Best Fourths Poems
There whirls a world about a star
Gathering motes of dust from Far-A-Far
Upon the shining silvered seas' bright skin
That cloaks the place three-fourths within.
Upon the multicolored shards of stone
Reflecting from her fragile face
Some billions of small beings wander,
Ask themselves if they alone
Exist within the boundless dark
The very question seeks to sunder
Restraints of heartless reason stark
That advocate their ending without trace.
She shines against obsidian deep,
Bestirs Infinity within its sleep;
Tried at times the patience of formless Elohim
Stirred wings that whisper in the golden wind.
So She calls attention, having no intent
To do so, down upon her gleaming self
An invocation insincerely sent to a God or Gods unknown
Who may arrive someday to collect the rent
To tally up the Pros and Cons
Gather up such seeds as sown
Through troubled course of her existence, then begone
To distant parts, to pull new worlds down off the shelf.
So she spins in silence 'round her star
As billions wonder where those angels are;
The incense rising everywhere
Their hope a jewel in the Celestial Share.
Musicianship
(3 May 2014; For my son Steven, an ACCOMPLISHED guitarist)
Real musicianship can truly drive you nuts—
There really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
Practice, study, memorize, then more practice--
Is this just an obsession or complete madness?
Learning chord inversions, arpeggios, and scales
Is like reaching Heaven by crossing through seven Hells.
It wouldn’t be bad if there were only a dozen majors,
But there’s also those other dozen minors.
What’s worse, it seems we’re never finished
Because there’s also augmented and diminished,
The major/minor/augmented/dominant sevenths.
And symmetrical double-flatted diminished sevenths,
And if this harmonic mess is not enough,
All those dissonant Jazz chords get really tough…
Such as the sustained seconds and fourths,
The sevenths add nines, sixths, blah-blah-blah, elevenths.
And if learning all this isn’t already extraordinary,
There’s music theory and music vocabulary.
Instead of just saying “get louder”, you have to “crescendo”,
Or for “fast” or “slow” you say “allegro” or “lento”.
Then there are names like Ionian, Dorian, Phrygian,
Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian, and Locrian.
(All being modes derived from scale C-major,
Plus each major scale also has a relative minor)
Multiple pattern exercises on guitar fretboards
Are even worse than finger drills on piano keyboards.
Worse, the string tuning on a six-string acoustic guitar
Is not quite the same as on a 4/5/6/7-string bass guitar.
It’s hard to get up on stage and routinely play
That same song, for the umpteenth time, in an inspiring way.
No wonder musicians seem to all suffer manic-depression,
From trying to play a full sets with unique expression.
All the advances in music equipment and technology
Bless and curse musicians like two-edged swords, you see,
Because all this work they do to sound like a maestro or genius
Can be counterfeited on a computer by a musical ignoramus.
But computer geeks won’t ever find that special place,
That fugue-like subtle sacred state of grace,
Which for brief moments is like deep meditation.
No, that’s the forbidden domain of the real musician.
To suggest that musicians all are just “gifted” naturally,
Is the absolute superlative worst insulting irony.
Truly, real musicianship can drive you nuts—
No, there really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
Villanelle: Wander not into a land where the indigene’s indolent
Wander not into a land where the indigene’s indolent
Likely as not the country will be run by interlopers
Open-heartedness is often a cover for self-bemusement
The first signs crop up when lax morals make him relent
Shuts an eye to alien antics on his wife and his daughters
Wander not into a land where the indigene’s indolent
When foie gras vacation rather than who runs government
Or the long weekend pont makes the migrant caretakers
Open-heartedness is often a cover for self-bemusement
Fanatics from dictatorships money-minters from the Levant
Drugsters* outsourced from banana republics’ carpetbaggers
Wander not into a land where the indigene’s indolent
And lo! Ere the cock crows every face in the pram’s sun-burnt
In one generation one-third pray through tongue-twisters
Open-heartedness is often a cover for self-bemusement
In two generations three-fourths take over government
Pimps drug-addicts loafers wage war with spiritual gangsters
Wander not into a land where the indigene’s indolent
Open-heartedness is often a cover for self-bemusement
* drug-pushers, drug-dealers, drug-addicts and their bankers
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Three-fourths of a century old is mom.
While more than half a century am I.
How quickly I have aged gives me a qualm,
but I think glad thoughts. I can't multiply!
Though right behind my mom I'm following
with white hairs now appearing and with dread
of that sad day I might be swallowing
my food with dentures stuck inside my head,
I'm very thankful I've still got good knees!
