Best Insignia Poems
The main purpose of life is to live rightly, think rightly, act rightly. The soul must languish when we give all our thought to the body.
Mahatma Gandhi
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Winter is a suitable time to savor,
Silent, quite starving for, my only flavor.
Quiet seclusion enhances my languish,
Providing pause, meditation, and favor.
Frozen days of chilly nip raise my anguish,
Apply comfy sheets, light for cold to vanquish.
A dreadful bulk of cloud and a brisk breeze,
Inspire sloth in a book respite, prankish.
Beautifully arching shrubs and trees,
A ballet of nature's dreams and appease.
White feathers tumble to the soil below,
As sapphire shines, emerald first wheeze.
Fumes in chimneys coil, merge, and grow,
I burn a recollection as shadows undergo.
Crystal-clear river, frozen pearls, pristine,
Wind gusts at dusk in a cold stream flow.
It's peaceful in my heart and serene,
And mesmerized by the gorgeous scene.
Calm and eased by the stark lightness.
Winter is when I languish, purify, and shrine.
Indigo optimism overlays placid rightness,
Potent nature pride ethereal brightness.
A lovely mix of purple haze made it lighter,
Insignia aesthetic—only ebbing politeness.
He won’t fit inside a church
He won’t fit inside a thought
He won’t fit inside a hope
Yet He fits inside a heart
He is light and He is love
He lavishes us, each one, with good
He restores us when we doubt
He reminds us we can always surmount
The enemies that seems to cloud
Our joy, our hope, our inspiration
The feelings that create in us
A grace that rains down His love
He won’t fit inside a dream
He won’t fit inside a house
He won’t fit inside a song
Yet He will fit inside the soul
He is the wonder that leads us on
The feeling of promise that teaches our hearts
The beauty and joy of knowing His love
Abides within us, where He will fulfill us
He is the kindness and the strength
That brings us beyond all the sorrow and grief
He destroys the darkest dread, despair
Reassures our hearts that we always have a prayer
He won’t fit inside a star
He won’t fit inside a cathedral
He won’t fit inside a religion
Yet, He will fit inside the spirit
He is wise and He is trustworthy
His light reflects the peace that is His
Sign – His crest – His insignia that suggests
He knows our hearts, our souls, our spirits
He tears down all the walls we’ve built
With our worries, our fears and our suspicions
He shows us how to love, unconditionally, completely
With a love that He inspires, rousing inside
The one who knows He is the answer to each prayer
The reason for our desires, our hopes, our dreams
The reason for our joy, our kindness, our faith
The reason for a love that lives throughout eternity
He won’t fit inside a mind
But He will fit inside a life!
1 Kings 8:27 (KJV) – But will God indeed dwell on the earth? Behold, the heaven and heaven of heavens cannot contain thee; how much less this house that I have builded?
That I didn’t get to know Freddie Dunlop better
Defiant mop of thick white hair - a Thurles face
Slim photographer - single lady – a leviathan in her time
Pictured my youth - talked to me as a person
Wore large pink hats with style and verve
An opinion on every topic - varnished nails her insignia
Morris Minor mirror polished - a smiling face
Masking latest mischief - rascal laughter burbling up
I knew her measure - I knew her loneliness
Not enough to let me help her - defensive joking
Her personal armour – her way of coping
Form:
HARLEY DAVIDSON
The roar of the victorious twins that spark,
Enigma of the spotless glint in the dark,
The riders, symbolic of rare brood,
Tattooed with insignia and bandana as hood.
Third year of the twentieth century, there starts a stride,
Relentlessly over a century, stands stout in pride,
The post First War years, gave birth to the twins,
Sidecars mated, to the 18 horses’ wings.
“Milwaukee” heaven, created the stars,
In a big bang scatter, they traversed the universe,
The years of the big wars, saw seventeen-inch twins,
Immaculate with epaulettes and battle olive greens.
At the end of the war, God lent a hand,
To evolve a shiny steel armour for the generation, next clan,
The Knuckleheads, the Glides set the road on fire,
Protectors of human dignity, induce fear on felons’ desire,
The low riders of the seventies, launched with a zing,
The world of its class termed it “A mean machine”,
The XL’s the K’s, roll out with a whack,
Its looks and tyres, burnt all tracks.
