Best Pylon Poems
The Psychostasia
(The Egyptian Funerary Rite)
For seventy days I’ve been prepared
With oils and unguents ever so rare
And with linen bandages to and fro
Wound and wrapped from head to toe
And on this journey I’m prepared to start
By enduring the “Weighing of the Heart”
With Toth’s oversight we’ll see whether
My heart weighs true against Truth’s feather
Should it fall short the beast will devour
My soul to oblivion in my final hour
Yet should it measure straight and true
The Pylon opened I’ll be ushered through
And then I shall fall unto my knees
And pray that Osirus hears my pleas
That he acknowledge and clear my tears
And accept my soul for a thousand years
And cleanse said soul of all its scars
And make me one with the canopy of stars
And bless my children and my wife
That they may join me in the afterlife
When I closed my eyes and fell asleep in the premature hours of dawn
I never dreamed Your face would be
The next I’d look upon
My vehicle came to rest against the square concrete pylon
And those who found me declared to all
“It appears as though he’s gone”
They said I had the look of peace upon my face so fair
And in my lap my hands were laid
As if God placed them there
Just underneath those hands of mine my Gummy Bears were found
How is it that they rested there
And were not tossed around
You chose for me the greatest dad and mother one could have
And my sister; she’s so beautiful
Will you hold her for me Dad
For all of those that knew me knew how much I loved the game
But they also knew I loved you Lord
And someday you’d call my name
I’m grateful that I prayed the prayer to receive you in my heart
Now I know for sure that heaven is real
And we two shall never part
My final game was played that day as I heard you say “well done”
I ran into my dwelling place
Where I’m truly “safe at home”
Dedicated to RJ Ledesma jr who was called from this earth much to soon. May you rest in the Lord's care till we see you again. October 29, 1992 - September 24, 2011
crisp flowing water
lies amidst pylon temple….
a celestial site
Copyright © 2011 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Third Place Winner ~ "Power in Observation” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Freeman
Aug. 17, 2011
Potato Mountain
I will arrive
an habitual escapee
from the rabbit warrens
of central planners
By ferreting north
in search of
breaks in the maze
rifts in the grid
I will follow
a stream beside
the climbing track
and yet higher
To a saddle below
the great ridge
southward along
eastern slopes
To a fine summit
of long vistas
and white gravel-skirts
exposed to sun
Exposed to eyes
sweeping round
the slow wide circle
of arcs in passage
Years to degree
degree to century
century to millennia
beyond human sight
And my own frail
footsteps in iron soil
blown to oblivion
by winds now shadowing
My identical track
passed beehives
thickets and copse
up the potato
To a summit
of concrete pylon
red dirt
and folk art
Where unknown infidels
posed the creative
issue of their
anonymous fancy
In the form
of starch-fat tubers
affixed with parasols
to shade them
And toothpicks to
give them arms
and bay leaves
to make them hair
Hats to render
them style
atop bald and oblong
pates of brown
Wings of sumac leaf
sleek and waxy
to impart mottled skins
flights of fancy
But they cannot fly
like chaparral birds
fitted to wind
and wildness
Unmoving the potatoes
await their fate
on a flat stage
above the world
Three days pass
their number reduced
in gathering erosions
and mathematical decline
Four days
the mule deer
has found them
yet still proud potatoes
Pass from deer
to lion to
slow beetles
upon the soil
And there the
once magnificent
and well-arrayed
vegetable host
Submits bravely to
mechanical escorts
in the brief free fall
to worlds below
I
wet cat impaled on telegraph poles
serrated ashbrown fur
tinged with flinting silver
a mirror blue
cut by guitar strings on a shining plate
bathed in molten evening shine
jet streaks through pylon barrage
windshield wipers’ hemicircular swipe
dry cat’s crusty baguette fur
ashen edges of rapidfire cirrus
pylons stalk the sky
and catch the wipers in the eye
II
horses purr in the cat’s geule
carriages trot through veins of pomp
hounds howl in pinewood packs
fountains spurt warrior sperms
over-stuffed regalia golden-tressed coiffures
wrap scalp and skin in scented sweat
coachmen backfire trussed up in perches
perfumed eminences speed to trysts
III
The Sun-King illumines long dead VISTA galaxies
The Hall of Mirrors reveberates secret oaths
Lights dim as Le Notre adjusts tropical palm vats
The parvenu Corsican struts on depraved genes
IV
wipers peer through moving fingers
pylons jetstreak high-wire noon
Marie Antoinette drivels at Fresnes
The gilded streaming sun dances on fitful time
Glints through slithering interstitial space
Am I driving or am I driven in a cariole.
