Best Corked Poems
fo'c·'sle /'fohksel/ noun deriv: forecastle
1. the forward part of a ship below the deck, traditionally used as the crew's living quarters.
2. historical: a raised deck at the front of a ship.
With the equinox illuminating a fortnight of recovery
On pelts spread like Ionian jars left askew,
My flame-keep sparked alight against the doldrums of
Greed. Stagnant and fetid.
My bark beats out a call stretched
Skin-tight over the sea’s virgin core
And sets trust aflame.
Ashes collected into the collated casks and
Corked with animus, Moon Girl pounded on.
Drumming a dirge on the tanner's own flesh.
Pounding the seed of echoing hope.
Pounding the corpus beat of life anew.
Those echoed my own harmony and emptied my ears.
My tunes would now be true and crisp.
My struggle to syncopate the middle eight
Was like on the saltchuck the time before.
Before we crossed the bar,
Breakers chasing, pounding aft of stern.
Now in the glow of the coal oil lamp
Sat The Dane who came to trade.
He mumbled a Chinookian curse and winced.
He sensed my mariner's cred, how I lit my smoke;
Muscle memory and addiction married in my subconscious.
But His eyes would never sense the venomous flow
Of the seabreak distant,
Like hounds baying to the highway of stars
And up to the dunes ran with phosphorescent faces
Fermenting the blackness.
Hell-hounds bounding.
Lungs pounding.
Driving on.
River may lick Disappointment’s shanks
But Drake’s gold remains unfound.
The cavities carved along the capes
Echo an emptied ethos and sapped spirit
Which salal and sage cannot clense.
Walk with me now Sister Ilchee.
Beat your dirge
Along the pock-marked ports of plunder
Laid before the flattened corpse of
Ebbing freedom found.
If you are reading "the Adventures of Soda Pop" for the first time, read the first in the series and the story will make more sense. I hope you enjoy.
Ricky ran up the stairs to go to his room to prepare for the days fun. He put on his favorite pair of jeans and a western shirt with pearl buttons. From under his bed he pulled out a leather gun belt that held two cap guns. (apparently the monsters vacate the space under the bed during the day) As he strapped the belt around his waist, I could tell he liked how it felt on his hips. Ricky took one of the guns out of the holster and placed it back under the bed. At first I wondered why and before I knew it Ricky placed me upsidedown in the holster. I liked how the leather held me firmly in place, luckily I had been corked or Ricky would have been wearing purple instead of blue jeans. Ricky then started rummaging through his closet looking for his Daisy BB gun. After a few moments of searching he was happily holding it in his little hands. He shook it and I could hear the BBs rolling around inside the gun.
As Ricky walked down the stairs I could feel his imagination taking hold. Ricky felt as tall and powerful as any real cowboy. There was a certain coolness in his stride, if he had had on some cowboy boots instead of his black canvas runners, the picture would have been perfect. Ricky went into the kitchen to find Roy and Teresa, Mrs. Burns told him they had already left with some friends. No worries after all today Ricky was the "Lone Ranger" and I was Tonto! The adventure could begin.
Lumpy Rumpy, now a high school lad,
I'm afraid is still acting very bad,
In his school laboratory he did amass,
Some stinking, self-made, rotten egg gas.
He corked it up in a chemistry vial,
Then down the town, he strolled for a while,
Choosing a site, the local paper shop,
He went in with the vial and took the top off.
He hid it behind a large magazine rack,
Waiting outside for the putrid gas attack,
In three minutes flat the shop emptied out,
People holding their noses as they ran about.
The fire brigade called, putting masks on,
To find the rotten aroma, so very strong,
Finally the brigade captain emerged holding the vial,
Lumpy grinned to himself,
Another prank done with such style.
