Best Piecemeal Poems
Look past
the faded little girl braids and bows
in a polaroid picture
buttery yellow skirt
curtsying a smile
frog prince
imprisoned in her palm
under a creamy pound cake sun
(her grandmother’s recipe
sugar and spice folded carefully
with love and guilt
into a thick summer sky)
daisies like polka dots
piecemeal on her bonnet
seem to stare down
her face with jaundice eyes
slanted above ensnaring weeds
swirls of sorrow linger
in knee-high field
where flowers grew wild like
freedom once felt
Look closer picture fading
She is running
legs bent shouting from the page
stockings peeled off
lanky legs running
through her pain
till her heart detaches
from a barefoot soul
She still feels spiky burs in her heels
drops of blood
zigzag numb
beyond the treeline
memories meld
love and loss
euphoric rush warm winds fuel
an urgency her creation
until lightning strikes
her grief rushing to catch up
through crushed wildflowers
fragmented patterns
under paths at her feet
tears flooded her field overgrown
She remembers to forget
Her mother
buried under
a distant willow
She was taught
by her grandmother
to be composed
poised like other girls
wad up unpleasant feelings
slip them into a corner
of the cedar chest
under layers
of afghans and quilts
she laid them to rest
long ago but
never stopped
her fidgety legs from weaving
through floral tapestries
of field and meadow
wild brush turned emerald green
in mourning
Her daddy passed away
ten years ago today
He was buried with wildflowers
tucked softly
in his lapel and praying hands
he always said windswept blooms
reminded him of his girls
If you look closely at the picture
of that faded little girl
you will see her running
from the graves
as the wildflowers crush
beneath her feet
[ credits to LAURENT YVAN from France who read my poem ]
Launched over ages of primaeval forces
my nomadic ancestry calls out to me
winds howl driven over rolling hills
atop a ridge of rugged mountains
beyond vestiges of the long silk road
the Mongolian empire looks back at me
the spirit of the great Genghis Khan
runs feral forever through my veins
Mongolia and its harsh wilderness
its barren lands its haunted past
drumming echoes of summoned spirits
unleash the wrath of heaving heavens
I’m more than hoodlum with a vision
I’m a rebel at the helm of my said destiny
My brothers and I are born of a lineage
that’s jagged ruthless rich and proud
fierceness and freedom integral to our dna
we’ll defend our land and way of life
with brute strength and sheer intimidation
in spilled blood we write our history
come hell highwater feast or famine
the spirit of the great Genghis Khan
runs feral forever through our veins
We’ll round up the horses
and harness voracious winds
go out protect and safeguard at all cost
wave our swords and in hearts instill fear
cast our thunder over hills and valleys
earn respect for our ancestors’ inherited land
a kingdom conquered piecemeal by our warlord
father to our people and to our nation vast
A deep longing larger than life compels me
to preserve my legacy against betrayal and conspiracy
dark alliances with sights on pillaging and plundering
no more brutal bloodbaths and massacres
neo-medieval Mongol tribes and clans united
The spirit of the great Genghis Khan
feral through my veins forever runs
and that’s the Mongolia that calls on back to me
Read on air by invitation ~ May 30, 2020 'LATE NIGHT POETS'
AP: 1st place 2026, 2nd place 2025, 2nd plance 2022, 3rd place 2020, Front Page Pick 2022
Submitted on May 26, 2020 for contest BRIAN'S CHOICE V sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 3RD
By serving God I serve man,
but I cannot serve God by serving man;
the horse is put before the cart;
the sheep shall scatter to the wind....
for I shall see sheep, yet not the herd ----
one will fall away,
the rest will follow,
and the wolf shall rend them piecemeal
My youth is a puzzle, missing bits and pieces,
fragmented memories of family.
Piecemeal, faded
recollections.
I recall some brief moments spent in happiness,
and yet, a veil of fear shadows the rest.
I don't remember any suppressed stuff,
those blank gaps mark my memories as incomplete.
