Best Harpsichords Poems
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
What are these objects in your frames?
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
Why must they gotta be the same?
Cars and busses, traffic lights
Bicycles and motor bikes
Crosswalks, signs, and steps and stairs
Fire hydrants everywhere
Boats, planes and parking meters
Tickets, fines, misdemeanors
Why are you so fond of these?
Why are palms the only trees?
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
The pictures trapped inside of there
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
Depict a world so bleak and bare
Arid, bland, unaesthetic
Barren, drab, unpoetic
Sterile, cold, antiseptic
Unconcerned, apathetic
Somber, sad, and desolate
Woeful, bland, pedestrian
Weary, grim, dreary, hopeless
Grainy, gray, out of focus
It doesn’t need to be this way…
Many things could fill your squares
Why not fill these things in there?
Tambourines and castanets
Bass trombones and clarinets
English horns and piccolos
Harpsichords and xylophones
Fiddles high and Irish whistles
Jingle bells and finger cymbals
5-string banjos, mandolins
Saxophones, accordions
Desmond Tutu and Mandela
Cassius Clay, Cinderella
Charlemagne and Genghis Kahn
George and Ringo, Paul, and John
Twain and Edgar Allan Poe
Wayne and Brando and Monroe
Ida Wells, Frida Kahlo
Steinem, Parks, and Ferraro
River Thames and stormy seas
Winter wrens and bumble bees
Cyprus, ash, oak, fir, and pine
Sassafras, willow, and lime
Daffodils and magnolias
Marigolds and begonias
Cabbage, beets, and potatoes
Carrots, beans, and tomatoes
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
If your pictures must remain
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
How aboutcha change the frames?
Captcha circles, captcha suns
All the captcha olygons
Wiggly captcha twiggly lines
Twisty captcha twiny vines
Captcha diamonds, captcha hearts
Captcha clovers, moons, and stars
Captcha ribbons, Captcha lace
Captcha colored string bouquets
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
We understand you're here to stay.
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
Just be more creative, OK?
She lay on a black velvet bed,
With black roses engulfing her face,
That face so pale as moonlight, her lips red,
A mirage she is, waiting for his embrace,
So silent, a shadow, he enters the chamber,
With silent whispers, so sweet and so deep,
He walks up to her bed, his form grim and sombre,
Caressing her head says he “sleep my love, sleep”.
She raises her head and asks him to dance,
His wonder too strong; he takes off his cape,
And harpsichords play a moonlight romance,
Intertwined they dance as the moon shifts shape
His lust and her lust about to reveal,
In a tight embrace with him she shall stay,
Her virgin body and her mortal life he steals,
Changed and cold she is, forever such to stay.
Mortal she is not, he can hear her newborn heart,
Now when he is of her kind, death can’t tear them apart,
Two black shadows woosh into the night, ready for their feast,
She is his countess, and he her lover, the beauty and the beast.
THE WOLF’S LULLABY
Villanelle: Crooks leaders and louts do they sing the same tune
Crooks leaders and louts do they sing the same tune
Does he who strums vocal chords show them the ropes
Whoever wields the baton sure calls the tune
The sergeant-major pulls rank when opportune
Though captains and majors aren’t exactly dopes
Crooks leaders and louts do they sing the same tune
To the Western ear the Eastern’s mono-tune
Do harps and harpsichords belong in same groups
Whoever wields the baton sure calls the tune
Do the Police join the band to play to tribune
Or just one or two here and there simply mopes
Crooks leaders and louts do they sing the same tune
Blame must fall if blame at all on top dog goon
The mess people in power make envelopes
Whoever wields the baton sure calls the tune
The blame for this world the way it has been sewn
Goes for whatever makes possible human dopes
Crooks leaders and louts do they sing the same tune
Whoever wields the baton sure calls the tune
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
Like most everyone,
I meet at times a task
that I regret--one that I
with passion will embrace
but soon must face instead
my nagging lack of skill
and fortitude.
I sit. In self-indulgence
meditate upon injustice dealt
to souls such as I. I do not cry
but do envision flashbacks
of an insight that still dares
invade the thinking
contemplation brings.
My questing spirit wanders
to the East, stopping
for the moment in Connecticut.
There a teacher that I knew
now sleeps beneath the ground
within a spot at Stonington
nearby the place where first
he taught me of the art
of building harpsichords; his spirit
rises from that earth
to greet me with reproof:
"Have you forgotten what I wrote?
It is so simple after all,
and could be just for you:
What man has done
--man can do."
~
THE BIRTHDAY OF A BABY KING
Fairy stars twinkling in the sky so high
Banishing the dark clouds, who leave with a sigh
Lacy snowflakes form a white cloak over the earth
In readiness for a miraculous and heaven sent birth.
A baby King born in Bethlehem
Not for him opulence, jewels nor even a diadem
But a roadway strewn with thorns along the way
God’s only son, Jesus born in a lowly stable to-day.
