Best Chattels Poems
Given in appreciation
but taken away on request
translated to foreign land
but asked to surrender everything
employed to serve unknown guests
but asked to behave brainlessly
taken for a tour as personal effect
but chained for whims of tourism
Today young girls of the world
are chattels of people’s wishes
They are dustbin of weird whims
hijacked, negotiated, looted, lied to
are groundnut paste of pleasure
nothing in this world they are
but chattels, empty scraps!
They are refugees in their own country.....
No land for them to go. No body care them either
They are known as refugees in their own country
War brought uncertainty in their lives
and made them to live in refugee camps forever
They travel long distance along the road
with their hand cart of chattels
while their tears rolling over their eyes
Parents are thinking about their children's future
and children hate to see their parents suffering
Many years have been gone and nothing has been done
The war is still going on without any improvement
Because of our careless and adamant leadership
the innocent people are still living in refugee camp
They are victims of diseases, accidents, violence, poverty
kidnaps, rapes and cruelties towards humanity
Let us join together and save these innocent people
from the hands of uncivilized people on earth.
Ravi Sathasivam / Sri Lanka
All rights are reserved 2014
Faithful companion, Caradog, without necessity
Habitat fed his needs, our bond rapidly developed
Fierce competent hunter amazingly adopted me
Heritage unable to continue, thylacine near relic
Decision to keep him secret was tumult traumatic
Exploited Tiger captured disallowed me to have it
Slender sniff nuzzled friend was a multitude more
Central to my craft's formation, carved wood replica
Tangible muse renews value in sculpting his form
Task of inspiration shed sparks of reaching fire
From my lantern lit table, I intently watched him rise
Stilt like legs stretched, striped yellow rump lifted
Nudged me with gentle nose, wild must be a guise!
Trusting eyes knew domesticity, my heart pilfered
So we walked, accepted man beside marsupial beast
Sharp snout pointed urgently when he detected a meal
Several rats equalled daily quota, Caradog's appease
Showed me hidden nooks, I couldn't figure the appeal
Of providing his secrets, perhaps to dispel theories
Population still existed, a duty he felt was obligatory
Already running in my long local veins, knowledge
Caradog was the final egsample, the last battler
Of a fine Australian species, sadly now abolished
Persistent development trampling their chattels
Option to turn him in to rangers, on my doorstep
Final thylacine female despondent and beyond it
Zoo tourist captivity would instill Caradog torture
Days spent free, ferocious mate bore my fondness
( Last live Thylacine held in Tasmania, 1933 )
* Convincing Thylosene on poems below this,
the prequel to this story
9th August 2020
No historic chattels, old photos or memorabilia.
Nothing has historic value for us to remember.
The sheds are old and rusted on our farm just out of town;
our house is not long new since the old one was burnt down.
I often think about our lead up by putting up a trouble sign,
when we as kids so full of hype one day had crossed the line,
when the four of us all boys whose age’s fell from twelve to six,
went on a rampage of disaster and left a trail for dad to fix.
My oldest brother he was wicked. He had a scheming mind
that got us younger ones in trouble from what he left behind.
He'd set up a situation where, that made ‘bells’ surely ring.
He was never ever caught so it’s us who felt the sting.
However - somewhere down the line, the cunning can get careless,
and us junior followers can be the victims now ‘God Bless’.
For it was in our fathers shed he found matches laying 'round,
and made things out of paper; then burnt them to the ground.
At one stage down the paddock where the grass was thick and dry,
he just lit one match and the flames were crackling to the sky.
We laughed and got excited watching, the earth turn black as night,
then he went off looking for something else that he could light.
There it was laying there; the family cat out in the sun.
And it became our brother’s target when it didn’t up and run.
We watched him as he held the cat and gave it a petrol douse!
But after he had lit it - the cat ran underneath our house.
I, brave Inca, I take maca, leaf of life and source of strength.