Then there were the softails, those flew like a dove,
Elevated the pillion rider, for the embrace of Love,
The zing of the V2 and the double chrome exhausts,
Reflects the personality of a star, that rocks.
Out arrived the fat boy who could cruise an endless mile,
Traverse across the continent in elegant style,
The Dyna and the Low Riders with their fiery spokes,
Came in with accessories that included tattooed blokes.
The King of the road with flashers and sirens run,
Vigilant officer in uniform with a holstered gun,
The Buells, The Cyclones, The Lightning and Thunderbolts
Menacing street fighters, up on the roll.
Exotic long forked choppers, on a smooth ply,
The rattle sound merges, with a helicopter in the sky,
It is the character, that reflects, the heart alone,
The charisma, of falling in love with, ‘Harley Davidson’.
By Pradipta Roy Choudhury
From The Transient Soliloquy
published by Notionpress
https://notionpress.com/read/the-transient-soliloquy
Limericks crochetés : All the trappings of the rough-neck cult
All the trappings of the rough-neck cult
Baby-faced blond Aryans exult
Under star-striped umbrella
State seal insignia
Some Dad yells « OUT », muscle-men catapult
Can SUN also set in the Wild West
Where the cash – the Man says – will come to rest
How many will share wealth
How many get free health
Deplete coffers for great job conquest ?
The tragic loss of a rising star
O ! Mark « Blond » face ! He’ll shine yet afar !
Blocked not by Destiny
But by peer fear envy :
Winsome mien sage’s ears passion galore !
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Tossing and turning after a heavy economic loss
The shock shattered my peace of nights
Hugging my pillow tight with unshed tears
The sorrowful thoughts trudged haltingly
To my grandma's antique sewing machine
Lying impassively in the cluttered store
Guilt shook me out of my sluggish memories
Over the dormant treasure dearly ignore
Up and about I barged into the basement
I carried it upstairs carefully with loaded adulation
Dusted and oiled my reborn ardency
Connoisseured my eyes with twinkling love
The art of neatly stitching hearts was taught
By granny silently as she held onto its handle
While the machine's needle and shuttle
Would treadle my ripped and torn today
Retrospecting over the many inheritances
Of love she left her favoured grandchild
A few stressed lines ironed out my brow
The silver forks to hold on to love
And the knives to cut out the wasted crusts
Her crocheted scarf for my winter warmth
When she saw her child had no such style
Amongst her voguish teenaged peers
A gold viking insignia with my initials embossed
Was loosely chained around my neck emblematising
Her overwhelming love must have oozed profusely
When she rocked me in her tender arms
Gazing fondly at the next in line to her posterity
Her marriage ring she gave on my wedding
Which the thieves much mistook for their right
Emptying stores of my sentimental potpourri
The wealth was stolen with rancour
But not my granny's fondness that was
Reigning still in the depth of my heart
I continue living with my antiques of love
The gold viking pendent had inadvertently
Slipped from the chain to a safer corner
The silvern cutlery smiles at the table
Smirking at the ignorant fools
For undervaluing their worth
The handle of the sewing machine
Moves at my command silently stitching
Nostalgic memories with empyreal pride
October 26, 2016
For Broken Wings
Old Jewellery or Just Old Things
Purple nebula
gas insignia
finds a polished glass
astronomy class
here on earthly sod.
Pluto ice ball
now a rogue moon
White dwarfs sun fall
burnt out too soon.
Lenses peek.
comets streak.
Say to me.
You see
no God?
Odd...