CHAMPAGNE, CORKED BOTTLES OF EFFERVESCENT FUN
SWEET AND FRUITY TO THE TASTE, OR MAYBE EXTRA DRY
A TINY GLASS OF BUBBLING, POPPING, SPLASHING FUN
MAKE A CHOICE, BRUT, SPARKLING, OR SIMPLE ROSE
WHEN ON A FRUGAL BUDGET, ANDRE’S PINK
DOM PERIGNON FOR THE WEALTHY
KORBEL FOR UNDER TWENTY
PRICED JUST RIGHT
FOR YOU
"C"
"O"
"L"
"D"
"C"
"H"
"A"
"M"
"P"
"A"
"G"
"N"
"E"
IS SO
DELICIOUS
"HAVE A GLASS TONIGHT"
If we were a beach
then you would be the sand, diamond warmth,
and I the shingle underfoot.
If we were a pen
then I would be invisible ink,
and you a permanent marker, fluorescent.
If we were wine
you would be the vineyard, the grape, the wine list itself;
I a bottle unopened, left corked.
If we were a theatre
I am the playbill of a show cancelled and unseen;
you, the stage in spotlight: golden, applauded.
I the tile and you the whole mosaic
for us as a Roman floor;
I a shattered pane and you the handle
with us in the shape of a door.
As clothing – you a shiny button, me a thread to be snipped.
As hair – you a photographed trend, I a ponytail clipped.
If we were a couple,
Then you would be blind.
If our love was a tape,
I’d forever record, pause and rewind.
If we were a cake
you would be the fingertip licked icing
and I a batter filled lump.
If we were a body
then you would be the heart
and I the blood you pump.
Plenty of room in « Le Foot »* for Soccer
For Doug Vinson at PoetrySoup.com
I
Not long ago King Pelé
Set “le foot” in America
Today his peoples’ muted “Olé”!
Rue the day at Maracana
Now from coast to conniving coast
Your Can-Can gals kick “le balon”*
No Wall in between the goal-posts
To win at summit many a “galon”*
Alright! Keep your cherished football
Iced-hoc-key bounced balls in basket
But let echo corked-leather on “saule”*
Crikey! "le cri-cri"* of “le cricket”
II
Tremble at the hakka-cry of the All Blacks
Cringe before Aussie toughs at Springbok élan
And let them romp with the Six-Nation packs
Over your greens with fifteen Argentinian
Call out to the run-machine Little Master*
And let his blade flash home-runs tout azimut
Over heads of fielders spectators and trainer
And let your millions throb and catapult
Your new knights sans armour in world arena
And gasp at fresh records topple centuries*
On pitch and turf in Tests across suburbia
And join the world in friendly rivalries.
*"Le Foot"or "Le Fut": French for football/soccer.
*"le balon": French for ball.
*"le(s) galon(s)": French for "stripes" as in "to win one's stripes in battle" (gagné ses galons au combat) .
*"le saule": French for the willow tree. "Willow" is metonymy for the cricket bat as the latter is made from the tree.
*"le cri-cri": familiar French for "le grillon", the insect cricket.
*"Little Master", sobriquet of Sachin Tendulkar, the retired legendary Indian test-cricketer, the counterpart of the Brazilian Pelé in soccer. See my poem: "The Little Master: Sachin Tendulkar", my most-read ever poem.
*"centuries": batting records in cricket run into a few centuries, mostly in five-day international test-matches.
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
They say Cabernet Sauvignon pairs nicely with steak
Pinotage, they reckon, for cheese
Tempranillo is the choice for Mexican grub
But, I'm somewhat easier to please
I've tried a fair few "Reds", on a weekend night
While chilling to some melodic jazz
I've had the brave, the bold and the border-line nasty
But I've never had a "Shy Shiraz"
I once had a good round Pinot Noir
And I've tried a spicy Grenache
I've felt the cranberry burst through a daring Gamay
Which cost me lots of cash
I've had a Beaujolais, which wasn't too pretty
Bought from a dodgy guy named "Baz"
Found a corked Chianti - rather a pity
But I've never had a "Shy Shiraz"
I've had a monster of a Monastrell
And a beautiful Petit Ver
A Mataro, which did nothing for me
A Malbec, which made my mind whirr
Yes, I like a glass, on a weekend night
You may prefer beer, whereas
I must keep looking, 'cos it's quite off-putting
That I've never found a "Shy Shiraz"
A Zinfandel gave me heartburn hell
And a Claret once cleared my head
A Merlot can make me beg for more
Rioja sends me merrily to bed
Yes, I like a bottle, on a weekend night
It gives my mind pizzazz
Then sends me mellow, like a good old fellow
Who's searching for a "Shy Shiraz"
This earth is fine, for those who love wine
I've had the old world, and the new
But until I find a "Shy Shiraz"
I'll just keep trying - as you do.
