Best Fielded Poems
“For in your light I dream, as evening takes my hand”
Silently I find my thoughts illumined by your beauty
In soft shimmers of dancing silhouettes
and patterns allowing far away breaths to sigh
Eyes peer into velvet skies,
visions set in motion eternally, find me stranded of this
distance we share, north to south, longing for you
Desperate for but a breeze, a movement of shadow,
a hope of wishes made upon the early arrival
of this crested view
Lonely among the maples, towering soldiers
lined at fielded boundaries, claiming wisdom
as they too reach for your smile
“And I yearn the knowledge of your distant view”
Do you think, do you feel, do you dream of me
from balconies high above hibiscus footpaths,
candle lit in passing moments which flicker, enchant
Drinking from a porcelain cup caressed by your hand,
a touch my body pleads, soft fingers on smooth surroundings,
ripples following moonlight sonatas,
days of spring blooms and whimsical showers,
flooding affections to wash over me,
carry me to you
This moon, suspended in charcoal heavens
upon a beaded blanket of perfect pearls,
beckons our dreams in simultaneous fashion
“Does your heart share this moon tonight, with me”
Written for the Long Distance Love - Poetry Contest
How many minions, I wonder, are out there?
I read the signs and their narcissistic prayer.
Some feel righteous and hallowed indeed.
Preaching their hapless sanctimonious creed.
Ecstatic euphoria, stripped from backs of others.
Would you act this way in front of your mothers?
Shame on you! People are suffering and dying.
Your petulant demeanor is crass and mystifying.
More good poets are leaving because of you swots.
They're isolated indoors, stomachs tied in knots.
Emerging to read your vile comments and mobbing.
Your arrogance is fielded. Minions stop hobnobbing.
Unquotable quotes - III
When in Rome, do as the Roman Nero.
The rain in Spain falls mainly on the vain and the
insane.
A grenade a day keeps the refugee away.
Cut your coat according to your girth.
The kettle calling the pot back.
Like father, like son; like mother, like neither.
Singing in the rain can get you pain in Spain.
Singing in the rain in Paris can get you chicks who do
the twist with fairies.
A sound heart in a sick body is like a tart groggy with
toddy.
The sun also rises best in the West.
Who said beggars are not choosers: they can choose the
place and moment they beg.
A white tiger abhors orange.
A policeman’s girl always wears handcuffs behind her
back.
A lawyer who licks the back of hands always gets paid
first.
A judge who yells at you tends to reduce the sentence to
a phrase.
Building castles in the air with sand is cheaper by far.
A marathon runner remembers the thighs but not the
laps.
At the end of the day is when you make your greatest
mistake – you go to sleep.
Churn milk to make curd: churn speech to make turd.
Pounding rice as a marriage rite brings no surprise on
the wedding night.
One swallow doesn’t make a drunkard out of a
teetotaller, but it sure signals a dry summer.
Cricketing jargon
The late-cut is the shave you missed out.
The off-cut is the cover drive turned phut.
The leg-pull is the batsman’s bras de fer to the leg
spinner.
The long-stop is the twelth man on the field.
The straight drive pierces the umpire’s reverie.
The full-toss is the fast bowler’s slipped disc.
The ton-up comes after the spin bowlers give up.
The innings defeat is the army beating the retreat.
Test matches end up in ditches for pitches.
A bumper is an un-coded message from the bowler to the
batsman.
A bumper is an overt warning to the inveterate blocker.
Tail-enders get to face the best batsmen all-rounders.
Umpires inspect pitches at the start of a match for coins
dropped by lawn-mowers.
An over-throw is a fielded ball flung by an outfielder at
the umpires and which misses the wickets by miles.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
**********Note: The Game is over********
The second batter put th ball
Over the fence
No one knew where it went
It screamed and it screeched the sky
And burdened it's silence with light
--------
Their was an Angel in deep middle field
It was also an Angel of the LORD
He really fielded it hard....
------
He swept so high
That he breech the sky
He braved the breath of
Death and Eternity
But, He make it back eventually
------
He cast that ball in the name
Of the Lord
But, He didn't cast that hard
And as it turned out
The game was won
In the name of the Father
And the Holy Son
And this is how we have
To end this pun!