Form:
20 February 2010
Cecilia
By: Noel N. Villalrosa
You are the essential part of my life
My awareness and pride striking hype
You are insignia of my existence
Interstellar in my reminiscence
In this world of choices and by chances
You hold my hands to hurdle in races
Always bargaining for my achievements
Through ups and downs, I run for confinement
We share each day, passion and offering
To Almighty God for brighter upbringing
Of our child to receive our guidance
And give us a pure strength and endurance
I thank God for blessing of you to me
My Cecilia, my wife and contemporary
2nd place winner
For Audrey Carey's Sentimental Love Letter Contest
Contest Date: 11/30/2010
Crest of a goddess
Aphrodite's insignia
Privilege on earth
The thousands of words pain of imagination which improvised the parch of life to itchy sky, the foods is mudslides to the sadden caskets of corpses lying unattended, in the morning where they monitored to acidic
The ceramic of thoughts parches of imagination group of fact finding gluing by the fire exchanging stories, history of lives so fresh in their memories like the vultures covering the cloud of helmed of fathers.
Now the ends of Ebola to new era of mountains of nightmare hiccup of the hills and valleys at the center of cry, the shadow of death dubious actions
Invitation of mourners lining up, water meant to entertain throats shining drink that cuts the trunks of trees and swept mud rolled down to the true generation of tomorrow to basement of fallen heroes to the feeling of lofty debris of death.
The nation shaded their only treasures to the rubble of hills granites of pillows, the rapture of once called city of our own to the leak of the sky cloud of corpses waiting for identification to sound of euphemism to insignia on their faces
The media molested the dignity of our nation pride to the fence showing the world the pain was buried down to the earth, the name they painted pictures cloud of degrading your neighbour to the media dilute of understanding and lack of online etiquette and allotment shame on you.
Buried in the shape of valley swallowed by Cinderella of waves, banged the hope mama ‘Salone’ draining to the drench to the hope of nation to naught swirl rivers of cry tantamount billions memories hijacked the love of one another to anoint bodies lying down to brink of calls that never been answered by the valley of Regent shroud to plastic bags.
She sits by a dying hearth, an album open in her lap
The cold silent room startles like a slap
Mouldy images stare back from the past
Prints are all she has now
Memories that still cling
To the old Silverfish ravaged photographs
Like slips pegged to a line, flailing in a gale
One minute they’re there, the next they are only an apparition
Burnt to a retina searching the void, of a memory long forgotten
Her finger now rests upon the “rising sun” of the AIF
Of her son’s slouch hat, to which casts a shadow
Across a face too young to shave
Only but a boy, learning how to behave
In a moment etched in time
Yet those moments before it
Remain immortalised within her precious album
And those that came after
Lay buried in the Somme
He leans on a stool, one hand in his lap
The other supporting his shouldered rifle strap
His mouth blurred delivering a sentence
She closes her eyes, with thoughts of his independence
Sifting through the years of a boy in this room
Searching for his laugh through a cheeky grin
Probing for those silvery words etched in gelatine
Of a boy leaning on a stool, a conversation frozen
A mother’s memory of her son, reduced to yellowed images
A mother's loss between these pages
Shreds of the past fog the room
Pieces of a boy lay mute,
Within her reach
Creases form on her brow, a tear escapes
The memory slips, it flaps uselessly from the line
And hangs by a thread
Then it’s gone…
----------------------------------------------
AIF = Australian Imperial Force (1914 – 1918)
Rising Sun = AIF Insignia
Isaiah Zerbst’s Poetry Contest – Pick a Title
23 Oct. 2014
Barabas, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s Barabas by T. Wignesan
This insignia that Barabas be
Seditious and murderous
None so worthy as he can be
Bartered body for Jesus
Criminal right down to genes
To our father of all is he son
For assassinating crowd he stands
Which acquits and absolves him
Just as it should be the crime
Paid for by a price equal deem
Be that the blood of his victim
Serve Barabas to redeem
(from Pierre Emmanuel’s « Les Jours de la Passion », pub. July 2011)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, October 13, 2014)
Dedicated to the Officers and crew of
USS Columbia (SSN 771)
Goodbye Sun
We are welcomed by men in
immaculate whites
Through a hatch
