Best Minor Poems
1
On the way to where
We were going
Tense tone
Late spring
Not a march on the desert
2
We talk about faults,
Hours spent,
Hand-stitched crystals
Things on dry land, on secure land
3
Someone had an old clock
Which he never took out for us to see.
He said that his role was changing
Obstacles
Flashing
4
We cut a length
In spite of difficulties with liquid sapphires,
The smell of sadness went away
5
Yes, some of that is true,
Although, it was not everything.
I need the torch
To light every drop.
Now and then, quietly without notice,
Time adjusts its spectacles—
Peers through a fogged pane of recall
Where particulars, once urgent, dissolve.
If now and then you find rain in your heart,
be assured it is scheduled—
a punctual drizzle of consequence,
not passion, but the persistence of memory
in its bureaucratic overcoat.
It’s all because of you,
the file states plainly:
signed in duplicate, sealed in dust.
No redress required—
only the courteous nod to causality.
The aged—those quaint accumulations—
become, in the end, detours.
Not disliked, precisely,
but excessive to the route:
a bench beneath ivy, seldom occupied.
So live out your days with decorum.
Attend the rituals of silence.
Polish your small routines.
Let time, that sly curator,
catalogue your exit in amber.
Hearts revel to the same drum
Blood forever runs red
Yet equality is dead
Disgusted eyes plague black people
Whisper in their corners when I’m not around
Correct my accent wishing my soul didn’t dance
Hips halt in revulsion when the bass and lyrics sound
Disgusted eyes plague white people
Loudly insulting them from depths of a crowd
Make sport of their formality wishing they could feel the beat
Hips halt in revulsion when the guitar and banjo are played allowed
In time intangible ropes have enslaved our inner mind
Unconscious racism is even vivid to the eyes of the blind
Rationalize it if you please but correction is of need
Need of unification,
Need of love,
Need of the word concede
Concede because all have suffered enough
ALL……………………………………………………..
Conquer the minds unconscious barricade, and accepts your neighbor. For she/he might be
the greatest fortune one may find.
Love and peace: james
Small city arena long out of date,
that is where this B-league team plays their games,
young men learning, hopes for fortune and fame.
I watch the practice, they shoot and they skate,
remember back when I was at that weight…
Here at least the ticket prices are sane,
NHL’s prices send shocks through my brain,
this is a fun time, even if they don’t rate.
The clean smell of ice as they drop the puck,
racing past blue lines from board to board,
small man gets cross-checked, he seems out of luck,
then big man in the box for five minutes more,
power play offense, a slap-shot is struck,
bounces of the goalie, a scramble to score…
Worry not, it's a minor bump in the road
Happens rarely, must stay near the commode
Won't bore you details
Just a bit off the rails
Be back just as soon I feel better and reload
© Jack Ellison 2015
Cassiopeia reclined on her cosmic beach,
Longing for Orion so out of reach.
He was showing off to the stars,
As he spiked the Moon over Mars,
Wondering what next Venus would teach.
Past umphle and some scatter beans
Past tickly cough we pass.
A grumble through the chorley wood
To breed a better rash.
Past arsewiffe with a whopper club
Past bramble burt and bibby.
A farple for old fortitude
To sing the Doo-Wah-Diddy!
Crave not for little Jeremy
A blister on his soresight.
Go butter up the khaki tin
And wave for Queen and kite.
Re-muse the giddy pumpkin.
A smile turned upside down,
For better bread and smutter
We chortle like a clown.
Jupiter, your fallen house,
A strife, and unto me,
A deal that mirrors that of Faust
When Hell’s my home to be?
Mercury, you orbit close
Gemini, the Twins, am I
Side by side, am juxtaposed-
To Pluto’s ruling Sign
The Morris Minor Man.
He was the Morris Minor Man
from down in Burton Joyce
I went with him to buy one
a green one was his choice
he could have had a Vauxhall
he could have had a Ford
but not the Morris Minor Man
from down in Burton Joyce.
He started with a Land Rover
and had a Scimitar too
he even had a Skoda
and went to number two!
I used to pull his leg for that
and he didn’t seem to mind
but when the Morris Minor came
that really was a find.
He was the Morris Minor Man
from down in Burton Joyce
he went and bought another one
to accompany the first
he could have brought home anything
but nothing else would do
that’s why the Morris Minor Man
went after number two.
He worked on them so carefully
as he chased round after parts
and when he was successful
it cheered his family’s hearts
for when they got to know those cars
they loved them, I could tell
could it be they had become
Minor fans as well!