When I travel I chew coca, takes me through my journey's length
But, when I need great advantage, maca fires my fierce intent;
To the warrior gives great courage; to his foe, a dread torment.
Maca, maca, woe to women caught betwixt their men and me:
Enemy, take flight! The demon deep within the herb sets free
All my darkest raging passions, all my deep resentful ire,
All those buried aberrations. Objects of my dread desire,
Women were the spoils of battles; women had no right to moan:
Maca gave the Inca chattels, enemy girls just things to own.
Generals now forbid the taking of our aphrodisiac herb.
Female slaves no more are quaking. We our basest instincts curb.
-Once upon a time II-
In a separate realm
Where cloud rains
Where dreams
Are dream
And due
To come true,
Where lives and lots
Are valued
Where chattels
And acreage
Are own
Love, fuddle,
Pamper, behold
And hold.
The most
Incredible deal
In this hectare
At this epoch
Is the way
Of their
Stewardship-
Ancestors are
Alive and
Still rule
The living
Land and humans.
Another bond
Is that of
To bide
Dumb and deaf.
No ruler;
Hail Kings.
And most
Essentially
The beauty
Armed queens
Are to
Be eulogized.
They are
Milestones of
These kindred
Kingdoms.
Food for thought
“This realm is majestic”
The news reaches
The Mighty helm-
The leader
Of the faraway cloud
And his ready
To journey and seek
Elsewhere like this realm
He just heard of.
“May you tell my mother
And my true people
That I, their lord…
Ready to cruise
Away and
To return
With answers
And panaceas
To the seemingly
Unruly
State of
Our land” ……
7/2/2014
I’m So Much Better for the Magna Carta
I feel so much better for the Magna Carta,
Can trace atheism and humanism’s roots,
Can define that moment of clarity,
When individualism and free-thinking were to rule and roost;
I know the time philosophy changed,
From people as state/monarchy property,
To making their liberty into the king’s concern,
When the law became a place of security.
I can comprehend the specifics of the document,
To state common folks rights and chattels,
Can accept it needed barons, church and king,
To agree to certain terms and conditions;
Can reason why god was upheld as lawful,
Being the people’s recreation and heart at the time,
Can feel the rush of glad tidings that swept throughout the land,
When all citizens received an existential, fair and equal stand.
Although politicians and companies stand on their own,
It's the law that pumps their blood, fuels their fire,
Makes us feel safe in our much loved homes,
Cases the achievement of the success story and graduate in gold;
It lavishes love on the inconsolable victim, cold with hurt,
Pours restraint on the unstable, intending criminal mind,
It encourages all to engage in life with reason and rationality.
And loves with quietness radicals, jostlers and free-thinkers bold.
The cattle-rearer had shown his mettle by fighting in the battle, but weary as he was, drank from his kettle and with his comrades he tattled and tattled, while at once the chariot-wheels rattled, and as yet the strife was not settled, that cattle-rearer got confused a little, threw out his bottle, but could do nothing but tattled and tattled with his chattels.
Charlie was dead
Charlie was dead: to begin with,
There is no doubt whatever about that.
I leave my residue to Carol for Christmas
and Little Dorrit his faithful Tom Cat.
There’s been hard times here in Bleak House,
Villainy and miserly crime capers,
I spent my fortune in shops of curiosity,
Pickwick wrote of it, in his gossip papers.
You gather here with great expectations,
Of bequeaths, chattels and yield.
But listen well to my loyal Trustees,
Messrs Chuzzlewit and Copperfield.
To that twister and Street Urchin Oliver,
and to show I bear him no grudge,
I do leave a Crown and one Farthing,
and a sixpence to Barnaby Rudge.
To our mutual friends Dombey and Son,
Please accept my cane and fine silk scarf.
May you prosper all the year round,
As comfortable as a Cricket on a hearth.
So, here is my last Will and Testament,
Yes, I’m worthless, so whimper and brood.