Mom's gave out; walking fast she does no more.
But luckily, Mom has no grave disease.
By scrubbing floors she made her poor knees sore.
Well, I don't "stoop" to drudgery. Knock wood!
I think my knees might possibly stay good.
By the barrage of flies, bald John can tell how
Safe his meal is for feasting. The spotted
fawn yet battered breathes.
Clean blood is poison, he knows,
So before he drinks, he waits for the devil
To pee in the stream.
Then he shovels tissue down to the marrow,
As the odor barbers him balder.
Bare-bodied ravens beguiled him
To become a fiend thus famished. He
Perches patiently over the repast,
Pin-talons dull from scraping bone,
Wings worn from hauling carrion upwind.
He bates them at the first sign,
And targets the fawn’s fattest artery.
But he himself is sick on the verge:
Of a wavering branch, of a mortal dusk,
Of that decay which wove twig to build his nest,
That which buoyed flight when he was weak.
With twilight nigh, he trembles in withdrawal;
Grey feathers fall as he
Walks in falter to the tawny fawn;
Toward Life, or Death,
Or their bastard unclaimed.
Each inch is priced a silver plume. He sheds,
Till over swoons his avian frame, lonesome
Lying nude and three-fourths-dead,
Broken beak ajar, tongue longing
For the opiate thrill of red
Flowed from the hollows of that mirroring fawn;
He drools for the non-anointed oil dripping thence.
It renews his plumage,
Though makes matte the luster of his eye.
Resurrects him that he may wean on death,
As prey to his vice—prey to his own heart,
While nature begs his piety, but sin sustains his being.
My long time friend Bill enlisted in 1962
Back then he said, "It's the right thing to do!"
He served his country with vigor and pride
Fought in the jungle and watched his friend die
A machine gun severed three fourths of Bill's leg
He cut off the remainder though never begged
as the enemy stood over him, machetes in hand
Bill's company blew Vietcong all over that land.
He was then sent home, wheelchair bound
but Bill O Hara you just couldn't keep down
He opened a law office, put his "smarts" to the test
And that damn machine gun stayed screwed to his desk
His favorite passion was to set sail to sea
Forgetting his problems for there he was free
40 years passed since he left Vietnam
and no matter the day, he still hears that bomb!
***
Contest: World of War : Vietnam
Sponsor: Miranda Lambert
Submitted by: Judy Konos
I've a father who's known for ascending a clock,
a magnificent ticking antique.
In between twelve and one,
he began and was done,
not a scratching was heard nor a creak.
He was nimble that night, as he is everyday
when he teaches me all that he knows:
"Be attentive my son,
it will help when you run,
and remember, be light on your toes!"
He would tell me such things every time I attempt
to accomplish his notable feat.
I've a chance in my youth,
but to tell you the truth,
it's a difficult act to repeat.
I've ascended so much as three-fourths of the clock
with his help, but in spite of my haste,
the device would go "thump,"
and I'd fall on my rump,
and then whimpers would color my face.
But my father is quick to attend to my tears,
we'd eat cheese while exploring the house.
If my mood should be sad,
he would soon make me glad
to be born as his son and a mouse!
I'm so happy to have such a comforting dad,
and so happy to have such a home,
for this morning I scaled
up the clock without fail,
and came down to recite him this poem:
"Daddy, I scaled up the clock!
'cause daddy, you taught me to climb.
The clock struck two,
and down I flew.
Goodness--just look at the time!"
An arrow
nocked by a god
and loosed
beam-straight . . .
Tick.
Tock.
The old clock
would cut it into
fifths,
fourths,
halves,
whole seconds even, and . . .
Tick.
Tock.
The old clock
told us we were part of it.
A clock marks time still,
but . . .
. . . . . .
in silence now;
time’s become insidious
and sly
and moves on tiptoe:
close your eyes and . . .