Olga Scheps embodies Chopin's Piano Concerto n° 1
For a pianist who ponders her prey
The taming arms-length erect posture
The torso and pulsating violin back encased in red-rich ornate coarse wrap
Nape muscles strung by swaying grace-groomed arms branched aloft
Pursed lips part for allegro romp
Tensile gushed groin screaming on seat-edge flailing fingers
Averse to sleek chord whale case under knee-cap check
Who is the Master of the indomptable Mistress
Does the script express and extend the actress's role
Or trundled chords liberate hidden Polish voices yearning
Cabriole on prairie pastures
The yearling kicking high on the keyboard
Startling the chevron-sinewed munching herd
Light lambs and kids throwing frolicking fits
Round and round the heifer humping high down the meadow
Stung to the quick half-recurring bars of the theme
The feline fauve now appeased by soft churning cuddles
Pages of screwed signals hung on lined sign-posts
Roused by nut-cracker knuckles
Flush out repartee collective timbre strings
Doused by the sweet-sweating triumphal orgiastic release
The wilful eyes of the hungry panther
Turn soft and pander to the prey
Is this when the poised moment of the composed kill
Misses the mark just once
The sleek black whale bears its twinkling teeth
in hollow rage
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2018
Summer arrives and the Brooklyn Cyclones are
in first place
Saw them the other day and they won in twelve(!)
Just spoke to a friend
who wants to see the Staten Island Yankees play
Another A - Division team
Some fans won't go to see a minor league game
I think they are missing out
When in Puerto Rice I saw the San Juan Senators
play the Ponce Lions
A band in the stands and liquor being served as well
Didn't need any intoxicants - the green field, the cheerleaders
and the frozen ices and hotdogs along with the battle
were enough to sustain me during the hot New York City summer
To speak the unspeakable
Will I ever get to tell you
The truth will set you free
How much you mean to me
To think the unthinkable
Just to think about you
A you and me fantasy
Sets my spirit free
To hear the unhearable
I long to whisper softly
Words not meant for me
The softest "I love you"
To touch the untouchable
hunger for your soft caress
Unknown ecstasy
That says you love me too
To want the unattainable
you don't belong to me
Trying to succeed
But know I'm always here
To restrain the unrestrainable
Fighting to respect the vows
Walls internally
Of virtue held so dear
To dream the undreamable
It's not reality
Stretching boundaries
But hope will keep me strong
To foresee the unforeseeable
Until the day I find myself
A date with destiny
With you, where I belong
the robin hops from the tips of the rose bush
spilling snow dust
sprinkling skeins of early dew
dusting with its uppity tail fan
a caterpillar
softly dousing concertina
then it trips up the clothesline
stops and grips it in its claws
sways and balances with its tail fanning out
chirps clucks tweets
and repeats itself
all the way down again
and up the scale
comes back once more to skip a note or two
and tumbles
sweeps past the old toy bicycle leaning against the wire fence
the claw marks hardly visible on the spray of frost-like snow on the balustrade
light ephemeral peripatetic
the dulcet flexions rising and falling on the tympana without breath of motion
or vibration
crisp colliding notes rising and falling
as the first tentative drops of drizzle before the rain
the robin gone to sing full throttle on wing
© T. Wignesan, Paris, 1997; from the collection: “Poems Omega-Plus”, Paris, 2005.
PART THE THIRD
The battle is won,
but the war is far from over.
Still the requirements aren’t met,
and still the fulfillment of inner peace lies motionless in a Chicago gutter.
But the rudiments and metaphysical concepts exist as alive as ever.
Because even after this war, whether it is lost or won, there will still be you, somewhere, someplace.
Because you are here, you exist. Forever, you are permanent.
Like the news you read at the café in the morning
and the wavering smile of the brunette
who pours that wonderful North Dakota blend.
Poetry that offers nothing but callbacks and underlying ********.
It’s all still there.
People come, people go.
Sometimes without even looking up.
But they still are somewhere, maybe even lifting their head a little.
Men and women pass by on the sidewalk,
lives just as interesting as your own.
The world turns and turns without a sound.
We never stop and wonder why.
Completion still is laid out on the horizon, it will be a long trip.
But still, the notion of us being more than people – better than people, steers the ship.
The anchor waiting to fall on the sandy shore.
We’ll be there soon,
the waves are rising for this time of year.
The stars to the east may guide you to that island just off on starboard,
but they only inveigle you to a maelstrom of impurity.
If you’re wondering, this isn’t hope.
But it’s somewhere close.
She's enigmatic jazz
Duke's "Sophisticated Lady"
An original, unrepeatable moment
Ella's scat
spontaneous, extemporaneous
Melodic variation
Rhythm like a pulse
Miles' s dissonant resolution
Ornette's free-form come to life
A nuanced persona
informed by her own harmonic base
Billie's smoky ode to Miss Otis sans regrets
Like Bird when he drenched his sax with sweat
as he set the air aflame
Like aural combustion between us
too hot to be ever put out