Where did it all go, there is no mystery,
Lost at Cards to Nickleby and Drood.
KS 6/11/2017
The Charlatan
In honesty young Sir, I have good reason to doubt,
When you tell me “My word is my bond.”
I fear your insistent asseveration is but a scam,
With hope to take my chattels and abscond.
You talk in a manner of self-confidence,
It would be easy to succumb to your plan.
A charlatan, a dishonest schemer, a cheat,
Not as you assert, “the epitome of an altruistic man”
I have testimony to your wicked villainy,
From a Woman of good character and trust.
It is self-evident, positively axiomatic,
You are but a common thief;
I feel only disgust.
for Roberts Triple A Challenge contest
From a mother to a child, Who is close to her heart.
He is just like her own child.
He is good, he is wise but some how,
He forgot his closest tie.
He moved on with success and pride.
Mom is happy for him but she's is longing to see him back in her life.
FEW WORDS SON : JUST FOR YOU
Moved out with chattels and paraphrenalia.
Moved out for ever.
With heavy heart, son leaving you there.
Son, with you emotions are entwined.
May those beautiful moments rewind.
Confusions and priorities may change your behaviour and mind.
I will always wait till you realise how closely we are affined.
Yes, I won't ever call you coz my dignity was maligned.
Son, still I can not deny that you are always in my heart and on my mind.
Son, my eyes will always wait for your sight.
All I want you to know is that son, you are my delight.
What feral dogs bark at my door?
As I lick my wounds,
In de rigor discord,
Whose music do I play?
Or verses time has left to say,
What chattels at my core,
Deny me life I've lived before?
On my horizon I see tears,
Embark on my face to empty years,
With nowhere else to turn
I turn sideways
Whete I will spurn and then
Burn
Blown by Atlantic wind and sail in chains
once were ragged souls like chattels branded -
from the Guinea Coast to old Port of Spain
African herdsmen on slave ships landed.
From my father’s car I saw the cane yields
where men of burden would cut, burn, and mash,
where woman and child stooping in the fields
saw the ripping flesh and heard the whips lash.
Now broke are those fetters through time and fate -
that dark tyranny of a forepassed age,
like the ships of old and their human freight
hunted, sold, and transported in a cage.
In that old grey Plymouth Fury I swear
I saw ghosts of the mills and the ploughshare.
Written: December 2009
There is a vast domain,
Grounded on a golden land;
There the immortals remain,
And those who in holiness stand.
Once I reminisce on the pure realm
Beyond the shadows peep
Where beings in white apparel swiftly touch
My sovereign bids me to natter
Of how mortal there must occupy
In eternal bliss
Where the mighty one is eternally pleased
Not a taste of this ground is felt
Nor the chattels of this home can compare
The lanes are of choice treasure
The trees fairer than cedars of Lebanon
And of the river, as crystal, not like Jordan
Yet unmixed, while that of Euphrates is less
Every flower is arrayed gorgeously
And they sing melodies, not upon ten strings
But upon angelic inspiration, of harps
Made without hands
Time has no power there, nor can cause—
Oldness or baldness
There are no unequal roads of life
For goodness remains a seal,
The vast domain speaks plenitude
For the plenum from all race
The sun and the moon are not at their posts
And upon the brightness, its source is not from them
At instances when I feel the heat
Of this accommodating hut
Then I reminisce on the pure realm.
Bitten morning breath spilled from the door.
Defeated in her sanctuary, curled, wire hard.
“You’re a wicked and evil man.”
The keep, magpie hoard, cradling her wretched.
Bowed, stripped of quarrel, enrobed in argent.
“I was a young girl here.”
Stripping decadence reveals chattels of girlhood.
Eye-wide recall, affection and hurt alike.
“That belonged to my father”
Savage day, had carved through bone and home.
A veneer revealed. A void anew.
Cleansed of squalor, Stripped of refuge.
Night had found her destitute.
“This isn’t how it should be”
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