Best Marchers Poems
Riding on her daddy’s shoulder
In her little yellow gingham dress,
The little doll with honey hair,
Wiggled and wiggled and danced.
Daddy couldn’t hold her still,
He let her down by his side,
Her rhythmic motions continued,
As the parade went marching by.
One band after another
Stirred this happy chortling child,
Clapping spectators gathered,
As she entertained with smiles.
Finally, the last bugle softened,
And Gingham’s little legs were tired,
The marchers wondered why that crowd
Danced for a honey-haired child.
Shrub leaves lie curled in the dormant yard;
Trees shiver in their nakedness
As a crisp autumn wind exhales
Into the barren night sky.
On the corner of Walnut and Maple,
The Old Crowder House fights for breath--
Creaking and moaning with age and neglect;
Too decrepit to shelter life beyond a few strays.
There in the cupola she sits
In the long forgotten platform rocker,
Watching the child parade with eager longing
As they wander from house to house.
Will one look up to give her a smile?
Will they even notice her there in her chair
Rocking, as she has done for a lifetime or two
Mourning the loss of her own?
She hears a child's cry echo through the night
And notices a boy clinging to his mother.
Does he see me? Will I finally be released?
Alas, it's just the cats and startled birds.
And so she sits. Waiting and Rocking;
Rocking and Waiting for that magic night,
When the hallow spirits sing and dance
Under a barren sky as the cool winds exhale,
And the marchers of the child parade
Finally, look up and notice the wraith
Longing for a child's smile,
As they pass on their way to the next treat.
Jsc
October 17, 2004
The winds of Winter wait,
Whispering to me of the approaching future,
But still far off, biding their time
Until this span of light and warmth has lasted out its stay.
Meantime, I engage myself in taking stock;
Compiling the days that define myself to myself
Enlarging the catalog so far as I can,
Building up a narrative.
So many memories
Like fireflies in a Summer's night
Flash through the dark spaces of my mind.
Childhood: Flash
Youth: Flash
Young Parenthood: Flash
Empty Nest: Flash.
Family, friends, events
Joys, sorrows, beginnings, endings -
All make their flickering passages;
All paint their images onto me
The particles dance and shift
Cells die to be replaced
The face in the mirror becomes my father's
Molecule by molecule
With each passing instant.
The particles dance and shift
Moving back towards the dark unknown
From which they came,
Yet somehow in the midst of it
The I that was
And am
And shall be
Remains to watch the long parade unfold.
And that parade, banal and fantastic,
Marches past that inside window where I watch to see myself pass by,
As some newer self shall do the same through all tomorrows
Until the day when all the marching stops for me -
And then, my fellow marchers,
O my many, varied Loves,
On that last Winter's day,
Where will we be,
Where will we be?
What musics shall we hear?
What wonders might we see?
They’re mournful at a wake or when
A person’s laid to rest,
Yet there are those who say their sound
Is something to detest.
But line them up and hear them played
By marchers wearing kilts
And suddenly you see the green
And hear those Irish lilts.
Oh, it’s a joy to witness
The St. Patrick’s Day Parade
And watch the bands from every police
And fireman brigade.
The pipers always lead the way,
Their plaintive notes on high;
The green-clad crowd applauds
As all the marchers pass them by.
I wouldn’t want to listen
To a bagpipe every day,
But on the 17th of March, I’m glad
I get to hear them play.
We Russian peasants are struggling to survive
in the year of our Lord, nineteen hundred and five.
The workers labor for as much as fifteen hours a day,
receiving meager wages in conditions too dangerous to stay.
Besides, a war is being fought involving many a man
where no victory is apparent against the Empire of Japan.
Father Georgii Apollonovich Gapon heads an organization
that in a peaceful manner, seeks substantial amelioration.
Father Gapon and members of his central committee
planned to petition the tsar in St. Petersburg city.
Unarmed women, children, and old men were in the crowd.
“God save the tsar” was the chant that could be heard out loud.
Imperial Guard forces and saber-wielding Cossack cavalry,
confronted the crowd before the Winter Palace on Sunday.
Shots were fired at the marchers at the Narva Gate.
Many scores of unarmed people met a bloody fate.
We peasant citizens gathered from near and far
in order to pay homage to our beloved tsar.
However, it appears Nicholas did not seem to care.
In fact, the tsar left the palace and was not even there!
I thank wikipedia.org online encyclopedia for information I obtained to write this poem.
Unquotable quotes – VII
What comes in through one ear goes out through the rear.
Give him a wench and, he’ll want her to be French.
Give him an inch and he’ll take no small pinch.
Better be swallowed by a whale than be torn to shreds by a
shark of a girl in a gale.
The praying mantis kills after she copulates in bliss ; the
predatory woman drills a hole in your bank account first
before she kills for a thrill.
The banana kills its bearer for the latter cannot bear another.
Take the pillow but not the widow
Marry her sister if she’s fatter.
