving clock.
Moving time.
Time, a father, whose knee will be outgrown.
A chastising father.
Protecting nothing.
Holding nothing.
Nothing calm.
Holding nothing safe.
Nothing still.
Curse that clock on the wall.
On walls dropping picture frames.
Loosened by rusty nails.
Images of families smothered in broken glass.
The clock.
TICK-TOCK!
Burning down homes that cradled infants.
With fatty folds and creamy dreams.
The clock, convincing people to set alarms.
Convincing people to startle the soul…
Into a brand-new day.
Crows, bats, witches, haunted houses, goblins, ghosts and me
Pumpkin bread, corn pudding, warm caramel apples my way.
Delicate intricate spider webs between my house and garage.
Holding me in a delighted way on an October day.
Stringy gooey gritty globs of pumpkin slosh on my hands.
As I help squealing jack-0-lantern creators scrape.
Laughter of children coming in waves from leave piles.
Husband screaming at the referee calling him an ape.
Fluffy tailed squirrels chastising each other over walnuts.
Screeching if they think another squirrel has gotten a bit more.
Solid cinnamon roll smells wafting in from my happy oven.
Maize on porch, beside gourds of various colors next to door.
Autumn is here in all her glory, showing us the colors we expect.
Luxurious reds, yellows, browns and oranges showing up in droves.
Cardinal songbirds twitter and trill their announcement of winter.
Magic of fall showing up in pumpkin potpourri and smells of cloves.
Written 10-07-2019
Contest: Give Me Your Best Poem
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
I went for a walk through the woods, like I do each Fall;
for it's a sensual treat at this time of year.
And I came across a grove of ancient oak trees,
shedding amber, yellow, and golden leaves;
gilding the ground, like scattered nuggets of gold.
The air smelt of Autumn, an earthy-sweet musk;
cool, crisp, and invigorating.
A chattering chipmunk scolded me incessantly:
as I neared a knurled stump, it was guarding;
loudly chastising me for invading its space.
The ground crunched and crackled under my feet,
as I walked on a bedding of filigreed leaves;
resembling a golden fleece.
As brisk breezes rippled through swaying treetops:
their bare branches rattled like skeleton bones.
Indulging my inner child, I fashioned an Autumn Angel;
spreading and swiping my arms and legs,
I sculpted an Angel out of leaves instead of snow.
And I lay there awhile smiling, soaking in Nature's magnificence;
immersed in the grandeur and beauty of Fall.
Raccoon with knowing eyes stares at me from across the room.
He is darling! Brought home from an estate sale.
Hanging from a limb, accusing me, chastising me, all powerful.
I wish I knew who painted him.
He is unique, one of a kind. And he is signed.
I wonder at the artist, Carolyn ’80.
Was eighty her last name, or was she painting
him in 1980? That sounds more accurate.
Was she a high school student who gave him to her teacher out of love?
Who would not want to keep it? Of course, this was an estate sale, so….
This raccoon and I have an unusually strong spiritual connection.
When I smile or look up he makes me feel safe, and happy.
I adore him. Thank you Carolyn ’80, your painting delights me in all ways!
Why
Had
He come
Here? For peace?
Solace? He began
To realize there wasn't the
Perfect quiet around that he would have expected—
Out in the country. Plenty of disturbances here and there, a shaking of the dry
Autumn leaves that wasn't wind, the racket—some unseen birds chastising him. You thought you'd enter a fresh block of air. Instead, what did you get?
What are you doing here? where are you going? A sense of being watched by things—things you
Did not know about. Of being a disturbance. Life—
Around—coming to some conclu-
Sion about you from
Vantage points
You could
Not
See.
What is Peace
Peace is not the product of terror or fear.
Peace is not the silence of cemeteries.
Peace is not the silent result of violent repression.
Peace is the generous,
tranquil contribution of all to the good of all.
Peace is dynamism.
Peace is generosity.
It is right and it is duty.
However, sometimes it take
blood and guts,
sorrow,
soul searching,
chastising,
even war,
to achieve
what is peace.
Catastrophe of the dry run
The sea, Ice, air, human are rapture
The powerful are brought to ruin
Green horse making this World hot
70% is absorbed in heat
18 degrees Celsius balance the heat
Mighty keeper of water in the lands
Mighty destroyer of Islands
Changing, charging chastising
The atmosphere
I see, I am part of your activities
Burning of coal activities
Carbon emission, 34%. 2020 activities
350,000 in Britain suffered your hands.
65,000 Dominican Republic feel your hands
500,000 in southern California left home to avoid your hand
Denmark gathered the heads cos of your hand.
The heads accept to make peace.
If only it will go to the heart.
Oh mighty one, tell me how to keep peace,
Is it more of vegetation, so I keep peace?
Or keep away carbon dioxide
Nitrous oxide and methane
for peace.
