Best Gangrene Poems
Melancholy days, listless, all through
Then, out of the blue,
A comment comes along to cheer you
My friends, I feared I had reached the end
Those words, once so lively and hale
Now crumble, numb, on my tongue
Tasteless and stale
Repetitive rut, creative gangrene
(Seriously, how many similes
for sunsets can there be?)
No flair to wear, no colors seen
Then kindness, unexpected, left in a note
A flicker, stirring, a melody spoke
Your remarks can mean more than they seem
A trickle, then sparks into a flowing stream
So when the page is blank, the well is dry
With a little help from my friends to get by
Perhaps - I can give it - one more try.
10/04/19
Lurking in fuzzy leftovers is seen
A quivering, crawling hairball of green
A florescent prune
Or cheese from the moon
Gurgles gastric, plastic alien spleen
The miser squire requires gluts of caffeine
To dissect this science project's gangrene
Harpoon on a spoon
Zoom to the saloon
Lunch ladies' supreme mystery cuisine.
3/15/19
For Green Humor contest
Sponsor: Carolyn Devonshire
He waltzed into the barroom
Announcing his name was Jack
He had a peg-leg, three fingers gone
And on his left eye wore a patch
His teeth that weren’t missing
Shined of glimmering gold
He ordered a bottle of whiskey
And then this story he told
He talked with an accent
That sounded really strange
Seems he mined for diamonds
In a South African mountain range
For months he lived alone there
Just him and his two mules
Digging day and night
Looking for them jewels
Says that he hurt his leg
And gangrene did set in
A village doctor amputated
Anesthesia was a case of gin
Thieves cut his fingers off
Stealing his diamond rings
But where the other rocks were hid
They could not make him sing
Now he is a rich man
Living the life of luxury
He bought drinks for everyone
Saying, “The next round is on me”
Then that grizzly old rich man
Waltzed back out the door
And the one-eyed Jack of Diamonds
Was seen never more
For Paula Swanson's, "Pick A Card" contest
Cold blooded diabetes
Try to stop her
If you can because
Insulin shots are not fun
But they must be given
When you're dealing with
Cold blooded diabetes
Will ravage your body
it can cause gangrene
And limb amputation
So take good care of yourself
When you deal with
Cold blooded diabetes
After you're diagnosed
Doctors will say
Exercise, manage your diet
And please lose some weight
Just because you deal with
Cold blooded diabetes
If you haven't got it yet
Please try to prevent
The neuropathy that accompanies
The body's breakdown
For those who deal with
Cold blooded diabetes
a decayed
unfulfilled dream
of mine
an antique coin
that has oxidized
on both sides
coated
brown and green
as if
dry gangrene
has set in
on a dead tissue
no longer flickering
light
when kissed by the sun
(Yalto)
Patina Poetry Contest/Winner(10th Place)
Sponsored by Anthony Slausen
Date written and posted: 06/30/2018
This empty space waits, along a dim marsh
where paramour hides from tints of red dew,
and crackling boughs grip like a whiplash
on venial sins of passion, long the slew.
Her pace quickens to reach Eden's boulder
weighing low, chained by raked emotion
knowing not why ecstacy grips a dare;
as ravens swoop in twilight procession.
The illlicit hours reel a tempting game
venial sins genuflect without relief,
that holy stars warp in foiled cellophane
while gangrene clouds dodge like a hidden thief.
Her secret man appears, bearing moon’s core
to flame clandestine hours into moans' thrill
there, shadows quench for more of rain's downpour
as pleasure and pain mix a tyrst, fulfilled.
Gothic or Romantic Old/ New, Giorgio V.'s Contest
* Gothic Romanticism
by nette onclaud
I know, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s poem : Je sais by T. Wignesan
I have seen upon this earth the gangrene of mass graves
I have seen the sky foul up with human ashes
I have watched the breath of superb beings
Mist over with their blood the universe
I have seen how the hearts of the powerful decay on their
lips
I have seen men thought of as possessing wisdom
While they picked their way through pools of blood
I have seen the just in spirit breathe in massacres
As if the wide open spaces puffed up their lungs
I have seen the good at heart repulse God
And that brought on a tide of extermination
They were clothed in the white linen of words
To dissimulate the stains of blood
I opened my mouth God bear witness
I wanted to speak out
My heart unable to bear being human
Wanting to burst upon other men
Shrieking so as to cleave the sky
But the air thrust its fist down my throat
Out of my heart streaked words turned to lies
That I was unaware of
Those words were put into my mouth
And I pronounced them
I would rather have died than utter them
And (yet) I uttered them
In turn I have turned words into carrion
The human soul manufactures words
Which by fault of my own rot in the face of God
I have become the speaker
Who has been deprived of the meaning of Speech
My eyes are the mirror of lies
And my ears the echo of lies
And my mouth the melting-pot of lies
And my soul clogged up with lies
Froth on the lips of a dying God
Who proffers even a word without lying ?
