Best Dabbing Poems
Often I harken back
to a very wise poet,
how “life is but a stage”
of tender moments
splashed and splattered
by fierce jabs of passionate
heated rage
such opera the workings of
fallible human hearts~ such a
masterful organ still an infant
unwinding with tyrannic-like
stops and starts
Where would poetry be
without feeling words
and colorful flourishes?
Where? Without reckless splashes
on canvas wall and trampled over
floor – saturated flamboyant
brushes ever mixing and dabbing
seeking and grabbing smoothing and
rubbing out fillings satisfying
while definitions left
spatially wanting
for the poet draws as he writes
from wells deeper tributaries distant
less regulated winding streams of uncoagulated self
seeing one's soul somewhere between ignorance
and all knowing ever greater for its never finding
ever seeking ever flowing
Indeed “life is but a stage,”
every breath a potential scripted
unscripted page every exhale a new dissolve
for the air to take hold of and fly with
Never cheat ambient emotion
of heights and potential lows
Never set passion wastefully adrift
let the spirit give full body a heartfelt
push into uncharted always somewhat
perilous yet marvelous revealing lift–
IT TAKES TIME TO SEE THE LIGHT
Death is best taught in the dark
Fetching sticks, setting sparks
Its bag of tricks: sickness and hope
A black curtain vanishes
The magician leaves you with a moonless night
A lonely night without stars
And you work to locate those sparkling crystals
And place them one at a time back in the sky
But tears fall like glass, resetting the progress
You need to accept the inevitable
But no one can do the Impossible
So cling to the possible
Surround yourself with an armloads of friends
Let them take turns dabbing your mascara
As their handkerchiefs turn from white to black
One day you’ll find the moon back in its place
You will wonder how long you missed it
1st Place
4/7/2017
DIDACTIC FORM
When brainwaves strive against my need for sleep,
I exercise to help my mind calm down.
When pressures get so bad I want to weep,
I do yard work or jog a while through town.
A dear pet or a loved one's home going -
out come the tissues, dabbing at moist eyes.
When sharp pains jolt with an electric zing,
the crying helps the sting depressurize.
When I feel insignificant or small,
the ocean waves provide a balm for me.
When life's injustice casts a darkened pall,
I pray to God as sun sets on the sea.
Salt water is the cure for anything:
my sweat, my tears, the sea - to these I cling.
"The cure for anything is salt water:
sweat, tears, or the sea" ~ Isak Dinesen
written 14 Sep 2020
BEQUEATHED BONNIE SQUARE
a lacy handkerchief
embroidered with a hummingbird,
a nectar-sweet trellis, to sponge
the waterworks - the trickle
of misty eyes,
the honey-suckled creek
that runs over wrinkled
logs and leafy plum-cheeks.
delicate hands lift
the dapper doily —
pat-a-pat dabbing.
a tattered smile forms
at the base of the cliffs.
6/30/2019
My little Eden --
before the fall
a screened porch
in the shade of
an ancient
overarching
fig tree
small wonder
Adam and Eve
needed only one each
to hide their new
nakedness --
chicks in their spring nests
chirping away, feeling nurtured
and protected
oblivious to the serpent
apples not his only ripe
fooled by his appealing strutting
fruited limbs and tasty appearance,
Lucifer, the cat, a black joke of
mine, stirs in my lap only slightly --
he is asleep for full – while I, a rival
fig picker, finish my second cup of
coffee…
my Eden has a thousand garden poems
and their seasons, come and gone,
one would think both heaven and hell
satiated by now
the many morbid failures and bright
triumphs~ despite the thick foliage
I try to write of dappling sunlight, dabbing
word-glistens, here and there, on my crinkly old
face
unkempt growth bleached but yet hopeful
City streets spew fire on sunburnt July day.
Dabbing sweat from brow, I meld into paved sea.
Mick cries out "Angie" from quaint corner café;
slowing steps, I search his stripped-bare poignancy.
Strangers strut in sync with street’s allegro beat.
Pigeons peck concrete, hungry coos offbeat.
Sullen faces fall, diverting weary eyes.
Souls emit loneliness lost in sad goodbyes.
Exhaust squeezes my chest with each poisoned breath;
choking on my tears, I smell acrid deceit.
Amid spinning wheels, a stranger till my death.
On wide city streets, crowds rush by in defeat.
A restless, hazy sun sinks to moonless night.
Senses become keen with city’s fading light.
Midnight hour comes to call, taunting my dark heart.
Angel wings span streets as nameless child departs.
Whose face stares back at me
from this strangely shaped mirror?
Where could I be? I do not have a mirror
that looks like this. Am I that lady in the mirror?
I touch my eyes. The woman in the mirror touches hers.
I blink my eyes. The lady in the mirror is blinking her eyes too.
It must be me, but my hair is so white! What happened to my lovely hair?
My locks of gold brown, warm as a summer day. Why is my hair so thin now?
