Best Helmeted Poems
A CLASSIC SUMMER IN GREECE
Viciousness and mystery erupt on arid soil.
Summer heat and idle time can make the spirits boil.
Languishing in stuffy rooms with very little sleep--
Night time flickers of the light-- imagination leaps.
Heat that beckons times long past invade a fevered head—
Athena pleases lovers mid her goddess silken bed,
Grecian legs march bravely –- prelude Olympian races--
Soldiers dream they sail away to see exotic places.
Heat waves shimmer landscape –men will do what they are told--
Spearborn soldiers helmeted sing down a dusty road.
Tho in mind they join their lovers whispering by the sea,
Drink of mountain waters --rest their head on sweetheart’s knee
Helen, when she sailed away –a wayward selfish wife
Without a backward glance she risked the cost of human life--
Was it the heat that made her crazed to do this foolish thing?
A fit of summer boredom could create this witless fling.
Autumn winds are blowing now-- Troy’s nights turn cool and fair--
Does Paris try to ditch her --as naked Helen combs her hair--
Does Hector tell his brother--get this woman out of here--
Does Helen beg to stay-- and tell her lover not to fear?
Heat can play the brain and make it dance a backward tune--
Clarity as sun tricks down—repeats a former June,
Perhaps there is a lesson learned from heat that sears the soul--
Summertime romance will write us each a tragic role.
Victoria Anderson Throop ©
1/11/13
I was one of the cool set,
navy blue duffle coat, scarf around
my neck, seated at a table
in Pepe's Coffee Lounge
discussing Baudelaire
and T.S. Eliot and the demise
of the political elites.
The conscription ballot hung
over our heads helmeted
in a flowering of uncombed hair
in the winter of 1966.
We thought the world was about
to tip, that the old regime
was coughing its last
on Craven A and Camel cigarettes.
Booze was cheap and jobs
chased us down the street.
In a hundred buried silos,
annihilation was just a push
of a button away.
We partied hard beneath
the threat of that mushroom cloud.
We're old now, sit under the cloud
of our own thoughts, replaying
scratchy, worn out tracks
retrieved from the sleeves
of our neural LP's.
What we tore down back then
has been replaced with more
sinister demons that eat away
at the collective soul.
In the end, everything
is just reabsorbed.
Some of us still frequent
coffee shops and discuss
Baudelaire and T.S. Eliot,
still write poetry,
shed a tear
at the melancholic beauty
of a setting sun.
They each have a yellow extension,
Sure there is much more to mention,
Each is known to do a lot to protect,
Neither is known to get much respect.
The Helmeted Hornbill lives in the trees,
Watch out because they might have fleas,
Now the other is on an ice hockey team,
And uses a yellow stick to help fulfill his dream.
As the bird uses it’s beak as a weight,
I doubt very much the player is ever late,
While we watch the bird fly and glide,
It has been great having him on our side,
They both were born in Brunei,
Watch out for the bird in the sky,
Both care very much for their mates,
Wonder if the wife can stay up on skates?
Naked death
…the barred and sealed cattle wagons
disgorge
at the Konzentrazionslager
the faux pas relief
from urine mud faeces sweat and tears
unkempt armpits buttocks best wear
turned to damp rags
reduced to moaning cattle
nameless
even the heifer wan straggly limp
Alles! Raus!
