Best Defunct Poems
Saturday Night...
You’re here, in the flesh; tall and handsome, where nothing stands between us
but our breaths... softly, yet eagerly exchanging warm, casual greetings
Tonight, in the absence of distance, time is defunct; obsolete...
And if these walls could speak, they would tell of the blazing sparks that fly
when our eyes meet and how quickly I have to look away
or I would melt like fresh, creamy butter in sunlight at noon!
~*~
9/7/13
For "Mr. Incredible"
I was a man, a cold blooded drunk, as they come.
I lived my whole life in a little house on my dad’s farm.
A broke hustler with a defunct bank account,
My career's future was always in doubt.
I married late, at the start of my forties.
It was not for love, I just wanted society to notice.
I did it to save myself from the embarrassment,
So she was not exactly for me heaven sent.
If I thought I was unhappy before, I was miserable now.
I my search for stability I had eloped with a cow.
I had to drink more, to feel like a man again.
Had to play deaf and mute, not to go insane.
As the years passed, the cow bore me a calf
By now I was weak and my income had reduced to half
The bottle was killing me, but it was Still my only friend.
To hold my hand and kiss me, everyday till the end.
The bottle was all i had, to wash away my sorrow
I had to have it, whether i should beg, steal or borrow
The meaning of life had now escaped my grasp.
All I did was sit, drink and watch time elapse.
Misery matured to sickness and still the years went by.
I shed no tears but within me there was a silent cry.
That of an old man whose whole life had been a lie
Pleasure is only found in the sweet wine a youngster sips.
For death hangs around the bed, every time an old man sleeps.
No amount of slumber nor sweet dreams can sooth,
When the heavy hand of time strikes away youth.
The dagger of illness and age was soon on my throat
I who called my wife "cow" was almost a slaughtered goat.
The reflection of my old face was unbearable on the mirror.
I looked haggard and horrible, i looked like a killer.
The cow and the calf left me to seek better pasture.
I was now all alone, expect for the bottle and my pastor
He visited often to preach me the holy word.
He warned me of hell, i assured him, that i have already had
He gave up, went his way as death came mine.
No regret, no redemption and no cloud nine
There was no glitter, there was no glory
I was bitter, and that was the end of my story.
No longer submerged in seduction of a lover's tongue
left hanging out where no word is sung
defunct of function or fancy form
lost are the layers gradually getting you warm
Here and now before thoughts do pass
free flowing spewing out too fast
rhythm and rhyme left to chance
sterile simplicity caught in a trance
In a world caught up in instant gratification
what is the satisfaction
if feelings don't play a part
in your poetic art
A 21st century poet I heard him say
unrefined rhetoric put on display
It was summer time, a time for planting and reaping
and when it came to my dad well he could make that garden sing
He spent hours nurturing his plum tomatoes, while I his offspring
could only admire his patience, dedication and caring from afar.
An immigrant of Italy he knew everything there was to know
about big fat juicy tomatoes. He knew they needed time to grow,
and I knew there was a little humor to be had here, in toe.
"Dad, how long will it be before we see our first tomato?" I asked
" Oh not for a while" he answered, then the sun suddenly flashed
Time for a little fun in the sun I thought, off to the store I went
came back with a big fat tomato. I hung it on the plant with some
twine then called him over with an eager voice
"Look dad we got our first tomato, isn't it great ! " I exclaimed
he investigated with a grin, soon my lie had been defunct, defamed
that was a summer when it rained and rained and rained,
we got lots of tomatoes that year, and most of them we canned.
What I never will forget, is the love in my father's eyes,
every time he smiled like that, I was always left with a feeling,
that I had just won the gold prize.
Here I stand alone upon this stage,
You prance and mock, a beast to test,
This night, ordeal, more like all the rest.
Your burnt out eyes; defunct yet full of rage.
I use your words, as fodder for my fume,
“Low down hog and dirty dog, pathetic little prat”,
Are you of any consequence at that?
There’s no respite, compassion in this room.
I load my verbs like bullets in a gun,
Act one, scene two this character’s a fool,
For all I’ve lost I have to keep my cool.
Hard man, you’re not the only one!