Why am I here at this strange mirror? Where am I? This isn't my house, is it?
Our mirror looks much different. It's in the tiny bathroom of my large family.
We all live in a small grey house. Eight children. Yes, there are eight of us!
My mom is so pretty with her long red hair. How I miss her. Is she here?
I cry "Mom"; a woman in white comes to the door . She’s not my mom!
She is a nurse! Oh, no. Am I sick in a hospital with pneumonia again?
I touch my eyes. The lady in the mirror touches hers. how is this me?
The nurse, near a strange sink, wets a wash cloth. She's now softly
dabbing at my mouth. She says my daughter is coming. What does
she mean? I’m a young girl. I’m not this lady in the mirror. How
can I have a daughter? My sisters and I are still young. None
of us are married. I miss them so much. Is Mom at work?
Mom is a nurse, but not this nurse standing next to me.
Now a pretty lady stands by the door "Hi, Mom," she
says, "I'm Angela, your daughter." How can this be?
I’m not married. I shake my head no and the lady
in the mirror does too. Niether of us knows this
sweet lady whose eyes now fill with tears!
Written November 20, 2017
In London, away in a terrace
Half-hidden with elm trees and grime,
Lived young Violet, in her parents' house,
Left alone for near all of the time,
As her mother had no patience to teach her
And her father was working all day,
Violet read to herself through her childhood
Forgetting her seclusion in play,
Any friends she made as a young woman
Would laugh at her stitches and cloth,
For they knew that Violet was quite useless
And so showed their neat needlework off,
Poor Violet kept trying her best, but
Each time everyone ran her down,
She retreated back into her mind's warmth
Far away from that cold-blooded town,
Then one night, as the raindrops were piercing
Through the rueful, restricting twilight,
Violet threw on her Sunday attire and
Did at once in the darkness delight,
So she ran through the alleys and gardens,
Dancing down the pitch-black London streets,
Her beautiful dress flew about her
As she skipped past the other deceits,
Violet's stories swam round in her memory
As she flew through the night and the stars,
And she bathed thoroughly and with relish
Until Violet was cleansed of her scars,
Now her heart was open and happy,
So she laughed and fluttered her tail,
Carelessly gliding free through the water
And onwards to the ocean did sail.
As the weary sun rose on the next day
Her friends could be seen on the pier,
Dabbing at their dry eyes with their hankies,
Voices straining trying to sound sincere,
"It has hurt us so indescribably,
That because of her poorly-sewn hems,
Violet felt she was inferior to us
And has drowned herself in the Thames."
Violet's parents had not yet noticed
The absence of their only daughter,
And they would understand even less
How she came to be dead underwater,
But Violet was now free to prosper,
To swim and to dance and to glide,
And with angels and mermaids to play with,
She would always in her dreams reside.
First Christmas without you, my dearest, my love
Cruelly taken too soon on the wings of a dove
How can I rejoice when my heart broke in two
Those memories still vivid of my last days with you
No holly, no ivy are decking the hall
No Christmas cards; no Christmas tree; nothing at all
Awakening early on this Christmas day morn
I watch the sun rising, for it’s just before dawn
The full moon is shining, like a beacon from afar
And very close to me there is a twinkling, silver star
I am pulled towards my garden as the dawn begins to break
And gently wipe sleep from my eyes; I need to be awake
The moon shines down so brightly, as if to celebrate
Illuminating my old Fir tree, adorned with snowflakes twinkling at me
I venture closer to my tree to witness tiny birds a fluttering
A nightingale perched on the top, a joyous song she’s uttering
I watch this magical scene unfold in wondrous disbelief
and dabbing tears of joy and love with my Christmas handkerchief
That twinkling, silver star is Venus; known as the Goddess of love
I feel your love enveloping me as she twinkles and sparkles above
For somehow Mother Nature has, in all her Christmassy glory
Gifted me a happy end to my grief-stricken Christmas story
Written 10th December 2018
Competition: Christmas Tree
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
5th place in Premier Contest
Contest A BRIAN STRAND COUPLET
Sponsor Brian Strand
FIRST PLACE
Motor is nudged to life in an arcing motion, arm pulling
cord. Vein-furrowed hands grasp the fishing pole,
slinging bait and tackle beneath one arm. Another
arcing motion, arm casting pole. Bobber spins
a helicopter course through sun-nipped air.
Loons call a soulful greeting, the moans of centuries'
separated lovers in mourning. Time trickles through
the notes of their songs. Meanwhile, bass glide
with their loud-mouthed sass,
perch and blue gills play tag. A lone
blue heron bills the murky depths for lunch.
Man baits his hook, readjusts his hat. Eyes squint
into the dark undertones of the pond. He casts
his pole, a fermata in the song of the loons. When this man
was a boy, he drove the spires of the Rocky Mountains,
frequented the five-and-dime, nuzzled
a nightly routine next to his wife, who mothered six children, raised
in a house far away from any pond. They bustled themselves
along through school as well as any fish pouncing on
supper-flies, dabbing napkins to the corners
of their mouths. This fisherman sliced their steak, knotted their ties,
held their hands crossing the street
until they were old enough to
mail college resumes,
pay for first dates.