© T. Wignesan, October 29, 1986, Paris (Revised)
From: T. Wignesan
Copyright ©: T. Wignesan 1992 - October 29, 1986 [from the collection : back to background material, 1993]
Endless the voice… Allowing ye force… Chi your way be… Harmonically… At one ment… No accident… Devil inside… Enoch too… Victory He Knew… Edgar Cayce’s Class… Revisiting the past… Year seven advanced… Love’s true romance… Irresponsible nights… Greatest lustful heights… Hedonistic at its best… Tales similar to rest… Right and wrong… Allowed to go on… Yearning to see… Invisible key… Navigation free… Hue of this light… Existence in sight… Upper pylon effect… New reason elect… Internally select… Virtually ye virus be… Evoking or Invoking… Resistance is fool’s futility… Sailing these solar winds… Ender’s game began…
No reversing…. The Script….making the mind three into the one Creator…
Ender’s game began… Sailing these solar winds… Resistance is fool’s futility… Evoking or invoking… Virtually ye virus be… Internally select… New reason elect… Upper Pylon effect… Existence in sight… Hue of this light… Navigation free… Invisible key… Yearning to see… Allowed to go on… Right or wrong… Tales similar to rest… Hedonistic at its best… Greatest lustful heights… Irresponsible nights… Love’s true romance… Year seven advanced… Revisiting the past… Edgar Cayce’s Class… Victory He Knew… Enoch too… Devil inside… No accident… At one ment… Harmonically… Chi your way be… Allowing ye force… Endless the voice…
I sit by the waters edge
Sitting on the border of a concrete ledge
Surrounded by miss-shaped rocks
Formed by the years of repeated water knocks
I throw a line in the water
As a man sits next to me with his son and daughter
On my line I get a bite
The bait disappears with little fight
I reel back in and rebait the rod
And throw back out for the battle with the cod
Suddenly I see a school of fish
Hoping for every fisherman’s wish
I recast trying to get the biggest and weightiest fish
I see a cormorant tangled up sitting on a pylon
Wrapped around his beak is plastic or nylon
I get up to aid the injured bird
But it fly’s away as soon as my footsteps are heard
I go back to my battle with the underwater beast
Still confident my patience will result in a feast
The clouds come over and it begins to rain
This just exacerbates my frustration and pain
All of my attempts have so far been in vain
But still I sit but wonder if I am still sane
The rain begins to clear
Perhaps now the fish will appear
I can see a rainbow in the distance
My mind wonders despite my resistance
I try to focus on what I want to achieve
I quickly realise that it’s the bounty of fish I want to receive
It’s hard to fish with so many natural attractions
Whilst not unpleasant they are unwanted distractions
I ponder on these thoughts for a time so long
And eventually I conclude this is wrong
I reel back in my line with rod
And forget about the fight with the cod
I am going to enjoy just being here
Such beautiful sites at a near
The glistening of the sun reflecting on the water
The earlier image of a father and his daughter
The ripples and shadows the water creates
The way the bird flew and never hesitates
The way the fish refused to be caught
The way the rain and fish together fought
The rain gently dripping off my hat
The way the cormorant on the pylon sat
The way time seems to stand still
The way nature can make a person feel
I get lost in the moment and don’t want to leave
Some of the things I’ve seen I can’t believe
I should come down here without any fishing reasons
How beautiful it would be in the different seasons
I find myself content at the water’s edge
I have never felt so comfortable sitting on a ledge
Old mooring pylon
with shag aloft,
wings flapping.
Fitness freaks with dogs
jog the shore -
one woman in particular,
her thighs slapping.
An old heron and I
are amused -
we fly away,
both of us clapping.
