Best Irascible Poems
Upon those who yield to anger, I should take pity
because words they spit are like sandpaper, gritty.
A loathsome temper causes them to fume and fret,
sometimes churlish ones spew what they will regret.
Restraining venom is an idea some are unable to grok.
Fury is the key to a door they have no right to unlock,
for they seek revenge when it is not theirs to take.
Hissing like the demon who was disguised as a snake.
It's amazing to what lengths their bitterness will go.
Look into their eyes and you'll see their malice grow.
A hostile fire-breathing dragon is an ignorant beast
who will spend all its time eating outrage at a feast.
They wear the weight of vitriol like a boa of albatross
when it should be thrown away. In the sea given a toss.
A temper makes foolish ones lose all sense of reason.
They may even betray themselves in an act of treason.
Rancour can be an anchor that drowns them in the sea
if they cannot cut the chain that would set them free.
It's evil to prick as a sharp thorn in someone else's side.
Irascible people are those most nice folks cannot abide.
If they continue to blow on smoldering embers of a fire
they will be burned by the contentiousness of their ire.
They should douse all glowing cinders within their soul,
to loosen shackles of angst and keep anger under control.
We star it off with Ben Franklin,
American renaissance man,
whose industry and sharp wit
made him the richest in the land.
Lived out an American dream
before the country ever was,
entertained with his writings and
helped discover scientific law.
Pushed hard for independency
and helped form the Declaration,
then served us diplomatically
to get help for the new nation.
His writings still offer wisdom
that is useful to this day,
a man quite worthy of study,
even spoke against keeping slaves.
Then of course there is John Adams,
an irascible, difficult type,
but a bulldog for our freedom,
no matter the British might.
Maybe his greatest contribution
came after his reelection loss,
he didn’t war, cling to power,
Adams honorable went off
into a long retirement
where he wrote down wisdom sage,
his letters to Jefferson
are a gift to every age.
For choosing honor above power,
founding a family that served,
I think learning from his example
is something that he has earned.
Jefferson is also in the ranks,
the Declaration his finest feat,
a mind that truly understood
what it took to make men free.
Not a perfect soul at all,
he never did free his slaves,
but his words of ‘Life and Liberty’
began the countdown to that day.
The Louisiana Purchase
opened a new and vast frontier,
he said to fear a church and state,
wisdom that we still hold dear.
The man’s massive book collection
became the Library of Congress,
now the largest in the world,
I think we all can learn from this.
James Madison we owe so much,
the Constitution’s driving force,
foundation for a nation that
would known tyranny no more.
A brain that recognized the need
to put great limits on power,
would come to push the Bill of Rights,
our government’s finest hour.
What he wrote in The Federalist
is studied by serious minds
for setting out firm principles,
applicable to any time.
And though his time as president
was a checked span at best,
he’s the Constitution’s father,
to that fact we should all attest...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
What have I done? She wonders…
Brittle blue gaze riveted on her lover’s chiseled features
His is a face set in stone
Eyes, mouth, jaw; all fixed, grim – a granite façade
Where has the softness gone?
That tender dawning of affection…
The loving gleam in dark chocolate eyes…
What have I done to erase it? She wonders -
Because she knows it was her doing
Knows it instinctively;
The knowledge is engrained in every fiber of her being
It was she, who else, who turned that face into rock,
It was she who wiped away the smile, the glow
Her cursed ire, her impatience, her irascible self-destructive streak –
With these tools she chipped away at him until he splintered
Yes she has broken him;
Broken the one thing she loved in all the world
Medusa-like, her willful cerulean glare turned him to stone
Now his eyes are twin pebbles
Cool, hard, unforgiving;
A grating stare is all he has to offer her
His heart sits motionless, a hunk of marble in the cage of his ribs
Beating for her no longer
His love for her has died a frigid death; drowned in a sea of ice
No more the fluid caresses, the warm grins, the ruffling of her hair
No more, no more, his love for her…
It is an unfeeling and frigid monument now
A tombstone, a dusty memory, the rattling chill of the Reaper’s breath
She has turned him into stone
Her lover - and her love - is no more
Oh Medusa, Medusa my girl, what have you done?
Time is serenading a soulless march
September sings mournful, parched tomb
Lies untouched in the bleeding hearts crying out
For redemption and hearing a requiem no doubt
Iniquity without solace, truth waved bye
Long ago and we suffer and die
As vapid pleonasms offer no comfort
To troubled minds and souls, now come forth
Receive the blessings found in this tomb
Reciprocity of love and truth now looms
Across the sky when you enter here and help
The impecunious muster, give them a hand
Love your brother young man, for this tomb
In its glory and blazing irascible light dooms
Evil's plans of vile treachery, blindsides the
Buried bile of biblical mockery so confided and...
Entombed eternal
"Become who you were born to be, not who you've allowed yourself to become."
I donned a cloak of sadness, too heavy to bear.
My frowns, deeply etched from doleful despair.
Then he came into my life; blue eyes smiling,
like lambent skies after a storm, so beguiling.