Five years,
fifteen years,
thirty-two years and here is Granddad,
with his child's toddler learning to walk in the bowed
belly of his fishing boat. They stumble,
clanging clumsy feet on the metal, frightening
the fish away. The old man bends low,
a note in the song of the loons.
He places the toddler on two feet, guides her hesitant steps,
each pendulum swing carrying them a moment
further toward separation. In twelve years, the grown child
bends low, a note in the song of the loons, to kiss her
grandfather's forehead, as he casts off on his helicopter
course of afterlife.
Spring transforms snowflakes into art
when frigid days begin to warm.
And water and ice meld, sculpting
Queen Anne's lace in crystalline form.
Clinging to snowy roofs and eaves,
icicles sparkle like wet glass.
And shimmering, liquid rainbows
flow wherever droplets amass.
Nature starts shading the landscape,
dabbing patches of green on white.
And soon, daffodils and tulips
sprout, within Spring's nurturing light.
Returning birds reclaim the skies,
as honking geese defy the cold.
And start migrating North to breed,
contesting Winter's fragile hold.
Goes in hot. Comes out hot.
But this may be more than the casual student
Will want to know.
Mom’s grinding chilies for me in Modesto.
Red, green, a dash of fresh cilantro,
Fermented shrimp sauce and a pinch of salt
Between her mortar and pestle.
Dabbing a sticky ball of khao nhio
Into the tiny ceramic saucer, I know
She’s a sorceress
In her kitchen
Trying to find a way to say
She loves me, hoping my prodigal tongue
Is still Lao enough
To understand what her broken English cannot convey.
My eyes are cisterns of tears after 30 years.
I should say “mak phet” and grab some cold milk
But with a smile through the pain I stammer
“Saep lai, Mae, delicious, Mom.
Saep lai, hak Mae lai lai.”
“Don’t talk, just eat,” she says between her tears.
yogi under the banyan tree
yogi under the bodhi tree
bikku under the banyan tree
waiting for release
bikku in blissful nibbhana
yogi in extinguishing moksha
Penniless poet under the tenement roof
Jazz organist under the pavement sky
Struggling novelist under the Riviera blue
Russian ballerina under the American umbrella
Apprentice painter under the Sistine Chapel
Sculptor Underground
waiting for the agent’s call
burning Anne Frank manuscripts in an air-raid fire
singular melodies drowned in the descending drone
Kafka writing without a morrow
van Gogh dabbing his tormented palette under the Arles sun
Sartre turning the Nobel Prize down for teenage girls
Siddhartha abandoning his body’s palace for the people’s pain
the common man unable to abandon his workload family
bikku under the bodhi tree
his body shrivelled under the saffron robe
his begging bowl filled by karma-earning hands
the last trichinosis-filled moksha meal
bikku rising on a thousand-petalled flower
bikku piercing through the cakras’ splendrous colours
bikku on a burning pyre
©T.Wignesan 1992
April 29, 1997
Paris
[from the collection : longhand notes (a binding of poems), 1999]
I saw her by the kitchen window,
hands engaged in fixing dinner,
a whistle from her lips embroidering
the night air. Breaking into song, her
face a portrait of beauty and grace.
Hands in soapsuds now, cleaning
dishes then wiping them dry with
the care she would exercise as if
she were dabbing away a child's
tears. Pots and pans now scrubbed
to mirror cleanliness she placed
them lovingly back on their shelves,
flicks off the switch, plunging the room
into darkness, the music receding
as she moved from the kitchen
into the living room, gradually
disappearing until it was if she had
never been there. Only her fragrance
remained.
My Grandma usually had some,
stuffed in her sleeve,
and like a magician pull some out,
when she started to sneeze…
And when I was young,
didn't like to wear a hat,
so Mom would pin some on my head,
can you imagine that?...
And as soon as we got to church,
I'd sit down low in the pew,
hoping no one would recognize me,
I'd feel just like a fool...
Then there are times,
I'd be in a strange bathroom,
and suddenly aware,
"Hey theres no " t.p." around, anywhere!"
Then trying not to panic,
I think I might have some with me,
so I dig in my pocketbook,
and viola! pull out 2 or 3…
They also come in handy,
when you are at home,
and you suddenly see out of the corner of your eye,
a rather large bug…
And I know this is mean,
but I stomp on it, wad it up with a tissue,
and give it a quick burial at sea...
And you can almost redecorate,
your room with a colorful box,
if you buy it from Wal-mart
it won't cost an awful lot…
But it really comes in handy,
when females start to cry,
dabbing at our eyes,
it helps keep our mascara dry...
So I thank the person,
that invented the versatile tissue,
because if are like me
theres always some kind of issue!