Best Mons Poems
Abandoned Yellow Star,
Existential apostle.
Solar flares haunt outworlds, "I'm It, you're not."
Mercury, Mary's star loved from afar.
Hot but not the hottest star.
A tiny lifeless star.
Venus will have more sunlight in her hair.
Acid clouds, corrosive ground.
A great task, you won't last.
Mars, Ray Bradbury's & Poe's summer home.
Famed Martian golf balls canals.
Mountain Mons view Earthsets.
Jupiter planet King.
Juno caught clouds aided by sprites and elves.
It passes gas, no solids.
Saturn, Trump's hide-a-way post Mar-La-Go
Eyes like Godiva's, you'll see.
Ocean moon, life likely.
Uranus ... home planet of many Ex's.
Twenty years long each season.
Tad colder than Neptune.
Neptune ice-cold Hunter.
1300 mph.
One hundred sixty-five years per Biden.
Pluto is a dwarf planet, not full-sized.
Other planets ... still too close.
Latter cause for exile.
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
Saving credits for a trip to the stars,
A cave at Alba Mons volcano:
Ancient secrets, flowing bars;
Greenish women, so Bueno;
Artifacts, old, Martian,
Calling me to hug.
Beetle auction.
Red dust bug.
Big brained,
Life,
Love.
Misplaced
Mementos
Belonging to
Polka-dot fellows
Sexy ladybugs knew.
A rust-colored threesome
In waters that ran chilled and new;
But, air-thinned with delirium,
And a dusty marriage Mars did eschew.
Like Orpheus and Eurydice we dwell in realms apart
Without a Charon to help us cross the great divide
But my love for you sings to the beating of my heart
And your charms I still hymn with praise, with pride.
To your beauty, naught can compare.
Your silken, flowing tresses,
Your long and golden hair
Which forever impresses.
Your eyes were orbs of brightest blue
Shimmering and serene as summer sky.
Whenever I did gaze upon you
You were never shy.
How full your lips, such a deep red,
So inviting and so tender
Where I would long to pillow my head
Your kisses to engender.
Like twin gazelles ,your ripening breasts
Did gambol and slip beyond my desirous touch
Yet you loved my fondling of them at rest
And left them warmly in my clutch.
Beneath the peak of your Mons Veneris
Deep within your lightly golden forest
Lay that sweet and sacred oasis
Where I oft did slake my thirst.
With close, entwining branches
Our trunks were just as one
Caressing close in amorous advances
As we lay beneath the sun.
A life of dreams now is all I own
And I do often wake up with a start
Knowing that our life is done,
Knowing we remain apart.
In the catacombs of Ares there's
an ancient liar of Dragons on the
dark side of Mars, savage and
giant creatures with enormous
and powerful wings and with the
beating of their wings cause
great sand storms, blocking out
all light from the Martian moons
and all the stars...
Well these cold blooded reptiles
drink from the magma flow that
pours out of the Olympus Mounts
volcano, where the queen turns out
another hundred or so, as the elders
take off flying high in a pinkish-red
Martian sky, terrorizing the Marinerian
aliens everybody thought had died
and everybody says Mars is a dead
planet but that's what they want you
to think, it’s Nasa's best kept secret
by far and these Dragons, DRAGON’S
FROM MARS...
In the shadow of Phobos and Deimos
and Jupiter on the rise...
across the catacombs and canyons of
Ares and Olympus Mons...
It's like something from a sci-fi movie but
it is very real, as real as aliens are...
these DRAGONS, DRAGON’S FROM
MARS...
You ask me well how you know...
I am a Martian that came to earth a
thousand years ago...
On Mars In Mars
Volcano hollowed sound, echoes in Olympus Mons
Thin atmosphere cratered in ancient crevasses
Storms last three hundred years or more
Etch ancient lines red iron oxidation
Rocks move from one place to another
As the only life on Mars
Mouths of rivers dry and scarred above
Love is rare. No air. Ground tells a story
To be told but somewhat old
Holes fill with water gray and heavy underneath
Keep secrets of the planet
Inside and on the surface
Of things we still can’t understand
1. (*Olympus Mons is a very large shield volcano on the planet Mars. By one measure, it has a height of nearly 25 km (16 mi). Olympus Mons stands almost three times as tall as Mount Everest's height above sea level)
Created on 7/17/15 for “Subject Mars” Poetry Contest sponsored by: Joe Maverick
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Thirteen
Oh! Woe! Woe! On pubic islet the dirty deed’s done
Bloodied needle leaves stain the Zen-rock cobbled garden
The derelict torn womb spills seminal fluids on the ground
Fallopian tubes shredded by the elements count down
Her mons veneris rough-scaled and crushed by bombarding rams
The cicatrised wooden ramparts no more serving as soil dams
Not a lamina of palmate leaf even so much as shaking hands
Where the maple tree once swayed to vulva-lapping tom-toms
This soggy desolation of mud and gangrened charred rock
Three weeping willows drooping wan lifeless at the water mock
Where even the wild fowl desert the juicy period spoils
Tell-tale signs of the Lady Lake’s pilloried grief in stock
Where the surgeon’s thrusting irons reigned now stands the shiny
bridge
Three dark as dungeons evergreens bear lurid witness knowledge
Of an unwholesome demonic deed done to the locked-in Dame
Look! That Ancient Bard of Nishapur will surely acknowledge!