we descend a steep ladder
into "The Last Slider"
From a narrow corridor we enter
into the brain and nerves
of this vessel-
To my untrained eye the confusion
of cables overhead is bewildering
This black ship of stealth
tracks the world outside,
silently invisible itself
Rows of monitors, sonar devices
high powered periscopes
all with a myriad of buttons to push-
A marvel of technology -
yet men are the heart and soul
of this great ship
They are Submariners
They say goodbye to the sun
for months on end
Week after harrowing week they spend
day after day on grinding drills
where the only thrill is their daily meals
Systematic, methodical
They are human- in a ship of war
but a ship that exists for freedom
The Officers guide us through each section
The ship at rest has released them
from an endless commitment but
with a practiced eye
they are still attuned to every detail
Commanders almost prescient
so in step with every procedure
they can sense malfunction in their sleep
I notice the commitment to excellence
I note the pride behind the
preparations for our inspection
Blue curtains with the ships insignia
are drawn on bunk beds
Shiny copper engine parts, clean bright paint
reflects the values of those who
keep their vessel, ship-shape
Now I stand in the nose where the
weapons rest
The metal tubes look benign
for all the power they contain
Ironically in rows, directly above,
the crew's bunks are located-
in tiers of three -even sleep
is regimented
Photos of family are the only
human touch in
this dark, black, whale
of a vessel
The sense of duty for each individual
seems overwhelming
There is a spirit of complete trust
between them
This is a world for honorable men
"Victory is Silence"
I try to imagine daily living
the self-containment
the steely discipline
the choosing to go forward in the face of
uncertainty
Precision and man - morphing
The pact between Submariners is
absolute.
They move as one.
BRIAN'S CHOICE K,any form,any theme
Contest Judged: 5/19/2020 12:08:00 AM
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
3rd Place
Tease, tempt and test, my love. And I shall react,
Reach and reign, my love. Give me guidance, lest
I wander, substituting lust for authenticity.
Inscribe your insignia upon my soul. Lay claim to
Love, as if to sigh your last breath, for I’m
Embedded in the substratum of your spirit. Thus,
Spoil me with your matrix. Entice me with your
Charms. And I shall titillate, tantalize, and satiate
Your person, for mutual seduction is the art of
Lovers, and we have loved since the days of
Genesis. Thus, ours is immortal, my love, extant
As an apocrypha, but hidden as the root of
Eternity. Let manifest the fruits of love, for we are
Bonded as the pillars of a shelter, destined for love.
A rhetorical question finds me asking
(to no one in particular) why I recall
the names of grade school teachers
approximately fifty years ago (whose
names listed below), when the need
to retrieve necessary information due
ring examinations (less time ago)
often found me seized with sudden
inability to remember any vital ants
sirs (even including my name), thus
grudgingly handing over blank test paper
analogously surrendering a vital
document gracing terms of defeat
into the scaly claws (zen nay), sans
first to sixth grade Precambrian relic
(Missus Batson, Missus Rittenhouse,
Missus Wells, Mister Stout,
Missus Shaner, or Miss Rinderle).
Invariably majority of first thru
sixth grade accorded accredited
ancient authenticated creatures.
They freely exercised diabolical
churlish beastial animalistic zeal
us yakking, wickedly unprintable
upon (unprincipled urchin) at
receiving end of fiendishly grue
some hellish instructions. Assign
ments buttressed with ultimatums
harkening back to Jurassic period
earlier in dawning primate con
sciousness. Lesson material kindled
with justifiable license in league
with garnered insignia. Heft
to bring pupils to heal predicated
via warp and weft woven wonder
fully. Wrought writs welcomed
whips with warranty whenever
recalcitrant ruffian refused
respecting reptilian rubric repre
sentative rattling (The Idler Wheel
Is Wiser Than the Driver of
the Screw and Whipping Cords
Will Serve You More Than Ropes
Will Ever Do), which loosely
rendered regularly warbled
wishy washy verse curmudgeons
freedom granted to interpret
as one decrepit, hawkish insignia
certified one beaming Eve and/
or stud deed brute soffit. Education
often relied on the weekly reader,
and letters to and/or from Aunt
Emma. Nefarious mean linkedin
kickstarter jawboning torturous
treatment tolerated, asper imps
of the pervert, mutant Ninja
Turtles duty bound antsy
youthful yokel yodelers
weathering ululating sing-song
and quintessential precepts.