For a bottle of red, on a weekend night
Is a blend of razzmatazz
You can find me drinking, while secretly thinking
"I hope I never find a Shy Shiraz"
I wined and dined you but you wined at me,
you wound so much, it corked.
then when we sniffed the cork of love:
you popped my cork,
my; what a corker!
fruit you said: and rang the glass to chill report
Oh!.. never was there ruby depth like this before.
thus another trip to the cellar I thought/lost in
wine’s bumptious nose
Cheese? …only when selling ..never when buying
I’m sold on you Delilah!
steady boy/hold the glass: Shiraz is calling.
hold your trousers and their fighting dog at bay,
save the passion/ Syrah has its sweet way!
we’ll let the sun pour forth. Bachus show the way!
Written for contest 14/8/15
A certain kind of forever passed by today –
It was coiled up and corked in a bottle,
And as I watched it ride the ripples
Of the clouds in dank sky,
I sat in wonder –
I thought about the gripping restlessness –
That forever would eradicate,
The funnel of emptiness
Engorging my heart,
That forever would calm –
I contemplated, deliberated and toyed –
With the notion of that forever,
Out of grasp, out of reach
Enlarging my need,
Oh that timeless forever –
I watched as that forever passed by –
Caressed by the glass of antiquity,
And as it rode out of sight
Into sky’s vastness,
My wonder throbbed –
She stood out by the water,
Her toes in the sand,
Staring out at the moonglade
With a bottle in her hand.
And inside that corked glass
Written on a torn page,
“If you find this message,
Then you are too late.”
Some people don’t mind the thunder
That collides with the crashing waves;
Some people like the rainfall
That cascades down their face.
And for her, the ocean’s solace
Gave her enough strength
To step out into the water
And be carried away.
And to this day, the wind carries her cries;
At least that’s what they say,
And her message in a bottle
Is floating in oceans miles away.
She stood out by the water,
Staring out at the moonglade.
She set the bottle in the water
And watched it float away.
And with that hesitation,
There was a chance to deter;
Though she believed this moment
Was written in the stars.
Some people don’t feel the earthquake
That ravages solid ground.
Some people embrace the fire
That burns safe and sound.
And for her, the ocean’s solace
Was her saving grace
And she went out into the water
To be carried away.
And to this day, the wind carries her cries;
At least that’s what they say,
And her message in a bottle
Is floating in oceans miles away.
And if someone had tried to stop her,
She might have given him the chance.
But her prayers went unanswered,
And she followed through with her plan.
A message in a bottle
Drifting out to sea
A chance to be heard
When no one’s listening.
Corked poison upon treacherous lips
fire water for relationships
drowning souls short of breath
plunging darkness must mean death
sister dearest you loved me so
until uncle Joe caressed you low
enraged butterfly grew wicked horns
roses are protected by its thorns
labeled retarded, mad little boy
even Christmas stole all the joy
bare trees and crippled legs
necessary angles for welfare eggs
poverty shakes an ugly stick
while ignorance is applied too thick
battered syndrome is colorful too
black and blue for me and you
but a rainbow adorns the other side
of those who loved with foolish pride
smiling jesters laugh for naught
oblivious to common thought
education is life itself
hidden nick-knacks on a shelf
soulless wonders, society makes
spirited ones, Lucifer takes...