Can time complete a puzzle with
a jumble of missing pieces?
Dad lost pieces;
fighting a war.
My father waits at his table
for my delivery
a carton of cigarettes, some booze
to patch places of laceration
his health waning, piecemeal, like a trail of crumbs
dismantled independence
the coldest solitude of age
he lifts the cigarette carton I bring, crashes it to the table
"I told you regular smokes, not King size!"
flawed purchase on my part,
catching his smoky torch of rage
my father, no longer a full self of goodness
his prostate cancer, a derailment
our scripts dysfunctional that divide us
like broken cement
still, I shop for him, a life alone in a gray wasteland
my duty, a quest for inner peace
the familiar charity in my father drifts from him
like cigarette ash, up in smoke
I kiss his cheek before I go
unguarded moment
to heal battlefield wounds
to open barricades between us
the battered stumble of hope
Poem composed: January 23/2022
Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent – 21
Would Hindus see in Paris kill Siva’s* will
Who’s show is this: Puppeteer or puppet’s
Kali-Yuga* dragging hind legs to standstill
Callow kids spray lead to warn not infidel
For what glory of own faith’s idle pets
Would Hindus see in Paris kill Siva’s will
What kills: finger on trigger or divine will
ISIS hand or lead Kalashnikov jets
Kali-Yuga dragging hind legs to standstill
Piecemeal World War III Papal wisdom mill
Did not racial hatred collide with tenets
Would Hindus see in Paris kill Siva’s will
Some people seek to dress world in their frill
Are Crusaders fratricidal Semites
Kali-Yuga dragging hind legs to standstill
Andromeda clash through Milky Way spill
Lest ISIS pound Kali-Yuga with jets
Would Hindus see in Paris kill Siva’s will
Kali-Yuga dragging hind legs to standstill
• Siva: Hindu Trinity of the Godhead Brahman
composed of Brahma (Creator), Vishnu (Preserver)
And Siva (Destroyer)
• Kali-Yuga: According to Hindus, the “Iron Age” (the last phase of human existence), having commenced with the Mahabharatha (the Great War on February 18, 3102 B.C.E.)
will come to an end in less than 430000 years. – time enough to shoot the Milky Way to pulp.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
Adjusting Appetizing Palates.
I have sampled the variety,
I am the one who has tasted life;
The one who has had a taste of life.
Rarely indulged in the main course-
Seldom a full meal-
I come hungry-
To leave satisfied...
I want more substance.
Sampled the world on wooden toothpicks.
I have had itty bits of everything.
Piecemeal offerings to try entice my loyalty.
Old ladies with new recipes passing
them around on trays in supermarkets of the world.
I come back for more free samples.
The more I have traveled the more
I have sampled life.
Moi-Moi- and peanut butter stew.
I have tasted life with different seasonings and spices -
Tried a variety of cultural dishes - Some bland, some spicy
Tried the soul food of each one's pride as
I swallowed mine.
I have never gained control of my soul.
It wandered with me sampling life on platters.
Now desirous of healing-fish soup.
I wanted more – Traveled;
Partook of more –
Tasting life's offerings from the - rich to the poor.
Drank out of Chrystal as well as tin cups.
I have eaten from Chinaware,
and drank from gourds,
I have supped on
Hors-d'oeuvre and canapes';
Inner-voices led me to hot rocks and tepees—
Sweat camps with medicinal potions.
Tasting life in places where strange
medicine men reside.
I have eaten rice in 2000 languages.
In Asian and Indian tongues.
I swapped collard greens for callaloo;
Then stepped up to taste breadfruit -
Filled up on Ackee and Saltfish a
Exotic palatable dish.
Though never full off of life –
Not gluttony statutes yet, I have done
more than get my “whistle wet"
Still, I am glad:
“Oh, how grateful to be alive”.
Able to sample the tender morsels
of appetizers so fine.
Even though I am a
Connoisseur of fine wine.