Written: circa 1993
Part Two
Do you remember your run-up to the crease
your Lindwall-delivery dragging the clasping flannel round hobbled boots
your anger
at the wicket that went on a no-ball
Do you remember your opening bat
that snicked the runs to leg and off
which dozing umpires signalled as byes from pads
Do you remember Brigitte
her perky bobtail
her boucles of prancing hair
lances on her forehead
sickles on her verti-vir-ginous temples
Where are the bridges you have crossed
and those you had planned
and those you saw grow pebble by pylon and cementing stone
where the roads you laid
up virgin forest and limestone
Where indeed the buildings you repaired
erected
re-erected and razed
and the thousands and thousands of miles
you rode the wild seladang of the primeval jungle
hand on hump
with no stars in the paly night to guide you
through venomous blukar
and the boiling green torture
seared deep into your burning entrails
these that now have run out on you
Watch now how the river glues under your fuming stare
when the monsoon torrents sweep the knock-knee-ed pylons to a side
those dry as split-bark legs of yours
itching once too often in comforting company
though a little spindly for a Pied Piper
Yet you made the puppety Peninsula run
down drains and monsoon pipes
to a purge-full sea
Who is there now who wouldn't wake to your fits of irrupting gurgly merriment
to ease the tension
amongst unlikely fellows
Who who wouldn't miss your seething whiteheat glee
at his side
You who knew how to accompany Kay and Richard
up to the closed door of your last night
a very good night on your lips
Your opening bat's duty done
the side shored-up in safekeeping
the last fast breathless ball you faced
nicking the bails off
You needn't return to the pavilion
for the standing ovation goes on
for you Bala
long after the cloddy-stumps lie slain on the tiled floor
© T.Wignesan 1993 August 8, 1993 - Paris [from the collection: back to background material, 1993]
Orang Ulu
Pronounced Uloo = Collective name for the
up-river people of Sarawak
Orang Ulu,
loping through mottle-green light of the jungle-track,
lighter than dawn-mist, nimble as wild-cat.
Hunt-hounds around-him are bounding and
wailing a death-hymn or baying for
deer-spoor or fat-ox or wild-boar.
Ulu-agape at the edge of a clearing,
proud ebony, ironwood crashing before him;
din of tree-felling and sawing and logging,
plundering into the land-of-the-lair,
filling the air-of-the-woods with despair.
Animals fleeing; no way of escape.
Earth-mother, naked and bruised by the rape,
bleeds yellow-puss in the pure-running-river
where bones of the forest now rattle down rapids...
Change; flooding the valley,
drowning the nestling, the gibbon and python;
feeding their life-force into the pylon.
Rain; kissing the forest her final goodbyes...
Lonely in grief, tears in his eyes,
Ulu burying dogs in the shade of bamboo.
"Sleeping in nature," the sandalwood sighs,
"dreaming forever of hunting with you."
In 1996 I promised a group of tribesmen that
I would add my voice to those trying to highlight
their plight. No one would heed me. So, as always,
I resorted to poetry.
Superhero strobe lighthouse helm hexagonal
Sixty degree angle glass captain bridge
Watchtower for Diminutive Town message
Warns cliff climbers must heed heirachy rule
Soaring steel pylon pinnacle, men microscopic
Sextant lassos moon coins for seafarers
Capsized as whitecaps vomit precarious
Admiral amends an untoward son with his wallet
Navigator Nerida gazes star bright broadwater
Nile writhing serpent steps calm Cleopatra
Societal riser sanitises sympathy's reaction
To hard-knock have-nots, tutorials taught her
Ignore poor crippled car sleepers in their midst
Image is nine tenths of destiny, maintain it
Dim raised to dazzling, finger emblazoned
Bestows dirtily earned glory on emaciated wrist
Beacon lights monarch morrow, slim limbs svelte
Jokers precluded erect huts on soft sand
Jewels crest strawberry sun-light garland
Dangle gold carats in cards her chronicle dealt
Third of November
Superb Vista
Econo Lodge sign
High
On
Its
Pylon
Best we can do
For you Tedeschi Trucks
To put a moon in the sky
Over this interstate interchange
Jammed with cars and a decrepit minor league hockey stadium
Advertising the glory days and beer swigging of The Wings
Glows over the deadbeat semis and construction cones
Tearing apart I-94 between Chicago and Detroit
Gleaming casino next city over
Mocking us all by suggesting
I’ll see you over here
The last great guitar players and their dwindling fans
In just a few more years
Yes it’s 2024
And for good our children have left the house
Its couches beds and kitchen table chairs
Like unstraightened frames holding all our wall photographs
Our dog doesn’t mind
Wags his tail with the additional luxury choices
For his many daytime naps
My wife and I look for familiar friends
Though we understand the band are total strangers
During these glorious last 14 years together with us
We don’t want to be creeps to Derek and Susan in love on stage
Though we were the first to love them both up there
I give a hearty wave anyway from the front seats
And I think through the spotlights there’s a smile or wink returned to us
The silhouettes
As the two and their band watch one another
Still mesmerized as they saw and sing the epic Shame
And we the audience smash our hands and shake our tambourine heads
How can the whole world not know more
About this travelling family of musical magic?