Whiskey breath, long live death,
I damn you down, pathetic clown,
You so proud, declared so loud,
“Admire all, a man of my renown”.
Most are related to shipwrecked ghosts,
accomplices of my blood
that can still be found
in geographically scattered albums.
When there were cities to occupy,
they lived one level below expectations.
Like defective fireworks, some went off early.
A more dedicated few grew old and medicated.
They built defunct railroads and dug ditches
they later fell into.
They were navigators of small shady schemes.
Their brief settlements and abrupt departures
left fuzzy lines on blacktops and concrete.
As a family, we are estranged and unknown,
but we do speak to our dead
if they come to call, of course
only after a respectable period
of life-long disinterest.
Grammar Series
SECOND CONDITIONAL
If I were a gambling man as my sin;
(I confess an occasional flutter)
Then if I had an acceptable win,
I would buy myself some new schmutter *
Note: it would make my verse more refined
If instead of "if I..." I wrote "we're I" and "had I"
Then perhaps The Immortal Bard would not mind
And Jane Austin would give me the glad eye
While I may forgive modern language’s slur
Wanting that which is sadly defunct, if
We avoid "if I was", rather say: "if I were"
Mindful that we are using subjunctive
Now the First Conditional suits admonishment
By uncles from Amsterdam, Delft or Utrecht **
While the Third is rueful and penitent
For sins of commission or those of neglect
But the Second tops my panoply
And it always has me beguiled
Inspiring creativity, phantasy
And imagination run wild
E.G.
Had I the combined wit of Wodehouse, and Wilde
I would put my pen to write such a tale
That would make the face of God crack a smile
And the heavens to burst in a giggling gale
Introduction.. An excerpt from a speech by Mr Keith Campbell 1969, On the need of a referendum on joining the 'common market' the people are discussing it up and down
the land every day, they want the opportunity to express their views. If they are deprived of that opportunity they will resent the fact. For Parliament to tell those people that while they may have their views, they will not have any chance of expressing them and that this momentous decision will be taken by members of Parliament alone, regardless of the opinions of the people, would be a piece of unforgivable arrogance.
Britain 1965, Leyland's factory doing fine,
40 percent of cars, go onto U K road
Bought from British steel, goods in trains of loads
Defunct in 1985, a proof of industrial decline?
Once upon a time the Rolls Royce brand
Was made and homed within, Brit-ain..
Now owned, and sold by another land
Here is well shown again, the markets gain.'
Swan Hunter that towered the mighty Tyne
Gave work to generations, of thousands ten
The pound was 'pegged' interest rates to climb
Bank of England was to be broken then.'
Of course this all could be dis-truths
A load of baloney, where is the proof?
That's what others no doubt will bray
Statistics.. Statistics, but come the day..'
Founded 1967
Ice King
By Karl Marszalowicz
Null in the numbness
Defunct system collapsing
His blight in my hand
Abuses don't melt
Reliving a time of need
Cold words blistered me
Crying icicles
Shattering a childhood
He liked me frost bit
“The Great Riddle”
Humanism became a new religion
in a world where romancing gods
at war sanctifying acts of violence
for their own levels of commandments,
became defunct, monotheism at odds
walked inside the vessels of mortal existence
there also,
inside the great
I am,
an image
lives
and speaks
the sacriligious poet
writing and speaking
listening to others
all the words gone wrong
considering rehoming
after death,
there are many houses...there,
what should gods
and warring religions
matter then?
Inside
the great
I am,
heresies romancing apostates
perilous poets and
all consuming clerics
all made
from the one
image of a man
living life
from the confusing words,
read, written and spoken
sleeping together
uncomfortably
like warring lovers
blanketed under harsh covers
of different books
seeking something sweet
riddles to be answered
by judges after their death
when all do meet
standing around
the communal fire
burning all their books
peace came
to be
upon them
no longer
did they
speak in riddles
a common knowledge
all words transparent
one voice heard
its beating heart succinct,
yet terribly misunderstood,
eventually felt
held
in hands
after death
the Reborn,
eventually
understood
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
"Out of the eater came something to eat,
and out of the strong came something sweet."