In manger of straw, lowly born, so few clothes to keep him warm
Mary and Joseph sheltering from life’s storm
This new born baby is God’s gift to mankind
In the hope that the world peace, hope and love will find.
Some Shepherds left their flocks that night
They had to see for themselves this heavenly sight
Three Wise Men, riding on camel back, sages of their day
Gave gold, frankincense and myrrh away.
The brightest star in heaven shone out so bright
Over all of Bethlehem it shed its light that night
Angels played their harpsichords in joy
To celebrate the Christmas birth of this special little boy.
Little Donkey stood quietly by the lowly manger
To nuzzle and protect the new born baby from danger
Cows and sheep their watch did keep
Keeping quiet as Baby Jesus was fast asleep.
God’s promised Son was born this night
The choirs of Angels were a joyous sight
Peace Joy –and hope; the whole world rejoices
Its Christmas Day – let’s celebrate with happy voices.
Walruses play mostly happy tunes on harpsichords but melons cannot dance in tight fitting dresses. Beats which are benign are neither breaking nor booming to a ghostly gibbon. Whose antics in trees are marvelled at by the passing geese. Carnivores eating on the banks of a river never tasting the buds. Never attempting the leaves. Wilt then. And don't go and argue with a skipping leaf. If it wants to lay down to rest then it can. It is always very busy. Construction mainly. And preparation does not arrive from thin air it takes suitable mind beams. In a circular array. Flowing forming freeing friendly frames. How it is deemed important by many. In rows. But the pork stands and assesses to ascertain what is true. And so speak the irony of owl in an old oak. No bath tub. No tube. Dancing dandelions deviantly deny digging dogs defying dogmatic dramas. Haha fortitude. Haha bean pole running. Haha mopping moos. Xxxx monosaccharide z
Serenade a song bird then. Go on. It's great. Sit in trees or on rocks. Very pleasurable it is. Thank not a tank. Think not a tripod angling in with money. It is never wise to eradicate pollen. And pole axing at discotheques should only occur when the moon is oval and the room is triangular. Format stained is neither a gospel nor a weed. And harmonising with leopard printed heeled shoes displays nonchalance towards your fellow human. So we must all now rise and tango with ten suns, a planetarium and a biscuit tin. Biscuits can be quite good company. Full of character. And baked with breath. Breathing breeding buying bought beaded benign baked breads. And now that fish over there chuckling reading a newspaper. Nothing no one noted noticed needed numbers. And a 8000 foot goat is trotting around to many tunes. Great. Fantastic. Derive not a pea from a geometry set or a musical score. One nil two nil three nil now eat. Good. Xxxxx humanitarian harpsichords. Xxxxx quintessential Z
The memoirs of an ashtray should be written by the giggling pot pourri for pot pourri are neither properly printing nor are the proficient professional photographic petals. How exciting is the table today? Not very. For it is very difficult to discover a tabletop when all is thrown upon it like a raked lawn disturbed by a windy day. Tons of papers jostling for position fighting for space with the clothes and the pen takes up the most room but is asleep and snoring. And who would wish to wake a pen for on waking they can become quite irate so always move quietly if they are in slumber. The dog sees the mess on the table and leaves to play with his toy. The leaving of the dog displeased the table who enjoyed the dogs company and often chatted about wood for hours with the woof. The table groans and groans at the weight and the mess. But to no avail. Causing landslides around the house with its bellow and volcanic voice. The little plant pot in the centre popped through a t shirt and with its leaves pushed and swept all of the contents of the tabletop onto the recently swept floor. Ha it thought. I will now get some water today because I am exposed and no longer in a tomb of clothes. Good. The table was laughing at the resulting mess on the floor. The dog re entered the room and upon seeing the clothes and papers decided to chew then sleep. This was not good news for the returning zoo people. Sixty five elephants, a giraffe, a giant eel, a pride of lions, sixteen baboons, a leopard, one five metre penguin, eighteen tropical fish, a four thousand foot ostrich with a four mile beak, all entered the house. Saw the mess but went about their chores. Cooking and cleaning and bathing. Then seated at the table were the gorilla family who played games of cards till after midnight accompanied by the ambience of tunes from the other animals who were well versed in violin, guitars, bongos, trumpets, cellos, harpsichords and penny whistles. The table was quite content. Harmonic heavenly haven. And no bread crumbs to spit on him. Fantastic...........mesmerized Z Z Z Z. With a tall bearded cuckoo clock calling from a cloud. Z
you always had a way with words
like Amsterdam
whose running rhymes
of bicycles and harpsichords
and bridges over canals caused
us both to steer each other's hold
to mouths whose distance
was decreasing,
slowly through museum pieces
though I always hoped to linger
nestled inside yours
Clatter claws cascade downward into listening drums.
Pigeons are the worst. Rose bushes sit quietly all summer
then only after they have lost their heads
do they scratch and squark nightly.