…the last quick dab of face powder
the lipstick dried blood tan
the felt hat lying soggy stained
through bellowed haste
on the mudcaked barrack floor
the wampumpeag plucked by the helmeted claw
stabbing on sole-cold cutting cement platform
averting glances on sapped sagging busts
shoulders hunched buckled in
fingers reaching to scratch loins
nostrils quivering
whose the naughty stench
then the trooped Indian file
stray belongings dumped
in a wasteproduct pile
the once highheeled gait
slumping to a side
from the hips down to a jaggedknee limp
prodding the miasmal mist
the exposed varicose veins
the knotty pubis
the mons veneris
the intimate warts and moles
last year’s Ceasarian stitches
the rump twitched less
the lack lustre sentry gazes
the unmasked leer
the disdainful pursed lips
neither shame nor pudeur
and then the last gangway to nowhere
the Ave-Maria road to Himmelweg
a reprieve
From the privately pub. coll. (re-worked 2016): longhand notes ( a binding of poems), 1999, 115p.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 1999/2016
Like a bolt of lightning it did come
From the top of the hill near the Murray gum,
Wilbur's wheeled wardrobe built for speed,
Racing past where the dairy cattle feed.
There was Wilbur straining at the wheel
As he drove the clothes hanging cupboard with such zeal,
Modified by Wilbur with such inventive design,
Hoping to survive the steep decline.
Wilbur's helmeted head bobbing up and down
As he headed down the hill towards the town,
Perhaps by luck, or maybe divine providence,
He missed the posts and wires of the farmer's fence.
The hill flattened out as the decline unwound,
Wilbur coming to a stop in the middle of town,
Twenty kids came rushing to honour the feat,
Of Wilbur's wonderful wardrobe and the hill he beat.
It's freaking cold in outer space, minus 458 degrees
Where does it begin, just 62 miles before hitting deep freeze
Most space is empty
A vacuum quite aery
Mainly hydrogen, helium and some helmeted fleas
The motorcycle rooooooooared~~~~~
Like a ravenous lion
Over fresh kill, prancing, charging, pacing
It
Moved through the hoard
Of migrating tourists, frightening the tamer
More passive vagabonds
Lumbering
Forward
On cruise-control
The nameless helmeted driver
Melded with his machine,
Head down. Spine arched,
arms extended on the throttles~~
Blue-jeaned thighs embrace the chasse
A lovers grip..
His forward charge parted the air
A back draft peeled the Harley black T-shirt from
His winter-white skin.
Spring had arrived late to New England.
Better late than never,
The road hog squealed
Sex merely a throbbing growl away
As our lance less Lothario leaves
His own testosterone trail
In an asphalt hail
On the road north.
Gladiators of the numbered turf
Helmeted heads and padded limbs
22 soldiers on the field
No more, no less, at any time
All have stadiums they call their homes.
Swift of foot and quick of mind
A scoreboard keeps the points and time
Score points by one, two, three or six
By passes, runs, punts or kicks
Winning brings them glory.
Most mother's want their son's to play
When son's are born their father's start to say
Where and when their son will play
Parents eagerly await those cherished fall days
When Football is in season.
Upright goal posts at either end
Each team starts with their own direction
Weekly successes bring winning seasons
Sometimes the coaching can be the reason
The final scores tell the stories.
When January starts to draw near
The Championship games will soon be here
Fans are either elated or dismayed
To see if their teams get to play
and be this year's Gladiators in the Superbowl.
(January 23, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
In a royal antibacterial waste machine one must wait for the willing vibrancy of the whistling seal. Dressed neatly in a three piece suit he sits on a rock and calls to the breezes on which there are so few. In the era of expunging elitist effigies there exists far less than in a previous era so dimensions have developed a more triangular appearance. Seal looks on. Temperate falling skies bring all weathers and still not too many feathers on a beaded wind. A cloth can move around to bring alterations but altercations are caused by many plastic helmeted men who proudly hold the spray. And spraying is often located even in a bread. Or a small currant. Or sultana. Managed mainly manufactured. Measly mass monstrous movements. No moccasins here then. And thus the page is turned until the avenue is in sight. Roll roll roll. Here comes the square car. Beep beep. Out of which comes a giraffe, a penguin, a sea turtle with bright lips, and a monstrous fig tree complete with a very tall hat that reaches to Jupiter. When that is wiped the flight paths of emus sail to even the most far flung regions of the globe. And travesty is not travelling it is trapping and taming. Should one really place ham in a sandwich when pork should be free to roam? All aboard then. Is everyone ready? Comfortable? Enchanted? Good. For time is short. And a boom boom boom is arriving to stunt even the most strongest of plants into an oblivion of a scale. But not a scale of C. A scale of 0. No charging buffalo could ever stand true if the prefered angle is in a skirt or a bosum. And a bohemian's car is a secret castle. Watch out there is a lady who spews curd. Mongoose style of neck. So a mongoose and a buffalo do go to dinner to entertain for great plans are being made and a global economy has an appointment at the gym. So hahaha to all that. And place the 900 nappies in the bin. For the 890 children will surely mean that the £ will pay the way. House heating. And a heavy wide load giggling with a small town. Xxxxx high heels mooo looping. Xxxxx kittens kitty xxxxx belligerent buffer bluffing xxxxx done. And that was the p y q who was reporting live from a dinner hall in 1528. Z.