Poet Author
Gary FIELDS
The Materials of
Criticism
- by Bob Atkinson
to look upon a word
fixed art
for value of the
whole or parts
begins a journey
demonstrated
to frustrate each of
the five senses
do we? could we? can
we?
here in the "here
and now"
produce our cultural
standing
by lining words in a
row
can we? do we? could
we?
put value on our art
or would it suffice
to percolate
ingredients in a pot
that which makes up
the whole
contains some parts
plus simple hope
many seeds of doubt,
some blind faith
loose fundamentals
warmed to percolate
boil this stew in an
open pot
wander over meanings
uncovered
string appetite of
mind along a line
of selfish devotion
to an adept mind
thus craving
credentials and
accolades
with independence of
well written pages
try as nature
creates a need
molding most to firm
fixed greed
avarice dependent,
an encircled fire
aspiration drawn
toward life's desire
direction fielded,
ego supplemented
when open rawness
becomes regimented
broadcast to those
who care about
this person's rage
who loudly shouts
simple signals of
directional flow
mixed with endless
personal selfdom
all nuance
transmitted within
the hope
of mending what's
perceived as broken
broken carries
diverse meanings
when seen with eyes
of different
teachings
broken, to some,
fits life so tight
the critic's words
lie dormant,
unlighted
when not in tune
with rational heart
words have no
meaning, a useless
art
art fulfills some
need of nature
to analyze for form
and flavor
tenderly we read
their stuff
then regurgitate our
lunch
exclamation, which does nothing to stem dead locked high tide
proliferation of high-powered assault bazookas
manned by berserk cruel death eaters,
arch nemesis picks off life with a blip
simultaneously bipedal hominid(s) grip handily rounded dirk
as backup in case clip
misses mark, where siege mentality induces
nationwide sprinting into lockdown mode deterring by a drip
fiendish homicidal metamorphoses, where transmogrification
of generic guy wielding weapon subjugating hostages pits malignancy fill lip
mailer daemon hell bent on besieging bait (unaware
Snapchatting linkedin flickr ring beings) burst deadly quip
barrage of bullets malicious intent to spray
killing machines deliver click and rip
paying plenti deathly instagram howls amidst pandemonium,
thence funereal slip
epitaphs etched on tombstones proliferate taking souls to Hades trip.
Brutal and nasty nefarious scheme directed at humble lettered folks
(like those comprising my home town -
once evoked pastoral meme Lake Woebegone)
minding their p's and q's, when in extremis
out of the blue nightmare interrupts idyllic dream
a sudden bitta bing bitta bang rings terrorist catcall
followed by red tide and river of bloodied body where caskets
rendered veneer of dark wood within lies corpse,
pistol whipped, shredded and outkast, where mortician daubs creme.
Soundcloud boom echoes, thus occurs staccato sinister sonic strafes across
freshly fielded tombstone; pearl jam gray slate, some formerly anonymous
namesake, which underling, higgs bo son or daughter blitzkrieg cross
invisible trajectories shatter (at shutterfly speed),
democratic rubric rendered dross
disposable lives of society with senseless slaughter, whereat somber silence
pines nostalgia for Mill on the Floss
when life seemed innocent against gun metal gloss
wails of agony at another human loss.
The Red Flops
Its baseball time in Boston Town
Sure hope the team won t let us down
Gonzales, Papi and Bobby V.
Will surely a pennant bring.
But oh no the season came
And all our players came up lame.
Bailey never threw a pitch
Followed soon by Youkilis
On the Disabled List went Jacoby
So they brought in a guy named Cody
needed another infield arm
So they looked down to the farm.
No Paw Sox were ready yet
Especially not Inglesias
so they traded and got Avilla
Started as a home run killer
Faded quick tho he didn t last
So Cody picked up the slack
Dustin fielded like an all star
His bats power well not so far.
Papi now can hit to right
High average and his home run might
But poor Alex can t hit his weight
All his hits stay inside the gates.
Still no Carl in center field
really good 147 million dollar deal.
No more Tek behind the plate
A guy named Salty can t hit his weight.
Beckett, Lester and Bucholtz
Our starting pitching aces trio.
Have ERA's of almost seventeen
My mother could outpitch those three.
Three cheers to the new guy Middlebrooks
Home run power, decent looks
Marlyn Byrd was a former Padre
Has hit a few and earned his way.
Still the season is very young
only 26 games are gone
Sox only 7.5 games out.
Still time to bring the team around.
Lets hope the Sox ownership team
Wants to count wins and not pennies
Bring the team talent that they need
To win one more Beantown World Series.