Toilets that are not in your home haunt and taunt.
Dry joints crunch down - listening synovial cartilages
stick shift and slip out of gear.
There is the jack-hammer juggling of junk mail
as it flaps its paper wings and falls untidily.
Sometimes dreams climb over the hedgerow,
clamber up a back wall, and then hollow bones play
upon the rooftop - deranged harpsichords
goad a hungry moon to howl for something dead.
Knuckles crack under a sheer cliff of silence.
O emptiness of space, thy harpsichords. Whole?
Panels out of place, looking-glasses smashed.
Bitter winds, thy frost. Sickness, dole, O soul.
Chaffy grain beneath the tired thresher slashed.
Turmoil, tamarisk tree. Toil? Thunderbolt.
Hated are the days of life gone dry. Why?
Reality thinned, then forgot how to fly.
Happy thoughts, lost. Cost? Harvest season molt.
Protection? None. Been and done. Sun? Hostile.
Yellow as eyes on a predator? Pill.
Alcohol, wormwood, erasure, vile vial.
Guns, thy salute. Funeral. Lunge, then still.
Ravine, out back and filled with water. Caught.
Animals afloat, belly up, life flew.
Grey old men, hope is a mystery. Clue?
Sparks, burned out and skittering. Fire, cold. Bought.
Doom, close in on all. Deliverance? None.
Stifled by Fate and Fortune? Withheld. New?
Nothing under the sun, scion. Red run.
Grasping fingers and a quill, quahog. Brew.
Wasteland, receive. Gold, far. Sandbar, choke. Smoke.
Poison, leap from serpent's fang. Deeply sunk.
Peril, everywhere. Round upward, time. Soak.
Continent, beneath water. Ocean, plunk.
inside of twenty takes
dirty filled frames
no resolution
to me the family
that a ugly
call me
cat purrs on approach
welcome spat
too literal
gotta reclamation
eye's cried so much relief
brushes is dusty clean
practice strokes at the gentleman's table
romanticism, adjatate, harpsichords
classified and credentialed
white ink's a tank thinking
'I remember", "he"
distract the trap, autumns born
waves of green mustard gas
country come plains, it's not your first mistake
chains on protest for poverty effort
2am production prints
beggars, dodgers, i aint your draft calling
pre screened and bread
my land by sea
indoors, know hoe
get to work, beach gone
pushing, yeah who's double checked
out of decks, on paper
iliterations an postulates
hot boxes of brake dust
crescent shaped credit creased
basic design, irish blazee, defend
de speak
Some sounds are
sinewy toes scratching drum skins,
a pigeon shuffle-dance on unseen roofs,
a clatter in the flap and coo.
Rose bushes are mute,
until they have lost their heads
then they squeak and squawk.
A soft-slap of junk mail onto an empty hand,
paper wings falling in an overheard flutter.
Some sounds remind of…
dead-space clambering up a blank wall,
chicken bones rattling in the bubbling-boil;
the sound of deranged harpsichords.
Other sounds are knuckles cracking
under cliffs of silence.
The stuttering oaths of paws gripping
ice.
The ratatattat scrabble of cats
chasing rats.
Sleep prods ribs until they break-up
with the prattling night,
ear-bones surface, deafened
by the cutting edge of a yammering light.
When alone in a quiet space
still the distant slamming of doors,
or the rattle of castanets
confirm that the world is not shut out
but just moving from room to room,
soon it will burst through paper-thin walls,
skeletons will make love on tin roofs,
harpsichords will rattle amid
the bedsprings of sleep.
The need to be alone even when alone,
hides an even deeper want.
Corridors where the days tramp
echo with a ghostly clamor.
Busy junctions behind closed eyes
erupt where the dead and the living gather
to talk louder than thought.
To be the only listener at the water cooler
or in a crowded auditorium; that is the answer.
Alas when the hall empties,
when the last exit closes behind
the high pitched babble and laughter,
there is still a strident chorus line
of memories stomping echoing boards,
a whooping louder than any voice
anywhere.
Spirits of the woodland deep.
Gather, please, at gate.
Shadow, dark fire, through me seep!
Hummingbirds can hate!
Where the prickly pear was grown?
Deep beneath a lake.
Where the angry god was thrown?
Someone made mistake...
There to build, O pyramid!
Tumble down the step.
Deterrence means getting rid?
Soldiers, step with pep.
Stars above the forest?
From heaven, do ye swing?
Harpsichords, harpy, ne'er rest.
Sight-line, foe to sing.
Awkward position? Well, done.
Servants of the One.
Oracle, scion, vision.
Blink and it's begun...
Whiplash? Sword, deliver slash?
If you've got the cash!
Otherwise be-fevered bash.
Dessicate the dash...
Crater, thy rim. Tyrant, whim.
Abysm to swim.
O dark chasm, lights a-dim?
Except moment grim...