Who dares to address crying out at the Cross :
Have I not murdered the Verb ?
I assassinated the Verb gifted by God
I am an assassin like everyone else
But not all know who’s put to death by them
Me
I do know it.
(from the collection : Visage nuage, 1955)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, September 29, 2014
Marble hatched haven communes; helixicly hewn canvas' brushed within
Acidulous acrylics of adumbrated conjectual forms....
Spawn tipped dippings upon the collateral cliffs edging these, layaway hues?!
Deciphered shades in monochrome pitch pigments beneath the jaded jejunes
Manic manifestations, over-looking the colourant gangrene valley below
While as maritime merchants lifted from the pedagogue palettes of
Row your boats....
Climb their municipal born mast in marauds malice from afar
Signaling unto the watchtower through their Socratic spyglass optics
Inceptions intruder, standing tall and coming ashore; red rum....
...."Hurry, someone save the Queen!?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rembrants lost rocking chair moment in, artistic meritime manifestations ~
Note: Smile ~ I thought that I would offer up a bit of hopeful ice-breaking
and light-hearted humour upon this glorious and lovely "New Years Day" ~
Smile ~ "My 'Love & Warmth,' Always," John!:) ~ Ps. "En' Si Viod" ~
Surrounded by mud
our feet make love to the surface
the bullets kiss us, the bayonets hug
our intestines and the blankets
cuddle with our cold, decaying corpses
we write to our wives, letters that will never be delivered
the wet ground gives our feet an unpleasant present
in the form of gangrene, the rats
make themselves at home feasting upon the rotten
flesh of fallen comrades while the maggots make use
of newly formed skulks and aged decaying bone
then comes the symphony of artillery
the roar of gunfire, the marching of tanks
the mighty foot soldiers, and
the majestic golden smoke of mustard gas
the trenches become our unwanted love
and unholiest of homes, "the tears do not shed
the blood does not spill, and the soldier does not die"
is the common the battle cry sung upon us
constantly by our commanders but on the contrary
these bitter notes of blind fate forever sing to us
the illusion of life and the irony of war.....
An explorer called Nicholas Bean
Used a jungle path for a latrine
He started to pee
Got stung by a bee
His poor wotsit swelled up with gangrene.
The natives said you need a vaccine
Their witch doctor arrived on the scene
With some healing plants
Said “drop down your pants”
Too late it had already turned green.
Both limericks 9/9/5/5/9.
Written 15th March 2019
For green humour contest
Sponsored by Carolyn Devonshire.
the chimney stacks
of the old power station
claws at the belly of the clouds
and with its sulfurous billowing
it bellows its stench
tinting the clouds, yellowing nicotine stains
as its cadaverous fingers clench
and releases, as it pleases
the painted nails
sport red flashing lights
as the bellowing smoke
for airspace fights
the dawn is cracked open
under the grey steam-pot lid
like a rotten egg
and the horizon is broken
into blocks
between the pedestal legs
of the spindly chimney stacks
progress clangs and clacks
on blood-rusted
unused train-tracks
the scars of progress on an old landscape
- weals healed over in ageless veldts
whilst weeds pimple between the stays
a last gasp of green displays
the gangrene death
of nature
oozing from the suture
as we break the past
to build the future
Whenever in the company of his trusted friends
St. Paul Lafargue had always said:
"I sure hope I never get a sainthood someday
- That would be supremely lame for an atheist
In any day and age."
The man was modestly honest - If not honestly modest
So I did everything I possibly could
To make sure we would celebrate his feast day,
Every-single-friggin-day!
I ran all the way straight to Vatican City,
Where I skinned all which remains
Of my horrendously disfigured knees
After tripping over my own two feet and half a sheet of LSD
- That's when I said: "Serves me right for not taking it easy."