Yup, you red correctly,
this noggin must go
perhaps donated
to the Salvation Army, or Good Will
cuz, said atrophied cranial
horridly styled comfortably numb skull,
the source of immeasurable
beg hot ten woe, from dawn to dusk
nothing boot eve ville
hollow cavity mainly comprised
of wooly webbed weaving waste,
uber sawdust, sans Schuylkill
River effluvium and runoff rotten rill
hence, e'en a think tank
designated as Abby Normal
formerly atop a body named Phil
lip, or Wright winged Orville
one half brotherly duo,
the other sibling Wilbur,
whom both made a mill
yen legends getting airborne their lil
mechanical contraption
atop Kitty Hawk,
North Carolina with bi sic kill
mechanical aptitude,
when born aloft Kill Devil Hill
synonymous making fin hushed
blue prints emulating
flying fish, whose grill
like cartilage backbone
precursor to Evil
Knievel, who soared
on his motorcycle a devil
lush daring stuntman,
whose helmeted crown
full pursestrings muted cavil
ling critics with legitimate enterprise
earning gobs of legal tender,
whence aye aver
his mugshot ought to appear
on common denomination bill
and/or honoring throughout
the entire month of April.
If ever I had to have a country victim of pedophily : LXXXVI
[Note: 216,000 cases of pedophily, perpetrated by the clergy, have been recorded by the Catholic Church in France since 1950.]
If ever I had to have a country, would that it be a country where no infant boy or lad need ever fear of being the victim of pedophily
Let it also be a country that sent no Albuquerque or Vasco de Gama, Drake or Raleigh, Cortes nor Dupleix to undermine the « street arabs » and « orphaned » heathens under seal of the Papal authority
For, remember how I was persuaded to assume the rôle of Ministre d’État Plenipotenciary without Portfolio or Duty, the Saviour of down-trodden Womenkind (O, « A Daniel come to Judgement ! »),
for I’d turn Torquemeda, revive the Inquisition, the Ace of Papacy
Will I let fresh-cheeked choir boys nor novice sacristans in strict page-boy linen, candle or Cross in hand lisping psalms disappear in the dense stench-filled folds of priestly « soutanes » behind pillars under Roman arches or polished teak encrusted encasements their stifled cries for help choked through holy promiscuity
Nor will I let Henry the VIIIth behead his wives in the Tower for failing to provide him with a male heir nor let no Archbishop lie bleeding at the Cathedral at Canterbury nor no politicking murder
stain some Florentian cathedral to foist the House of Medeci
You guessed right alright, I’ll take over the Tower of London as my foremost torture dungeon, call out the Swiss helmeted Guards with their spears and while I keep puffing at the Havana cigars (a chest-full gift from Fidel Castro, in grateful acknowledgement of inestimable services rendered to soft-ball gals in shedding excess weight on the ground) and keep crying out « Habemus » Pope to drown out the squeals yells and screams issuing from pedophiles pierced by Swiss lances in the rears of millions of priests found guilty
You bet that’s what I’ll do even if the entire Order of the Malte forgot about the Crusades against the Turks and Saracens - and poor one-armed Cervantes – during the Battle of Lepanto just to crucify me
And so what even if I never ever had no country with orphaned infants and laddies to pity
© T. Wignesan, Paris – Octobre 14, 2021
Ten men in all
They formed his crew
Some were short
And some were tall
Half were on the left
Half on the right
Working together
They were tight
Padded for protection
Helmeted for safety
Robed in commonness
They were shielded to win
Two of them were short
And stayed off to the side of the others
Wide with girth
They were there to support
Six were average
They stayed in the middle
Performing their tasks
Daily without umbrage
The last of the ten
Not tall nor short
Were the last to join in
Preferring the group to remain open
Each of them worn
Battled scarred and bruised
Their resolve apparent
Through the flesh that was torn
Some still stood straight
While others leaned to the side
Each had serviced this world
With both love and hate
Strong and proud
Those ten could not be separated
Till their last living breath
To their service others bowed
Right and left
Short and tall
A lifetime of service
Free from bereft?