We know in our minds they’re the best band in the world
On the scale of Zeppelin or the Stones in their prime
But in the now
And here they are
Still looking good and cool and willing to share something better
Kind enough to stop over
Say hello
Between Red Rocks and Milwaukee
To this little rustbelt university town
Stadium filled only three quarters of the way with 4000 people
I’m sure a sop financially for somebody
But the masterful musicianship we joyfully hear
And we respond with whistles and cheers
As good as anyplace
As loud as ever
Afterward
Outdoors
The Econo Lodge moon buzzes and blinks in our rearview mirror
For our long drive home on I-94
Back to Lansing we go
Chasing breadcrumbs the dotted lines
Our hearts filled our ears ringing
Through the quiet speeding dark.
A PLAY ON WORDS – LIVE
The power failed on Thursday night.
I was left completely in the dark..
So I rang an ELECTRICIAN
To see WATT he could do
His response wasn’t very POSITIVE;
Because of the CURRENT crisis, he said
He’d decided he would go to EARTH
And stay OHM in INSULATION.
Though he still got LIGHT exercise daily
With a SHORT CIRCUIT round the park,
He said he couldn’t visit me;
The Covid rules wouldn’t allow it
He put up a strong RESISTANCE
Although I begged him to help,
He was following government GRIDLINES
And keeping his social distance.
I tried to PYLON the agony,
Pleading my old age in the MAIN,
But his answer was still in the NEGATIVE,
He said he would CONTACT me next year.
I’d have to do the job myself.
He was clearly in his ELEMENT
It wasn’t his VOLT, he insisted
He refused, so I RE-FUSED.
16th June 2021
Word Play Poems with Play on Words Raison D'etre poetry contest
Sponsor - John Lawless
For over 300 years there I stood happy and all alone,
Reaching out in all directions for this was truly known,
Admired by many a generation and all their eyeing folk,
I am that single and magnificently handsome ageing oak,
But now the darkness truly has no shining stars for me,
and so now I thrash my arms and shed my leaves angrily,
Is that steel monstrosity to tower me, it surely cannot be,
For now I will continue to grow lying low beneath my foe,
But surely my adorning fans eyes will see my scary plight,
Please help me in my fight to see beyond my darkened light,
And restore my beautiful home from this dreadful plight.
Oh how alive I feel!
Now spring has come again.
The familiar sun,
My old friend.
Come at last,
Warming my face
As I walk from place to place.
High up in the hills
I meet you each morning,
Rejocing once more
That a new day is dawning.
Singing birds
Serenade your grace,
Of sorrow, there is no trace.
Colours so vibrant,
Venture to be seen.
Left lush from the snow,
The grass shines green.
Golden daffodils
Wave their hello,
As further down the track I dare go.
In a world of my own,
I go back in time,
When the bracken was untamed,
And the fields only just lined.
Happy am I...
Until a pylon cuts in...
But that is the world we now are akin.
If only I could stay up there all day,
Playing hide and seek with my little dog,
Until we come upon the cows,
Emerging lazily from amongst the fog.
Standing so firm,
Blocking our way.
To the next path, then, we shall stray.
Looking out across my nowhere town,
Always a journey's chapter, not destination,
Not thriving but there all the same,
With it's dying high street and long gone station.
I know every street,
Every square and alley,
Toady it wakes so very sadly.
Gone are the days when Henry VIII,
Favoured the White Horse, as his inn.
Gone, too, are the days of strong Industry,
No more do the men at work sing.
But it's my little town,
No matter how dull
And if you want, you can still find it's soul.
That's why each morning I wake at dawn,
To go up the downs and stand my watch,
Looking past the cars, new builds and shops,
I see the Market town, whose past was forgot.
To the cross roads, as always,
My eyes are drawn
Of the romans they were born.
So that's my morning,
That's my little town.
Part of my little world,
All up on the downs.
With each spring,
It ages once more,
But for all time, I'm sure it'll endure.