Hark! The tulip-lipped Lass from Lahore walks downcast on stones!
The Maiden of the Main lifts her head to utter bye-bygones!
Pale Ol’ Khayyam still roams dreaming of the Dame of the Lake!
Yet the foul deed still resounds up to the highest heavens!
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Albedo feature
An edifice of great height
Is Olympus Mons
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/space.php
We make our way through the debris
To the second floor of the military shelter…
Slowly and cautiously,
For Death here lies-
But only half-asleep.
The torrid wind wrings the unstuck wallpaper,
Forcing it to sing the hymn
Of the great Amarna Pharaoh.
The scars on the walls
And the lack of metal in the building
Speak of the Alchemists’ fresh visit.
The corner where there used to be
A baby’s bed and many toys
Is now covered with bottles,
That not long ago have been full
Of the spirit of the East.
No tears ran down her face,
For her eyes were now possessed
By the reminiscence of a sacrosanct bygone
And by the horror of what was left from it.
“Let’s go”- said she, and swiftly we went out,
For the sense of shame and guilt would
Always give a man a pair of wings.
We take a walk in silence
Around the empty swimming-pool.
The grass of sulphureous hues
Is strewn with wizen papavers,
And rotten remnants
Of snow-white unicorns.
The master of the mournful river,
Climbs up from the dried up hole
And gives me a look of reverence.
With one coin on each of his eyes,
He shrinks back to retire.
In the nothingness.
At last, in the shadows of the nearby woods,
We find a place to rest and chat about the weather.
The wind does not stir the branches of the trees;
Every movement here murmurs of an unknown
Horror- one gnawing all bygone,
But with no past of its own.
I notice there are some people
In the very vestibule of the city.
“Why, why is Mons so empty,
And it’s gates so blind and lazy?”
I keep staring at them for some time
But our eyes do not meet in the least.
Hurried cars pass frequently by us,
All going in the same direction.
A crowd is swarming on both sides
Of the dusty road, but suddenly the sharp stones
Dip from their grasp to cover the earth,
And senescence wipes out all of them at once.
Wrapped in shagreen, we go to the lonely hill,
Where children used to watch colored movies.
The cinema is devastated, but the frescos in
Unharmed blue and white still show
A beheaded star.
“And we dance, and we dance so softly,
And we keep dancing, under this bridge!”
I am ...
I am the black shine of a dead stare
I am the reticent pallor of the moon's caste
and the bruise of gleaming porcelain
I am the shattered mirror of truth
I am the saturation of matter, dark ...
I am the intent of an eyelash
and the trembling mortality of a wound
I am the exhalation of poison, pure
and the sobering stab of terror
I am the caustic euphoria of ego ...
I am the sublime spasm of climax
I am the blinding lie of lust
and the rip of fallacy
I am sepulcher and staff
I am the gape, the maw, the bite ...
I am the balm, the scar, the tear
I am the Marianas
I am Mauna Loa
I am Villa Las Estrellas
I am the Jack Hills, the Friis Hills ...
And the Tumulus of Bougon
I am the Krubera Cave and Naica Mine
I am the South Summit and Olympic Mons
I am El Azizia and Death Valley
I am Dome Argus and the steaming vents ...
I am the Lambert, the Hubbard
and the Aletsch Gletscher
I am the Burj Khalifa, the Jean-Luc Lagardère
and the Danyang–Kunshan
I am the span of a wormhole ...
And the voltaic vibration of strings
I am the keen creep of ages
the bulge of infinite mass
and the Reaper's rusted blade
I am the whorl of vortices ...