Frogs in a well croak well in hell.
A crab walking straight is out of gait.
(continuing the series from UQ - VI)
We are all sinners under bums.
We are all looters under swarms.
We are all marchers under drums.
We are all dreamers under balms.
We are all loafers under palms.
We are all voters under domes.
We are all soupers under poems.
for Chrissie Morris-Brady
If you call a spade a jade, you’ve got it made
But if you call a maid a jade, you’re likely to get laid
Though if you call a maid in bed, you’re going to get wed
Yet if you call a maid to bed, you’re sure to be up-fed.
If you call a maid in a hurry, you’re likely to be sorry
Or if you call a maid in a lorry, you’re bound to worry.
If you called a lad dad, he’d likely not be glad
Yet if you called the lad bad, he’d certainly be sad
But if you called the lad mad, he’s bound to think you a grad.
If you called a nerd a turd, you could possibly get furred
But if you thought a Lord bored, you probably will get bored
Yet if you called a Lord a toad, he’ll have you all towed.
Then if you called a Knight tight, he’ll challenge you to a fight.
If you called a Baron daemon, he’ll think you were a doorman.
If you refer to Jude as a nude, you’re likely to get screwed
And refer to the nude as lewd, you’re bound to get brewed
And think of Dude as crude, there’s bound to be a feud.
If you called a squid a quid, it’s bound to think like a Druid.
If you call what you said dead, you’ll never ever get read
If you thought home food good, you must be a real hood
And rely on your word two-third, you sure are a dud.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Murder of six million Jews
Murder through holocaust
Holocaust as foretold
Holocaust in scripture
Scripture Daniel 8:23-26
Scripture for the vision
Vision from an angel concerned
Vision in the distant future
Future came to an end
Future on Nazi regime
Regime of Jewish problems
Regime of Adolph Hitler
Hitler on “Final Solution”
Hitler operated death camps
Camps of extermination
Camps to carry out execution
Execution of Jewish people
Execution as genocide
Genocide as holocaust
Genocide as catastrophe
Catastrophe in 1942
Catastrophe as persecution
Persecution as state-sponsored
Persecution being systematic
Systematic executions
Systematic coordination
Coordination as finality
Coordination for solution
Solution to the problem
Solution to end the war
War on Soviet prisoners
War on Nazi tyranny
Tyranny with collaborators
Tyranny of Germany
Germany on World War II
Germany as part of history
History of death marchers
History of no resistance
Resistance due to uprising
Resistance led to futility
Futility being helpless
Futility as a result of evilness
Evilness defeated prosperity
Evilness destroyed humanity
Humanity over troubled souls
Humanity at the time
Time to reflect
Time to pray for human race
Human race…
Reflect…
10.15.16
"The Holocaust"
for Jamie Pan's
"War and Heroism"
Poetry Contest
I came about when the world was hot and embroiled in a rumble.
When transit men carried all they had in a frayed bundle.
When steel was gold or so I was told, and silkworms are of quietude, for less the people that need them.
When Swinging On A Star was the national anthem.
When sugar was rationed, and horse meat the staple, and vouchers held the value of money.
From heart distress, we wonder how relentless thou art in a promise of milk and honey.
I was carried into my teens by voluntary ships on raging seas, and I was cognizant of stiff black bodies hanging from Southern trees under incidental nights.
It was when I was shaken into the consciousness from the cries of freedom marchers, who claimed the thunderous moments of the Northern lights.
My soul has grown deeply grievous of the unrighteousness of humanity.
For it is from dust we came to dust we return in a nation of sand.
Excerpt from A Float with Memories by Mary E.W. Stephenson
copyright 2002
He is the one who walks upon it.
Hallowed...from the sacrifice that passed it on.
Home...from infant life that still reposes
in the body. There, it will entreat
with that fair eloquence the body politic
employs--all torn from old nobility
that blood bears in its stream, enriched
from fragments that the heart
has stored away--the jagged memories,
the tears of those we loved,
the bells that sang from towers
still remembered as the years sink down.
It resurrects the dead, this fatherland
that cries for loyalty; its cunning
tries the patient, trips up the ingenue
who sees what is supposed to be
and not what is. It fosters bravery
and blindness, soars upon the winds
of rhetoric, and casts its stones
with khaki kindness at a world
that interferes.
God bless the citizen who follows
on the highway where the marchers
said goodbye, took up their arms,
and faded in the far-off sky. God bless
his vision of returning...bless the faith
he musters for the heroes nigh
at that far turn ahead,
still washed in that pale emptiness
disclosed across the evening sun.
He is the watcher, still,
who hears the bells, and hums along
expectantly...
He is the blessed one.
~
I wasted so much time
dragging this body shell around
and living for the expectation
it was due. You see, I realized
the truth too late in my allotmment
of material experience. It was
exploitation of naievete, I think.