~Ijm Uhl~
© 2010 (Jim Sularz)
A morning meadow - tall, red-yellow speckled,
now, humbled low by the wind.
Conifer sundials – mirrored shadows, slowly stretching, dancing, and then diminishing - along blurred edges of a lush, flowing sea.
Feathered, high flying eagles soar, circling small and wide, against a blue, white pillowed sky.
… a crow caws.
Nuzzled prairie dogs, with tethered tails, scamper for cover,
for danger spirals, just above.
Harvester ants marching in tiny zigzagged columns,
tunnel an ever deepened colony -
twisting around creviced rocks and roots.
Lightning fast gragonflies – thin tinsel winged airships,
darting, spinning, some kissing.
And white petite wild-flowers,
bobbing from honey bees, stand quivering.
Multi-colored butterflies flutter, undecided,
and brown-helmeted grasshoppers oddly peer -
like praying mantises, eager to leap.
Chirping sparrows, with cocked tails,
sand-bath in a warm, thirsty, summer sun.
And cat-tails, bursting, pierce through a sparsely wooded island.
A distant thunder-clap, and crawling, flat, anvil-headed clouds -
slide down majestic, snow-capped mountaintops,
marking the hour, like clockwork, this time of year.
Dusk comes, bathed in a warm, orange-amber hue,
waxing and waning with a melting sun.
A red fox stirs, finding at twilight’s gate, fresh promising scents, for her young.
And black masked raccoons steal away, through soft, cool moonlit grasses –
in a hushed, clown-like parade . . .
As I dwell in this sanctuary of place and spirit,
beneath an infinite, star-painted canopy.
I know with certainty - of mind, heart and soul,
that when God’s rainbow palette had hardened and dried -
All were - Forever One.
DEFEAT
Out of the waves they come.
Helmeted army of crabs
Trundle over the perfect pools
Of starfish and periwinkle,
Murking up the sandy bottom
Of their foxholes,
Armoured claws testing each mollusk for food,
Sidling up to my toes
In marauding hunger.
I retreat inland,
Allowing them their beachhead.
go out in the field with that
helmeted Go-Pro and press the button,
not that little clearing beside the building
but the field as wide as it is far, far out
look up and stream the dark washed sky
times elapsed in fusioned milky light
watch it arc across the chilled, stubbled field
the cold sparks beautifully splayed across
turn it over now - a bit further, roll over,
refocus, look down close at the loam laid on
set the time-lapse for lengthening days
and watch your shadow pass below you
see the seed casing crack open and
seedlings rise to first season of life
toward the now brightened sky above
listen to the cells elongate springing
against gravity to push away to up, up
sit up, or stand and raise the gaze farther
the slow pan of growth, Jacked up stalk through
sky and clouds to see what's so big up there
© Goode Guy 2015-03-11