Anchors Aweigh...Destination Unknown
Weather beaten cap'n,
and watertight bewitched craft
time tested since maiden voyage
(circumnavigating the globe
back in the day
of my youth),
I ranked tough as a pitbull,
when severely pitted
against raw elements
of swiftly tailored,
harried stylish nature
against leathery faced
reptilian skin, hard drinking
(actually as corked
poetic convenience - vermouth
arbitrary bottle of choice
if for no other reason,
than to rhyme
with the above line),
and tobacco spitting, while
colorfully swearing as an uncouth
Furies (of Agamemnon) fighting (tooth
and nail) Pirate,
where rickets, scurvy,
and thrice unconscious,
currently ample proof
could not forsooth
bring me to
Davy Jones's locker,
cuz I never wanna
get relegated to an underwater
whale schooled booth,
this raconteur can nonchalantly,
glibly, and blithely attest,
with braggadocio, despite
no warm welcome will
ever greet mine tinnitus
pained ears, I can plainly
imagine acrimonious retort
upon me behest
his far more'n lifetime
bobbing (like a sponge)
buoyed atop crest
longing e'en for
(carping, caviling, hen pecking,
or shrewish) wife,
and loving family
forsaken, sans living
antisocial upon briny deep divest
many opportunities to
experience wedded, webbed
and whirled bliss,
and hence for everest
as bachelor, especially
at present junction
of twilight years,
my crude manners
makes foreign (for
an) ill suited guest
boot e'en if yours truly
became inured to life on land,
(as a "FAKE" father figure
feathering his nest
my coarse behavior, as basic
electric koolaid acid test
would force even
the most tolerant proprietor,
perhaps a bank
manager at Univest
would utter VAMOOSE,
e'en if eye covered up
my heavily pierced,
and tattooed breast.
He woke down the slope, by the hay
With him a thousand shrill cries
That stilled to him, yawning.
He moved with strands of hay, trailing
On his rags.
Sauntering, he is a flaneur...
The road lamps gave him away.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
Half-way on a bridge over its side
He saw a bridge in Japanese ruin
Chaffing in the hurrying waters below.
He cursed the Japs for lying fallow
Spouting his rheum.
Pondering, he is a sinner...
He knelt for those braves, never to ride.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
A gale rolled down the road in dust,
Churning it up, a regular willy-willy.
The fizzing trees corked: the shutters' hinges off.
His eyes sore: swaying he would cough.
He stood now willy-nilly.
Thinking, he is a fritterer...
He chased the trapping miasma, loping his Wellingtons' lust.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
The rains were bursting heavy on the esplanade,
A rocky splash soared with spray from the waves.
He sought the bulwark of the stony balustrade,
The waters were rising over the promenade
Like columns of graves.
Musing, he is a shirker...
He plunged into the sea, bold as a blade.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
© T. Wignesan, 1948 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961.)
There once was a lass in decline
who daily drank much too much wine
she rosed* up her lips
and plumped up her hips
but never got any of mine!
Yes, my bottle it remained corked
not guzzled by broads from New York
oh, pink, white or red
I’d hoard them instead
perhaps I let lose for the stork?
Men if you’d sip from my bottle...
into bed, do rush, don’t dawdle
drink from my navel
if you are able
perform with game hold the throttle.
* I know [rosed] is not a word ;) I'm being funny so I'm using my poetic license!
**ed's do not make a syllable ;)
I feel bubbly but corked
Reserved and labeled
In the light, I sparkle
However, my home is dark
And cold
And chilled
No, I'm not a message in a bottle
Floating across the sea
Never to be found
Or a keepsake that's mothballed
No, I sit in the cellar of life
Collective and silent
Like a vintage wine
And worse, as someone's housewife
My husband uncorks me
At his whims
And on his special occasions
His eyes tell me he savors the taste
As he sips away my abyss
Yet as his eyes become fulfilled
I am left empty and downtrodden
Then he corks me back up
And takes me back down