Hush now, my sweet child,
tho the wind howls wet and wild,
the snows will fall again upon this barren land
while inside we make our firmest stand.
Warm by the fire blaze,
the story will again be raised,
the images thru the house will slip,
be not afraid as you bite your lip.
Silent and still, the candle flames flicker
and heartbeat races fast and quicker,
as the legendary story goes,
the ghost wore weathered sailor's clothes.
His face unclear and his voice barely a whisper,
they say he was a shabby lonely drifter
who made his way beyond the fielded trees
home from the ships and salty sea.
A sailor of a time long, long ago,
forgotten across the frozen snows,
to dry land returned where he was birthed
to find the fields lay built open and unearthed.
Home he came but nothing remains the same,
everything had changed, no one knew his name
new fields were filled by figures unfamiliar
and he himself felt and seemed quite peculiar.
Wandering thru the streets at night
he often whistled songs until the morning light
and should you hear his lonesome call
be not afraid, no, not at all.
The melody he plays is much like a riddle
riding merrily upon the tremulous whistle
calling out to those who are fearful and afraid-
you are prisoners only of your self betrayed.
Greet the change with openness
it can be curse or can be gift,
but for this sailor home from the sea
the waves rise up and down flowing in and out like destiny.
Hush now, my child and dream of majestic ships
and sailors sailing on amazing trips
returning home in time to find
the child he left behind.
Roger Whitaker - The Last Farewell
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sGWs1HK8iDU
Towards the tree line
I stare towards the tree line,
misshapen and abstract on my eyes
Fading in winter’s chill and leafless
emptiness that I feel, but can not see
Oh it is there, screaming at me,
waving in the wind, calling in birdsong
But my eyes travel more…
a distance well beyond any footpath I’ve taken
Shelved on highway vistas
now filled with detoured persuasions
So very far, miles on scaled dotted lines,
asphalt tearing at my soles, untied laces drag
Crawling down barbed wire destinations
Bits of fabric snagged, ripped flannel explanations,
apologies tattered and frayed,
patchwork pleadings in mismatched sentences
Still I gaze, following shadows into loneliness
Reaching for but a hint of a smile,
a fix-all for a broken heart,
a mosaic sponge to catch these tears…I find none
Tossing a stone, it bounces on fielded diaries,
words of pain scribbled before even a thought
Collections of wishes in a four leaf clover pockets,
brushed of life’s unfairness
If only I could hold you again,
beneath frostbitten promises,
gently with the touch of every meaning,
building a wall to turn back all of our yesterdays
Now ice covered in wilting definitions,
shattered futures of a desolate existence,
as silhouettes carve unrecognizable initials and still I can only
stare towards the tree line, lost and alone…without you
2/7/17
Written for the: You Broke My Heart Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Nicola Byrne
No more will his visor slam sideline here,
but forever the HBC our fans will cheer;
he forged a team that fought for glory,
and fielded a squad that was SEC worthy;
while he did not garner a title in hand,
the garnet was tougher in football land;
he taught his players to be better men,
sandstorm polished, a house to defend,
he got the best both on and off field,
now we wonder what his legacy will yield.
predicated on verb hose noun sense
with brain matter makes me astute
and this union with the trappings
of virtual reality tub boot
would be akin to heaven
within the domain of this atheist - ole coot
whose purr add ventures scripting verse
sit aisle feeble rhyme with no reason
moost definitely hi yam not terse
aye speculate yar facial reaction
(understandably) would be
toe step from this purse
son i.e. Daff Punk Matthew Scott Harris
when ma time to ride luxuriously
in a plushly jeweled hearse
carrying thigh cremated ash
disagrees with me credo, ethos,
faith no more much less brash
since be yen entombed
in a coffin resistant to crash
vis a vis atoms either
forcibly split (divorced)
or tum marry in a shotgun flash
(fission or fusion respectively)
exhausts precious natural race horses
cruelly whipped
stinging fresh fielded gash
where putrescent hide of Equus resembles hash
sheesh, how in the of Judas Priest
did hie veer off into the least
common denominator,
which absolute value increased
the totally tubular confusion
into a worthless jumbled gobbledygook feast.