. . . . . .
it’s gone.
the square
was packed
& the high street full
meat&veg seemed plentiful
market barkers
drew the queues
with jokes
impromptu
shoppers filed
neat& formal
in sainsburys greggs
& home colonial
the bacon slicer
shuttled back& forth
rashers scaled
in halves&fourths
bread mealed smooth&strong
butter patted shaped oblong
cheese cut with twangy wire
toasted later on an open fire
ham sliced from the bone
spuds bagged weighed in stones
tea from open square tins
packet-served with a welcome grin
'woollies' snackbar smells
'elevenses' hunger time to quell
one mug of ovaltine must'nt dally
so shortcut thru' market alley
where auctioneers tones rise&fall
above the sheep&cattle stalls
then off homewards at a trot
last pennies spent in feaseys sweetshop
on the train bridge 'spotted' numbers new
waited whilst the 'cutler' raced thru'
along pebble brook time to climb a tree
on this day shopping was made coupon-free
It's morning now . . .
the sun has brought the day
The night has pushed away
. . .no longer your touches
drape across my vestige
flutters of fortitude
only a memory
in the shaft of old
My smile lingers . . .
as the dew glistens
the songbirds listen
and I'm still swept away
Your nighttime Melody
echos in fourths
whispering
sweet nothings-
that mean something
To wander back in deep
telling secrets we will keep
curious fingers-
finding their way in the dark
Searching high and low
tempting rivers as they flow
. . . and tomorrows
we don't know
Which key should I put this song in?
I sing in G Ionian/major comfortably,
Likewise the relative E Aeolian/minor scale.
Plus those guitar chords are easy as sin.
I could choose a scale that’s more exotic -
D Mixolydian has the same notes and chords.
Hungarian or Roumanian minor, Spanish Gypsy.
Or another scale derived from minor harmonic.
Keep it simple – let’s start with the G Major scale.
Should I do a basic 1-4-5 with major G/C/D chords?
Or a jazzy 2-5-1 with A minor/D/G ending on the tonic?
Let’s do a bluesy 1-4-5 with a turn-around at the tail!
Just major and minor triad chords are boring.
Major, minor, and dominant sevenths can be cool;
But I’m rather partial to suspended seconds and fourths.
My sliding E diminished flat 7th will keep the fans from snoring!
What can I do to add even more pizzazz and glitz?
Slowly build the dynamic and rhythmic complexity.
Give the crowd a tribal chorus they can sing to.
Add a spanking hot hook throughout that never quits!
I come to you hands open wide no fears of past just an invitation inside. Do you see me? Around the trees of space and time i giggle and laugh as i look into your eyes. Waiting for you to see inside. We hesitate in fears back and fourths but something holds a steady course. Waiting for the song of love to be there for you as strong as the tides that hold in me. To prove to your fears this time its true. I will wait dear. I have no doubts its you. I have only tears from a panting heart waiting so many years to join your heart. You can trust me. I know there is forests and fears to overcome but your not fighting alone in this world anymore and ive got the banner waving high. Your more then a north star in my sky. For what its worth I testify I know its you for who ive waited all my life but love is patient and with great care ill stay waiting in spirit by your side. For this fools love sake im open wide. You can turn away but ill be waiting at the end, I won't be giving up on my hearts true best friend.
A Lily is one of nature’s most special gifts
I’d pick them in ones, twos, thirds, fourths, and fifths
The exotic scent, arousing my nerves
Such a figure with the most desired curves
A Lily is mysterious
The colors drive me delirious
A mark of uncontrolled psychic power
No doubt this girl is the best flower
The Saskatchewan Lily burns my heart
Forever capturing my love, unable to tear it apart
Out in the wild it is strong and alive
Spending time with you, I grow, I thrive
Liberating my life
My love, my wife
In the cool midnight we walk
Your heart, I want to unlock
A forbidden love affair
Most willing to do any dare
It’s a given we’d be a swell pair
Your beauty and quality is so rare
Who wouldn’t want you to be their Lily?
To keep you warm, protect you from the pain that’s so chilly
Keep me coming, wanting more and more
When you’re not with me, it’s a dreadful sore
A Lily is what I love most
I will hold you, hold you close
For when the night comes I will run to you
I’ll be your one, tried and true
movement of each echo
pummels ^ til outside
the confines of self
slits in sacred hallows
sustain aromatic nectar
holding true to life
~ where ~
sunsets drip her touch
`a serene contentment
lain on raised breaths
vision's arisen ^ in fourths
raining down an illuminate
a speckle surrounding time
gasping for precious air
suspended stunning
emotional radiance
~rests~
amidst red brushed
rivers rushed
eloquently floating by
It's just a row of laundromat chairs—
those molded plastic ones,
screwed into a fake strip of tile.
The whole setup’s bolted to the lunar crust
under a plexiglass dome.
Every seat holds something left behind:
a single sock, a keychain flashlight,
a takeout menu folded into fourths.
One chair’s cracked down the center,
duct tape holding it together.
There’s no sign, but it’s called
Memento on the Moon.
Sometimes, Earthlight flickers
in the dome like a busted overhead bulb.