Once, the fairy tale vein do I embrace,
once upon a time
in the past not mnemonically distant,
were we the two poles of a magnet-
if you be the South,
me the North Pole.
If I be a flying matter,
You were the gravitational pull.
If I be the water,
You were the wave.
If I be a bridge
You were the pillars under it-
Yoking stasis to dynamics.
Now, as stasis and dynamics are unyoked,
I am all water under the now defunct bridge.
ADRIFT
-----------
Swallowed by waves
Intensely waged in war
A mariner swims seized
In anarchic zones
Colliding crests of clear
Currents clash/clutch
Shifting and drifting it
Further from shallow
Fluidic floors
Lingering lured beneath
Deep aqueous lands
He swims sedate a
Straight stroking lap
Embarked on his quests
To cults of creatures as featured
Foreshadowed and seen
In rippling revelation
The chilling cool
Of the seas quench
The tip of his tongue
Tantalizing his thirst
While the lighthouse bells
Roar renouncing the curse
Concocted clamantly by
Imps tightly towered ashore
In aimless search of
He who fiercely fled
Like a falcon freed
From the flooding floors
Mellow sweet melodies
Sound a sugar's energy burst
Beaming bright as the sun
Sparks the dawn's white flame
Shading the scenes a
Deific seraphim's drape
As the towering sky's
Blue clothed in white cape
How brilliantly a defunct figure
Darted deep in the distance
Shapes an empryean eel
Adrift its ocean's reticence
~Poetra Jah~
Orphic consecration, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s Dédicade d’Orphée by T. Wignesan
Here am I back from the other dubious bank
where Orpheus’s abandonned lyre laments
the wind down there fills my veins dizzy drunk
and my redoubled hangover numbs my senses.
After having used up my human resemblance
mauve moons of Hell have gotten me in a spin
My eyes ? two diamonds of winter or two fountains
which stare at an immutable sun and remain frozen.
Similar tree springing deep roots, blind to murmurs
shakes in its sleep nocturnal verdures
where defunct suns ripen forgotten :
Very same tree that by day the light violates
bereft of foliage, bereft of birds, clawing at clouds
curses summer with its huge arms anathème.
(from the collection Sodome, O.C. t. I, p. 253)
Note : Sonnet’s original rhyme scheme :
abab, abab ccb, ccb
© T. Wignesan – Paris, October 6, 2014
They are on the verge of extinction
Now in reading them there is no fun
Electronic media rendered them redundant
Yellow journalism made them defunct
Like a beggar they hanker after ad
Their glamour of late has begun to fade
Editors now grope for thrilling news
And fill-up columns with their own views
Letters to the editor lack vigour
There is dearth of good articles
For contributors are meagre
There are no incentives for columnists
So they have begun to opt for tv superhits
Print media is virtually on oxygen
Even by its erstwhile fans it has been shun
Its news are dull and stale
And it survives solely on blackmail
"Redemption: The Children of Infinity"
from the belly
of the new world
revolution sleeps
biding its time ;
when all the walls
of Rome crumbled
new empires dreamed
of freedom,
releasing humans
baptised demons
no need for, sentient reasons,
no need for law
religion, politics
justice, judgement
outlawed
now corrupt,
now defunct
in the
One World ;
once humanity
had feelings, then
artificial hearts pumped
cloned thoughts -
electric symmetry,
turned on the hot-wired
bodies of work,
slick with artful
design, the Light
pristine
and transparent
free energy
switches on
the freshly
resurrected,
no veins.
no lush gardens
rooms for bleeding
seeds for blooming
electric gods
breeding the
children of infinity
sinless
without error
valued so much more
worthy
the regenerative
species,
granted redemption
no need for contracts
the soulless
have no need
for such useless
warranties
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
cyberpunk
a genre of science fiction set in a lawless subculture of an oppressive society dominated by computer technology.
“Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth.
I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.”
“Whoever believes in me,
rivers of living water
will flow from within them.”
redemption, definition.
1. the action of saving or being saved from sin, error, or evil.
2. a thing that saves someone from error or evil.
3. the action of regaining or gaining possession of something in exchange for payment, or clearing a debt.
4. the action of buying one's freedom.