…and have enjoyed plenty
tidbits of earth’s great bounty--
In this life.
I have supped in the finest cuisines.
Treated royally as if I were a queen.
I have supped in mansions,
or sat, an ate under exotic trees;
Yet, there is nothing so satisfying-and no one abler.
As to be back in the hood, trying not to go berserk;
Waiting for a slice of Sweet Potato pie for dessert.
After getting my grub on, at Grandmas table.
I sent myself a ton of roses.
I put them piecemeal on the bed.
They were pretty, all these poses.
They were lovely - that much is said.
I put them piecemeal on the bed.
Red, blue, and violet, they lay.
They were lovely, that much is said.
"Lovely, dear!" said my sister, Fay.
Red, blue, and violet, they lay.
The scent of them was gorgeous too!
"Lovely, dear!" said my sister, Fay.
Yes, they were lovely, it's quite true.
The scent of them was gorgeous, too!
They were pretty, all these poses.
Yes, they were lovely, it's quite true.
I sent myself a ton of roses.
------------------------------------------
10/1/2016
Contest - Pantoum
Sponsor - Eve Roper
1st place win
Fundamentalist Christians row over piecemeal things,
Over whether baptism is required for heavenly sings,
Over whether baptism is needed for heaven’s welcome,
Over whether baptism is demanded by god to overcome.
I don’t know how many times I was asked about baptism,
Whether I wanted baptised, they didn’t accept my atheism,
I’d stated it to my parents but had a question in my mind,
About whether they’d told my so called friends who’d mind.
But I said no, and explained Christian atheism fair, square,
Didn’t mix my words nor hesitate to extrapolate with air,
But each one said to me I didn’t know my own mind simply,
Which left me very distressed, very much in a quandary.
They were playing the mentally ill card, when I was not,
They wanted to patronise me to chide and see what I’d got,
But I didn’t like it so withdrew from their sphere, company,
Which made me feel better, gave me dignity and harmony.
A stillness with life and a peace about my so uncertain future,
A habit of reading, even if I’d already read them in conjecture,
Since my parents restricted me to only five philosophy books,
In case for researchers and academics, thinkers, I had looks.
A fundamentalist household is not a peaceful one, stable,
But is distressed, fragmented and broken, that’s irrefutable,
You suffer displacement because your atheist leaves you,
To ruminate upon his interjection which is to see you through.
I think it’s better today, atheists in god families have voice,
They can be respected for devious acts of normality, choice,
They can refer to teachers for love, for secularist edification,
And have access to the medical profession for an adulation.
For time, space cannot the opportunity squander
With streaming video distant love grows much fonder
Magnetic beams glint through the wild blue yonder
Grainy, jittery images oft-forsaken hearts to ponder
Air waves blipping images through bleary transponder
Eerie prescience of the whole, but piecemeal shapes do launder
Irony, modern technology, 1930's Spanish cinema does corresponder
Crouching, girdled with adrenalin of a First Responder
Matted wigs, flat toupees across streaking screen wander
Silky-brunette locks dimmer; brown bangs look blonder
Shadows in a swirling blender, to homesick minds a bonder
Stealing a few precious minutes, then with love absconder
Piecemeal summer dies;
the spread of long winter blanket again.
For ten years I have lived in exile,
locked in this rickety cabin, shoulders
jostled up against open Alberta sky.
If I were young again I’d sing of the coolness of high mountain snow flowers,
the sprinkle of night glow-blue meadows; I would dream and stretch slim fingers
into the distant nowhere, yawn slowly over the endless prairie miles.
Prairie grassland is where in summer silence grows;
in the evening eagles spread wings
dripping like wild honey.
If I were young again I’d eat pine cones, food of birds,
share meals with wild wolves, I’d have as much dessert as wanted,
reach out into blue sky, lick the clouds off my fingers.
But I’m not young anymore, my thoughts tormented,
are raw, overworked, sharpened with misery from torture of war and childhood.