Midst fielded bloom
Soft pastel skies, horizon’s shade
So cool the breeze on flowing hair
With skin of whispered poet’s phrase
Now dreaming of a heart to share
~
Alone you stand midst fielded bloom
Beneath the wing of windswept dove
As fragrant as this rose I send
Delivered with undying love
Good morning Soupers
his last gasp was quite lengthy
trying to go out with a bang as usual
a rationalist manifesto covering his face
accompanied by a cotton field work song
his grip went slack under the torrent of images
fortunes have been lost in that snapshot parlor
shook the money from the pockets
of many a surviving Siamese twin
blessed with a rugged set of mouse buttons
he pitched head first into the theocratic miasma
since a rescue by wisdom eluded his pilgrimage
and its inner parade of flailing penitents
he died to a real slow slide whistle tango
from a regrettable strangulation of debate
and terminally transparent eyelids
at least the bastards left me to my fate he mused
just as a legion of parachutists
crashed and tumbled through the roof
it was an Exist-o-Gram from my dear mother
but first a word from our sponsor
Hi there Mel Linger owner of Mel's Futon Corral
so jump in the calaboose and come on down
for a steal of a deal and a big gold tooth smile
clear and sunny in the lowland swamps
now for some traffic from overhead
fully awake after the reservoirs of hell broke loose
his mathematician’s mind calculated
how long until earthly paradise
it was a delusion but a lot of them work
time to risk the entire skin layer he fielded
searching for the trail to civilization
he shinnied up his collective unconscious
an optico semiotician on a paranormal safari
and began to read mom's holy missive
son, your persistent mania for self dialog
requiring a frequent bath in statistics and terror
has left you under the juggernaut's wheels
for some fashionable occult mystery
humor him it's a mud fest in there
relaxed again and ready for
the ever enchanting silhouette of flames
he spread his wings and noticed
there were no wings too late
his nipples were erect with drama
moms lips floated above and spoke
the extraterrestrial rushed up at him
the Cherubs chirped and twittered
as he rowed over the spillway of oblivion
and stood before the ancient ones
boy were they ancient decrepit even
connected to bubbling jars by their sex organs
apparently this made them really smart
the one labeled mom bubbled and spoke
lose the kilt festooned with skulls son
later that day a marsh fire swept through heaven
and a humming bird took nectar from his ear
Poetry is a busy crosswalk downtown,
when everyone moves together with elbows
held a little wider than normal.
Poetry is a middle-aged man, creased
and folded, sprawled out on the neglected
weeds in Woodruff park, eyes wide shut.
Poetry is the free fruit for children
podium in between the produce
and clearance aisles, oranges
and apples withered to marbles.
Poetry is a crying baby
at the 3 o’clock movie theater.
Poetry is a young boy in the park,
battered by curiosity, in a fight to the death
with furry flowers, their guts filling the air
with each oaken swing.
Poetry is giving a nod to the mailman.
Poetry is the unintentional eavesdropping
of the worst idea for a screenplay
ever fielded.
Poetry is the gait of a man recently
in love, thinking of hands
suddenly adored.
Poetry is the enigmatic ether that fills
the summer air so thick you have
so do the breaststroke just to
get back home.
And how can you ever think to write it
if you are stuck inside behind
grating blue screens or
painfully white paper?
A bloke who hails
from New South Wales
will know of Gundagai.
Some guy found gold,
or so we're told,
in days now long gone by.
I grew up there
without a care
when both of us were nippers:
she was my mate -
her name was Kate -
I used to call her "Kipper".
We loved to lark
around Yarn Park,
and sing Frank Ifield songs,
play hide-and-seek
on Morley's Creek
all golden summer long.
I'd glance at Kip
(she fielded slip)
and try to hoist one high:
but quick as thought
she'd yell out, "Caught!"
or "Nice try, Gundagai!"
Her brain was quick,
her wit was slick,
and ready with a joke.
She'd bat and bowl
and kick field goals
as good as any bloke.
Well, time moved on.
Those days are gone,
and never to return.
I've roamed this earth,
for what it's worth,
and one thing I have learned.
In this wide world
there's heaps of girls,
and some of 'em are ripper,
and dark or fair,
I've had my share,
but none of 'em's like Kipper.
I'm not that grand
with pen in hand,
but I've written Kip a letter:
I may be wrong,
it's been so long.
She may not even get 'er.
So now you know
the way it goes.
You've heard my tale unfold.
I'm like those fools
with sieves and mules,
hell bent on striking gold.
I'm a chafing chook
on tenterhooks,
awaiting her reply.
I know my Kip -
she's sure to quip,
"Oh, nice try, Gundagai!"