I'm not the better for it, nor
may I be consoled that any chunk
of universe is wiser, or enhanced
by one brief flash--of I.
What then is left...
a dieing crush of bones and of regret?
What may I serve?
What vestiges remain of a
cosmic stopover that may not
have worked too well?
We may yet learn.
Those old, bedraggled marchers still
await a last parade...there is light there.
I have the shell; I have the moment
to reflect. I have the peace.
I have the everlasting now,
into which I pour this crumbling soul,
this shell that I did not create,
but knew. I let it stew.
And mine it is to watch,
to care for, to wonder at.
See, it is the wonder I am given--
diminished bones and all.
With the closing of my eyes,
it is there; the miracle is there.
Always, it is there.
~
Mountains rise far above valleys below
As shadows morph into morning's hued light
Celestial shades cause mountains to glow.
Out of marauding mist birds soon take flight.
Menehune folk are known to abide
In mountain ranges or forests, they keep
Away from all humans, they seek to hide,
Live off 'aina with bananas they reap.
A divine essence floats through tropic air.
Hawaiian night marchers of past up high
Still chant along cliffs with torches, beware
To let them be if you don't want to die.
Most kama'ainas respect island lore
With many legends they tend to adore.
5-14-19
*Menehune are a dwarf people in Hawaiian tradition who live in the mountains, deep forests and hidden valleys of the Hawaiian Islands, far from the eyes of normal humans. The Menehune were said to be craftspeople. Legends say that the Menehune built temples (heiau), fishponds, roads, canoes, and houses.
*Hawaiian Night Marchers:
According to Hawaiian legend, night marchers (huaka‘i po in Hawaiian) are ghosts of ancient warriors. They supposedly roam large sections of the island chain, and can be seen by groups of torches.
What to do when happening upon a night march in progress? The ghostly procession must never be interrupted. Legend has it that resting your eyes upon the Night Marchers could signal a grim fate for the perpetrator, a friend or relative, so witnesses are urged to crouch low to the ground, "play dead" and avert the eyes. Any sound or movement could invite a Night Marcher's deadly glance. These Night Marchers are set diligently upon their destination and are not considered spirits that will deviate from their path to haunt humans nearby.
*kama'ainas are Hawaiian native born equivalent to kama child, person + 'aina land, earth
* 'aina land, earth
There it is,
and swept along, the common wind
of everyday reality, leading
through the metaphysical and
to infinity. There, and just for us.
It is too soon ignored. Too soon,
conformity. Too soon
the halloos are but faint upon our ears.
The marchers will retire; iconoclasts
abandon the most distant cause.
The infinite is just too far away.
It matters not. The road begins
just out of town, and that is where
faith travels...down the path
of martyrdom and ecstasy,
of beauty and disgust.
It is Frost's road less traveled
and sheer faith is like that
as it must be,
forging ever far ahead,
irrespective of terrain both now
and ages in the sweep
of ages never dreamed, and there,
and open still.
There.
Just out of town.
And who will set upon it, now,
with me?
No surety. I'm out of promises.
It's just a road.
Now will you come?
~
If your legal counsel on civil rights
is Jeff Sessions,
then you most certainly learned legal precedent
for validity of crossing your fingers
or your toes
or even just imagine doing so
while denouncing economic and political racism
as evil
and likewise evil,
perpetuating enslavement to fear
and anger
and hate-mongering
among Just Us Good Ol' Boys,
Locker Room Talkers and Marchers
favoring White elitism,
Well then Jesus,
and Trinitarian SuperDivine MightMakesCapitalismRight Patriarchy Incorporated,
will legally and morally absolve you through immaculate partnership,
naturally and spiritually forgive you,
And you shall remain among the select redeemed
despite your Only White Lives Have Ruled The NestBest
alternative rhetorical fact marketing
required, for now,
with fingers crossed
behind your Counselor's two-faced lie.
You can no more stand pre-millennial idly by
while a Civil Rights Movement
was, and still is, marching through your capital-investments,
without making a part of the post-millennial problem statement,
any more than you can stand innocently by
while White supremacists
are marching through your massive media exposure
without already having mentored
a source of the racist self-denial of anti-patriotic supremacy,
our extant great trans-millennial ecopolitical problem.
A rainy day does not dampen my spirits
as I walk to the beat of the rain,
my feet feel the rhythm of the raindrops with each step,
I am part of the rainy day parade of marchers
who are crowned with colorful umbrellas
which bob along the wet and busy city sidewalks.
The blood of the people
In the streets of Cairo
The flesh of mothers
In the lanes of Cairo
The cries of children
In the cusp of fear
The boots of soldiers
On the sides of marchers
And the bullets from rifles
Of sons and daughters
Of the would be victims
This spring of madness
In the land of Pharaohs
In the land of Pyramids
In the land of the Nile
This spring of death
And destruction
In the heart
Of Egypt
O Misri!
When
Will it
End?