He offered to help ease my emotional pain,
"Let me cradle you in my arms," was his refrain.
Tender whispers of love, this man possessed,
but his romantic notions were a quixotic quest.
His burdens were so much heavier than my own,
for his irascible demons made me sob and groan.
They ignited like hot coals, tearing me apart,
a cauldron of flames, charring my wounded heart.
They were an albatross slung around my neck,
Specters who turned my life into a tangled wreck.
I tried constructing a citadel to shut them out,
but they breached my walls by another route.
His cross to bear, but on my soul they were born.
In darkness, I trod; suffering, but not fully worn.
My aspirations of hope were drowning in sorrow.
I kept promising myself, "I will leave tomorrow."
Finally, I realized it was only myself I could save.
Armed with a prayer, determination and a stave,
I chose to walk away from love that went askew.
Trembling, I fled. There was nothing more to do.
November 26, 2021
This or That, Vol 8 Contest
hosted by Edward Ibeh
Deceit and duplicity, vengeance and vanity
Exploit our weaknesses and dissipate our souls’ strength
As arrogance cockroaches multiply their insanity
We diminish the strength of our faith
The more we immerse ourselves in new technologies
Stung by advances in artificial intelligence
Deluding our ignorance and bestowing empty eulogies
On partners we loathe despite pangs of conscience
That work harder to retain a semblance of humanity
In souls gone dead and mad with material wealth
Accumulated and concealed from established authority
In the mistaken belief that the theft we perpetuate in our stealth
Shan’t leave a trail auditors will pursue
In our bid to aggrandize an increasingly hollow ego
Gone insensitive and unreceptive to the moral malaise and torture that ensue
As the moral compass hitherto central to our lives we forgo
In preference for catalyzing the rat race that the vulnerable
Crush underfoot
To splurge with disgust as the horrible and the irascible
Thrive in the sight of the sycophants we recruit
As cheerleaders
With unabashed shame
In the midst of death traders and peddlers
On whom we’re not able to pin blame
Cos together we rot
In body and mind
Our consciences bought and caught
Up in webs of ego-tripping that render us morally blind and unkind.
It was a time to bond and booze with dear Papa,
An interval all the more naughtily charming
As it inflamed the temper of irascible Mama.
Before happy hour, we two went shooting
With the three o three I bought for drama
In a gauche youth that was always dragging.
Out we drove in my short, fat pa's beetle,
Two maladroits equally socially feeble.
We stopped by some neatly stacked cans
That we shot, exploding wet excrement
Putting a brown pall on our bonding plans.
I fired a random shot as if by witty accident.
Off we went driving by unbroken fences
Till we saw a policeman in bewilderment
Standing over a black and white cow,
By a farmer making a bellowing row.
“We shot the beef, my son,” joshed Pa,
And put the foot down upon the pedal,
Laughing merrily in the hurrying car.
I smiled at his jest however feeble,
A tasteless jibe at the furious farmer.
The very thought I readily dismissed
With a sly, effete flick of the wrist.
The matter of the dead cow was forgot
Until not too long before oblivion
Took hold of every thought of the sot
Aged stupid by whisky and bad living.
“It was because of that cow we shot,
A sin that God has not yet forgiven.”
For a neighbour's dog gored his heifer,
A punishment he had to decipher.
But I think he obliquely gave me blame,
For it was I who shot the bovine brute.
Before his fading mind went fully lame
He reasoned it best to stem guilty root
Before old sins haunted shaky mind's frame.
Dark disputes lingered as he was less astute.
But for me the cow is a point of indifference,
In the abattoir a month earlier of its existence.
IT’S WHAT IT IS …
If every day you sleep in church; you may not know God
You are not necessarily spiritual; but you are pious
If you’ve grade 99.9%, you’re not most educated; but you’ve first class
You are what you are, and it’s what it is
When she exhibits temperance, then she is neither lustful nor concupiscent
When she’s apparently courageous, she’s neither hotheaded nor irascible
When she adds reason in action, oh yes she be prudent
She is what she is, and it’s what it is
Because he drives he is a driver
And in so far as he plays the flute, ‘flutist’ captures him
Because he plays well the inflated round leather, dub him a footballer
For that is what he is, and it’s what it is
Assuming I be easily deceived and very unintelligent; am foolish and simpleton
What if I be a schmuck or schnook, pity me for I am stupid!
Honest description depicts reality; but malevolent eulogies do not
They give either sheer flattery or mere insults; all in all, it is what it is
Yes! You’re good, because you are
You’re bad, just because you really are
Always, words may not express aptly
But come what may, it’s what it is!
Pumped
Reams of paper sit upon my desk accordioned untidily, dimpled where the cat stood or sat too long. The wastepaper basket was full of crumbled balls, reflecting the topography of the Nepali adventure I am trying to re-count. The heavily grained desk of golden oak supports a range of dictionaries and thesaurus’s, any one of which was heavy enough to use as a doorstop in a windstorm. An old Underwood typewriter sits, holding court, in the midst of all this, enamel black, with chrome edged keys and struts which depress at the tap of a fingertip. The radio blares, God Bless the Child Who’s Got His Own…as I formulate the saga of a heroine seeker, lead by two caramel colored Nepali boys, toward the foothills of the Himalayian Mountains.