I am the quantum pull of time
I am the radiation of isotopes
and the hydrogen core of a star
I am quark, lepton, and neutrino
I am photon and super-nova ...
I am the sea of suns and the Great Void
I am the gauge bosons and the heavenly expanse
I am the press of a hand in blindness
and the cognition of empathy
I am the grand comedy and the tragic schill ...
I am lover, liege, and allegory
I am the dust and the dust, and all between
the dream and the doubt, lucid
the Ghost and the ghoul
the All, the Nothing ...
I am.
For those of a military cast of mind
There are many poems they can find
Which do embellish battlefield glory
In the telling of their story.
But for me there is another field of play
Where merry pleasure is ne'er far away.
Not for me delight in weapons martial
Rather the joy of parts venereal.
Your soft hair framing your face
Your soft lips yielding with grace
And your soft darting tongue lambent
with the sweetness of heaven sent
That elegant and graceful neck I next address
Whereon a gentle peck and soft caress
Lead to the ruby roundels of your swelling areolae
Atop which stand your radiant and pert papillae.
How the gentle smooth curve of your skin
Gently and softly draws me in
Until, as brave as stout Cortes ,
I rest upon Mons Veneris
Nestling in the ***** is
The magic of the ********
Whose caressing works like a charm
To trigger a mighty ******
Then down through those wisps of hair
Until I joyously find where
Your ***** moist and moistening
Do invite my tongue to paddle in
That divine nectar of your welling spring
With legs spread wide signals me come in
To fulfil the passion of our play
And unite in loving ecstasy.
'Twas Ovid with his Ars Amatoria
Explored amoris ars gladiatoria
Wherein your scabbard could sheathe my sword
And that is the purpose of this world.
Where military men are needed
To keep us safe and undefeated
My plea to make love,not war
Is my carmen et error.
Through the cobblestone roads they walk
with feet so light and hearts so bright
along the path where passion sizzles love
it is a prelude to dismember by the hour ;
Fine china dishes and silent forks await
outside the window, a horse passes by
clickity clack clomp clickity clack clomp;
They are dreaming of their future
in Quebec City that place of old
where open rustic gates are a sign
of new beginnings;
The waiter speaks with a sweet mix of
English-French and savoire faire;
The grateful feast begins
fullant plates of pasta so divine
that when the hour is over, all they
do is lay supine:
"Embrasse moi mons cherie "
he leans over and kisses her softly
then feathers her body with a brush
of his hand , downy soft and warm
no words are needed.
8/24/2019
Contest Name: 136 words
Walking into a small shop a little bell rang loudly as the door was opened wide,
In the back shop there was shuffling a cough some wheezing coming from inside,
A young man came over to the counter leaning heavily on a stout walking stick,
His eyes were so bright and sunk deep into his scull his voice slow and thick,
He tried to smile his breath rasped and rattled he stopped and turned his head,
On his bright clean waistcoat he wore the Mons medal it's lucky he is not dead,
Understanding what was wrong he'd been a victim of mustard gas in the Great War,
Pretending not to notice I asked for some snuff he turned and coughed some more,
A child ran in and bought a pennyworth of sweets she popped them into his bag,
The mans wife took the penny and put in the till, she looked so tired and sad,
Another fit of coughing seized him suddenly he waved his hand and walked away,
Back to his rear room his wife looked with tears she didn't know what to say.
The union-management talks reach stalemates in their sessions.
Our representatives are attempting to gain concessions.
If we do not obtain better working conditions and a pay hike,
we see no other alternative but to go on strike.
On the slopes of Olympus Mons, we descend underground.
Inside this mine, deposits of titanium can be found.
If we go further, we can find gold and platinum.
In abundance are other metals like silver and palladium.
There are large untapped veins we can easily see.
Industries on Earth have been grateful for their discovery.
As a result, market prices for commodities have gone down.
Our location has been a booming Martian mining town.
The way the management has treated us has been pitiful.
It seems as if they are discourteous and ungrateful.
Despite dim light in the day, and subzero temperatures at night,
I have every belief in what we are doing is right.
What that woman needs:
a top,
spinning,
without a mons seat center-
goddess ,no one knows-
he him ,
hiker]make flared nostril breeze
in some [how?!] now drunk nose.-
next day [Ray] sit tug wrapper ,
i t was wrapped], it was wrapped before
bring knife oil, - Velveta[overkill]
[Aquavelva land] Olay and beach[sand]
beach-blanket family[ergo again]
egos.
azure sky,
no planes on high
cept drug dump double jet
from bath-hungry Belize.