Mighty one, tell me
How you can lie low, for peace
I know I used more than
I put back to you.
Should I have my own forest?
But I know sunspots and solar flares started before me.
REASONS OF WRITING
This poem was writing out of inspiration on hearing and reading how this atmosphere has been badly used and the follow events caused by bad emission to the air, the changing in almost every natural events gave rise and when the heads of states gathered in Denmark to plan for the way forward. It is my contribution on how this atmosphere can be made for a better condition for us all to stay in.
MESSAGE
(1) This poem is a free verse, it run through without break, saying the major event that global warming has cause in the world.
(2) That the heads of states decision in Denmark should be put into practice not mouth say.
(3) That before man (human) started anything sunspots and solar flares started before man
(4) We use more than we put back to nature.
(5) That green vegetations is also a way forward.
(6) Everyman should have his/her own or plant his/her own forest it is possible.
I dream of sleep,
Though when it turns dark,
I try shutting my lids,
But they’re stuck in park.
I seek out the fridge,
Pour milk in a pot.
Then scream out in pain,
Because it’s too hot.
I plop in a funk,
And dream about dreaming,
Which is hard to do
So soon after screaming.
There must be a way
To keep my eyes closed,
For good, through the night,
And not just a doze.
Oh yes, that is it!
I startle myself.
There’s a magical pill
Way back on the shelf.
My feet take their steps,
By two at a time.
An hours flown by,
I don’t have much time.
I yank the door open,
Stand on my toe tips.
Behind the eye-drops,
Under the Q-tips.
Lies a dusty bottle
For those who are tired.
But the date on the label,
Has long since expired.
I turn to the mirror,
My god what a hag.
There’s two bloodshot eyes
Half asleep in their bags.
Speaking of two,
A time so absurd.
My slipper just missed
The prompt cuckoo bird.
Oh sleep my old friend,
I start to pine.
Was that just a yawn,
Now THAT’S a good sign.
With an about-face,
I hurry ahead,
But tripped on my toe
Just short of the bed.
Oh lord why are you
Chastising me?
After righting myself
I saw it was three.
I lay on the mattress,
And there commenced,
To counting sheep,
But they stormed the fence.
There’s no need to panic
Just stay in position.
My muscles relax,
And start their twitching.
Yes finally
I start to snore,
But wake myself up
The clock displays four.
Could this be a dream,
Though I’m still awake?
I’m dreaming of sleep,
But sleep I don’t make.
Maybe I’m sleeping,
It’s a bona fide dream.
Oh what a relief
If you know what I mean.
So tranquil and peaceful,
Good to be alive.
I didn’t once quiver
When the clock struck 5.
My alarm goes to work,
And so does the rooster,
But noticed my feet
Sported only one slipper.
My god, this can’t
Be happening to me.
So I cried and cried
Myself to sleeeeeee…
Entered in Richard's Beginnings Matter contest. I recall being afraid to post this, similar to merging onto a highway for the first time during driver's ed class...but for both, couldn't have been any happier that I took that step.
Proyecto de tren instantaneo entre Santiago y Puerto Montt by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T. Wignesan
Soliloquio del Individuo by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T Wignesan
(Homage to Nicanor PARRA, 1914-2018, the Chilean ANTI-POET, winner of the "Cervantes Prize" (the highest literary honour for writers in Spanish), four times nominated for the Nobel Prize, studied Physics (Brown University), Cosmology (Oxford University) and taught maths and physics for some 40 years, but styles himself as the Poet who writes "Anti-Poems" - a fresh
chastising wind to debunk self-styled poets hardly born to the métier but drunk with their own effete and ephemeral voices. T. Wignesan, Paris, 2016.)
The Anatomy of the Instantaneous Train (plying) between Santiago and Puerto Montt
The engine of the instantaneous train
occupies the place of the destination (Pto Montt)
while the last coach
straddles the station of departure (Stgo)
This type of train affords the passenger
the advantage of arriving instantaneously at Puerto Montt
at the very moment he boards the last coach
in Santiago
The rub is in order to continue voyaging
the traveller has to keep moving with his luggage
through the train
until he gains the first coach
Once the passage has been realized
the passenger may proceed to exit
the instantaneous train
which has remained stationary
during the entire voyage.
• Observation: This type of (direct) train serves only the uni-directional journey.
Source: Poem read by Nicanor Parra as invitee to the International Poetry Festival in the Netherands in 1989 (?)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
THE LAST DROP OF WATER
Clouds of despair will block out our sun
Trials and burdens each weighing a ton
God brings those clouds into your life
Not without conflict, discord or strife
Are they punishment or sent to refresh
Love incarnate through a Saviours flesh
Do not flee from raindrops that may fall
Let them linger enough for mercy’s recall
Grace will fall –heavenly drops from above
Till the last drop of water-a chastising love