The spindles holding the black ribbon snag in the clip-like opening which holds them taunt. Adjusting the tape turns my nails blue-black. I brush the hair from my eyes decorating the tip of my nose. Dirty business this writing. I tear another sheet from the rubber roller and crumple it with a sigh. “Damn, irascible machine don’t you have a soul? Give Mama something! Anything” I whine.
Scared by the abruptness of my outburst, and the carriage's leap left, the scared-y-cat is propelled to the floor, sending a half-stack of unsullied paper to ground, covering my patent-leather pumps.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bKNtP1zOVHw
Enjoy...while you read..Billy Holiday
Bragg's just an ass, a poor leftist stooge
Bought for in full by the Soros machine,
Why target me when he knows he will lose
His obvious intentions malicious and mean.
As to that Stormy, a vixen indeed,
She's now named me ‘Tiny’ can't clearly be true,
Her one claim to fame fueled by greed
The day I first met her is the day I now rue.
But let them come on these little red ants,
For they fail to see that if their venom may sting
Their incredible ravings and irascible rants
Provide the real juice to make my fans sing.
In chorus the cry my name in support
The Trump flags unfurled throughout this great land,
Denouncing the wrongs of my reign cut so short,
Making it known where each of them stand.
I've said it before but I'll say it again,
They stole what was mine for the very last time,
But this go around I'll make it quite plain
Whatever they throw will fade just like slime.
Villanelle : On listening to Al Di Meola, John McLaughlin and Paco de Lucia Concert - June 12, 1980
Tico Tico swallows tumbling in the frisky air
Round and round in Rondenôs whisk sparrows
Paco aloof in Andauzian tempo Malaguena rare
Piroueting incisive onrush cascades bare
No strings wave upon wave in strict sweeping rows
Tico Tico swallows tumbling in the frisky air
John abeting Al to shake free from Camaron dare
The tsunami shaking out of the Devil's maws
Paco aloof in Andaluzian tempo Malaguena rare
All argumentative cursing beginning no-where
Irascible abrasive rabid racy tune soars
Tico Tico swallows tumbling in the frisky air
Torrential currents let John loose in manic scare
That Al contests entraps in torrid lassoes
Paco aloof in Andaluzian tempo Malaguena rare
This salmagundi of virtuoso notes snare
One and all from the caverns of Sleepy Hollows
Tico Tico swallows tumbling in the frisky air
Paco aloof in Andaluzian tempo Malaguena rare
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2018
Unstrung as the brave
Nonviolent in protests
Questioning moral wrong
Unfavorable of unfairness
Extravagant in ideas
Supporting freedom
Taunted by the ignorant
Irascible over foolishness
Obsessed by cleanliness
Nameless to the envious
Ambiguous in everything
Bountiful in blessings
Liberal in thoughts
Enthused by laughter
Remand
A desperate prisoner
Out on remand
Am I
Till sentence do us part
On her hand
Lamely hung;
Inconsiderate
And
Irascible woman’s
Husband-
Suspect of love
Treason
(Heart’s betrayer)
Defying reason
To forever wear garb
In a wrong season.
JM
05th January 2014
Fear, trembling heart afraid of despair
Whirlwind thoughts assailing the distance
Frailly brave;strength woven in weakness
Irascible with no apology
Soft, tempted to touch
Like foam the body, an angel to my soul
Spirit relentlessly searching
Sagittarius to the marrow
Butts like implants
Tommy making babies
I don't care yet I do
As I walk, heart flutters excitedly wanting to
I long for you
Longing to say my first halo
Broad, big and strong
Fragile, weak and soft
Complimentary contradictory
Yet I remain defiantly unrepentant
I won't do it
Never would I
Even if the world wants me to
The walk, the talk, the disposition, and more
What a cheer deceit
Buried in the soul of her sweet dreams
The warrior must stand
I must
Cuz of the beautifully, wonderfully special person I'm
Sassy with black unrefined
Like it would never finish
Longing for lost words to fill in the gap
What a bridge left to be filled
But of a truth I know I can't be shortchanged in life
Cuz I'm destined for the top
We've worn out yet another Anno Domini.
We're twelve months - if not wiser - surely older.
You call it a relationship, this boulder
which hangs about me like a Shi'ite's bomb, and he,
at least, can choose his cut-off point. From shoulder
to knee, I'm (still) more Goldie Hawn than Golda
Meir, but we don't flow. We ooze. Like hominy
grits, turgidly. But denser. Stodgier. Colder.
Where once fizzed electricity, hums static.
The best and worst of me is best termed "womanly" -
irrational, irascible, erratic.
I'm sure my verse is worse. Tot up each billable
pretentious periphrastic polysyllable.
But you? You're spenter, deader than Mitt Romney.