"Jesus I'm witty!" I was nervously thinking,
as I picked broken grass
and bubble gum
Out from under
My gaping wounds - "My God,
I don't have any time for this modern-day humdrum!"
I defiantly said as I proceeded ahead
Demonstrating little more concern
For my previously acquired gangrene
Than I did for my recently sustained ruptured spleen...
...So to make a long-story painlessly short
And to keep all threats of (comedic) violence
Condensed to a marginal fault,
All that I really had to say was this:
"So; How about it? What do ya say?"
- After smashing up the whole place
With a couple of my favorite teamsters
- And that was just about that!
Paul Lafargue had been canonized
All for a philosophical laugh!
- I must've cracked every single situational gag
His Holiness had been expecting to be pulled
Straight outta my brimstone hat!
I guess it's true what I hear everybody say:
The Pope is behaving far too liberal these days.
So the next time the stupid boss comically asks:
"Why is you writin'?! - Why ain't 'cha workin'?!"
Tell them as many times over as it may take
Until it fully absorbs into their tyrannical brain:
"I refuse to work when I don't really wanna;
It comes on like a hunger, sometime, after lunchtime."
In the funky train,
All the hoo-ha-noisy end in fisticuff;
As the crumpled greenback hand-out cough,
The law has nothing to handcuff,
Maneuvering on the sloppy storey hill
A frantic dance of dead-drunk crazy masquerade;
Man-handling the dare-devil by weary drenched soaked in
talisman man,
Springs from a ream hole in the floor
Hand-shuffling on long iron pole gear,
Wrestling with reckless white knuckles of steering wheel;
A nipple for torch-light knob looking tough headlamps,
A bare-face speedometer, a mare decor;
Rear is bare, except fanning out putrid fart in
defecating vulva;
And a pumping brake failure refused to catch,
Disaster looms down a glitch away,
Marijuana induced braggarts, bang at the battered dent
body;
All acted in the climatic anti-climax role in the tragic
play,
As horn and side mirrors, villains make do,
Ghastly farewell garland to stranded passengers on
departure;
Welcome to hellish shore of grimacing dismember carcasses,
From the extinct scratched my backside please dense
Bolekaja view,
Stigmatized masses muck arranged tight,
File in wooden slavery mule;
And the pompous promise land looks a light years away,
Now on the garish cold rusted cut steel,
Buttocks crammed on planks for seats;
Knees folded to gangrene stroke roost,
Pillaged and pilloried, rasped and gasped for a slice bread
of life,
Staled sweats seeped and poured decayed stench on forms;
***** squeezed queued on narrow alley,
Romancing buttocks swell sips to bursting through;
And the lushing rhythmic beating drum
Re-enters lock and brake,
Dilepa dilepa dilepa duro nube o!
Omokunrin kan ti daran nube o!
Ofowo kanmi loyan me solo!
ofowo kanmi nidi me solo!
Toku toku lona nkan boyi o!
Komo ipe kolokolo lahere wa!
Mary had a gecko
Its skin was shamrock green
But everywhere that Mary went
It changed its colour scheme
When Mary went to Heaven
Her gecko made the scene
Saint Peter sent them back again
He thought they had gangrene!
So when you get to Heaven
And you need a go-between
Just ask for Mary's gecko
Its the Devil's own routine!
A nice veneer
Looking solid and good;
Termites devour within
Life hazards
Venture bleeding;
More vitamin M needed
Business failure
Shocking casualties;
Bankrupted parties
Spice can smell nice
But nice can tell lies;
Sometimes a vice
Impressive bungalow
Sporty car;
Heavy in debt woes
Sad but true
Vanity masquerades;
Not the real thing
Newspaper headlines
Scandal and heartbreak;
I feel sad for you
Regrets fester
Like gangrene;
Amputate the trash
Eye witness here
I watch you tumble;
Helpless to help
Impressive life
Career highlights unrivaled;
Why this bankruptcy?
Sad story
Paper described;
Can prayer alleviate?
In-between
Life and death;
Struggle for meaning
Worldly mindset
Get rich quick;
Scheming for more
Between ambition
And acquisition;
Avarice styles
To succeed well
Take failures well;
Survive persecution
Liquor and wine
Wine and dine;
Decadence flaunts
Simple vanity
Defines ambition;
Practical notions heap
And in the end
Just round the bend;
Broken trends sweep clean
Leon Enriquez
26 July 2014
Singapore