For ten years now I have lived locked in this unstable cabin,
inside the rush of summer winds, outside air beaten dim with snow.
-1985-
December rains
Hurl aqueous tears;
Salty aftertaste
~~~~~~~~~
Monsoon season
Wet and wet again;
Abrupt mood swings
~~~~~~~~~
Seek knowing
Beyond word count;
Awareness sums
~~~~~~~~~
Wet market lanes
Slippery slimy walkways;
Jerky footfalls splash
~~~~~~~~~
Bargain hunters
Black Friday sales;
Mob mentality
~~~~~~~~~
Hot tea brew
Random conversations;
Drifting away
~~~~~~~~~
Rustic tea house
Aromatic fragrance;
Poignant deluge
~~~~~~~~~
Elemental harmony
Geomancy fortifies;
Feng Shui master
~~~~~~~~~
Jigsaw puzzle
Mystery unravels;
Fumble finds fit
~~~~~~~~~
Zen garden landscape
Urban renewal;
Haiku path stillness
~~~~~~~~~
Lunch crowd loiter
Naked hunger rumbles;
Feasting interlude
~~~~~~~~~
Sexy slim cigarette
Nicotine flames flash;
Smoky surrogate
~~~~~~~~~
Wayside vendor
Newsy progress;
Piecemeal collisions
~~~~~~~~~
Boy of four
Pounding iPad universe;
Savvy disposition
~~~~~~~~~
Playmates
Playground;
Pretty paces
~~~~~~~~~
Sleepover
Makeover;
Stopover
~~~~~~~~~
Roadside vendor
Poor farmer smiles;
Empathy consolidates
~~~~~~~~~
Hibiscus flowers
Red for good luck;
Flashy sunlit smiles
~~~~~~~~~
Temple tour
Ancestors await;
Mindful conversation
~~~~~~~~~
Change manifests
Simply succinct;
Leftover memories
~~~~~~~~~
Web portal
Too much glut;
Information overload
~~~~~~~~~
How come?
Why now?
Much too late
~~~~~~~~~
Be still
Change reveals;
Transact transit
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
12 December 2016
Singapore
Oomph flavours zest as home with peace,
Urge mellows fest with mahjong tease,
Rich pun and jest bring festive ease.
Feel fancy play with hidden hand,
Aim piecemeal sway with moving brand,
Make mindful way a touch you trend;
Indulge the flow of guile that bites,
Live that fine glow of plot you write,
Yes promptly show the vivid cites.
Calm cheer lives poise with lovely lot,
Hurl fragrant choice with moving thought,
Reap a clear voice that syncs swift spot;
Intuit a feel that knows just how,
Sense a firm will that mind endows,
Trust heart to deal a winning now;
Make a firm stake in mellow mind,
Ask as you make a charming find,
Set change to fake a winning sign.
Move strategy with what you own,
Apt thought truly makes each round sown,
Heap now clearly known and unknown;
Jest to the change the helps moves steer,
Observe due range of chance most clear,
Note ***** and strange that funds you here,
Glimpse that fun thought in scenes that come.
Charm plays each lot as moods now pump,
Health and luck spot the final sums,
End as you start with poignant stay,
Etch in sure heart the craft you play,
Rest that pure art as winnings say.
Leon Enriquez
01 January 2017
Singapore
How do they do It? …….. By Peter Onyancha
I do not know.
They have been hungry for decades
Not an ort, piecemeal patience
The minister said, they should fast!
For the satisfying answer.
For the life of me, and others all
How did people, heed that call?
Who cry; that faith in Christ if blind?
Would hamper freedom/choice of mind.'
Yet sonorous blasts on death and gloom
Were watched piecemeal in every room
So many put such, faith in flesh '
To me a challenge; although I'm blest '
Lord thank you for the others here
Who still, stand strong g'ainst pure fear.'
We know of honeyed lies, untruth
The graphic claims no depth, too uncouth'
And from their filth they call out still
Would you become a minion?
Can they break your will?