Best Pylons Poems
This POTD is dedicated to Di11y Da11y
who spoke the truth and paid the price!
to the unheard poet
you weren’t driven away
you moved beyond them
Once upon perdition
The apostate looked out his window,
and started to believe
As genuflecting pylons
sent ramifications through the trees
Chaos questioned reason,
hoping for a guilty plea
but the world was too far gone,
so began the killing spree
The Crier rang his leper bell:
“Our town’s a godless apparition”
Filling hearts with envy
of a once-dreaded condition
Now the King prayed for calm,
in a pagan act of contrition
After his son died at birth,
he had proscribed all religion
Atheists came from all around,
excommunication filled the air
Roots faced horizontal,
trying to feed off despair
Anxious to leave town,
fallen gargoyles block civic square
Steeplejacks grow disoriented,
from looking up at disrepair
“That hole’s not deep enough,”
winked the jester to the knave
He could never resist a shortcut,
even digging his own grave
As the madness continued,
hermits set fire each other’s caves
Shedding light on the void,
by burning alive its willing slaves
With the apocalypse gathering pace,
populations slowly died
Some genius came forward
a real madman in disguise
Said, “We need a scapegoat
—a martyr, an ultimate sacrifice”
He was crucified for being too clever;
they much preferred no advice
And whilst writing this story,
that apparently makes no sense
The queen was in her chambers,
hanging herself from suspense
Children butcher themselves gaily,
having learned how to fence
As for putting fear of God in us,
the wicked come crawling to repent
At last when heaven reopened,
an eclipse tried darken that day
Never to see man overcast again,
sun went nova, boiling all life away…
By
David Kavanagh
The tide worn and barnacled pylons
holding up the wharf wobble
on a sea swell like loose teeth.
Most of the decking planks
are missing. Those that remain
span joists with bones
of rotted wood fastened down
with rust. A chain wire fence
bars public access
and a large red sign
screams a message of danger.
I find myself looking through
the wire, asking who else
would stop by and perceive
a strange beauty here,
that in the wreck
of this derelict wharf,
something immutable
has found a home in the rot.
Its history
is not mine nor does it
conspire with a notion
to snare me with a kind
of enticing nostalgia.
What is here is more like
time chewed pick up sticks
stuck in mud.
And yet I don't know why
I am moved so, standing here
with all the reverence afforded
a relic of something almost holy,
why my pen should waste time
chasing such an elusive presence
around a page.
Perhaps what is here
is an essence of what my mind
cannot grasp, that other,
a mystery imprinted on a finite world,
a longed for sign of hope
in a language known only
to the soul - or is it simply
something more mundane,
slowly loosening the pylons
holding up my brain.
A light wind gently rocks our sailboat as
breezes begin to pick up on the sun drenched dock.
Cable wires rap and tap upon the mast as
daylight filters thinly through the clouds.
Egrets begin to peck around the gangway
foraging for scraps from bugs or grubs.
Great blue heron busily prepares her nest
high upon the eucalyptus tree.
I sit and daydream on the harbor deck
just enjoying the sea breeze, sights and sounds.
Kelp beds sway rhythmically with the currents
lapping the rocks at low tide, while
massive flocks of birds perch purposefully
near a lonely lighthouse high on the jetty.
Open seas spread toward the horizon where
pelicans busily dive bomb for fish.
Quarry rocks surrounding the harbor create
rocky protrusions, allowing ground squirrels to
spy sailors earnestly jibing on ocean water
tacking swiftly through the northwest winds.
Under the pylons and gangways
various starfish and mussels cling
with schools of fish swimming in tandem.
Xylophone sounds drift with music from a
Yacht club hosting a spring concert.
Zeal for the beauty of harbor life moves me.
Written on 2/11/2015
I can see us kicking around in our old hometown
Where the pylons buzzed crackling with dampness
Into the open cast crust of the iron ground;
And as I recall there was never a time that felt as cool
Or as real and full of youth and life as when I
Would meet you walking home from school;
You were a smile and ponytail vision even then,
The laughing, almond eyes that teased and mock admonished,
Until, on parting, I could hardly wait to see you again;
Even though you barely tip-toed on the erotic verge of womanhood
Even though you had only just turned sixteen,
You shone with the self-assured presence of a life-long beauty queen.
I can still see us hanging around in our old hometown
Where days were as spun gold threads, the weave of months,
When the sun in the endless summer sky shone down;
And as I recall there was never a time that felt quite so fine
As when I kissed your lips and tasted their pinkish dew
And you kissed the fading tobacco of mine;
We seemed to have forever and a day way back when,
And those days and nights seemed so full of meaning,
Immortalised in our minds as if they could never end;
Now, even though it was so long ago and so long past
I see you fresh and clear, and your looks that could almost kill,
For you burned with eternal beauty that fires and haunts me still.
The apostate looked out his window,
and started to believe
As genuflecting pylons,
sent ramifications through the trees
Chaos looked at reason,
was it about to make a plea
I see Satan’s raising an army
or so the nihilists agreed
The Crier rang his Leper bell,
‘our town’s a Godless apparition’
Least he filled hearts with envy,
of a once dreaded condition
Now the King prayed for calm,
in another pagan act of contrition
After his son died at birth,
he had proscribed all religion
Atheists came from all around,
excommunication filled the air
Roots now faced horizontal,
trying to feed off despair
Anxious to leave town,
random leaves block civic square
And steeplejacks are disorientated,
from neglecting their repairs
That hole’s not deep enough,
winked the piper to the knave
He could never resist a shortcut,
even digging his own grave
But the madness continued,
hermits set fire each other’s caves
Shedding light on the void,
by burning alive it’s willing slaves
And as the apocalypse gathered pace,
populations slowly died
Some genius came forward,
a real madman in disguise
Said we need a scapegoat,
a dimwit, an ultimate sacrifice
He was crucified for being too clever,
they much preferred no advice
And whilst writing this story,
that apparently makes no sense
The Queen was in her chambers,
hanging herself from suspense
Children butcher themselves gaily,
having learned how to fence
As for putting the fear of God into us,
the wicked come crawling to repent
So finally when heaven reopened,
a total eclipse tried darken that day
Never to see man overshadowed again,
Sun went nova, vaporising all life away
By
David Kavanagh
The Tal-Dareem are fighting-mad;
They've realized they've just been had.
Expect soon Zealots and Stalkers,
Immortals and those "cliff walkers".
Zerg Hydralisks are assembling just out of range,
Supported by Roaches, Infestors, Banelings,…
The Mutalisks are hovering beyond our turrets,
Brutalisks are moving—it’s looking quite desperate.
What matter's most: who'll be standing last,
So let's hit 'em hard and hit 'em fast.
There’s a silver lining for each “end of the world”:
My shift’s almost done and my Siege Tank’s been rebuilt.
I could spend my last hours paralyzed in fright;
But no, I got a date with that cute medic tonight.
Protoss Carriers and Voids will fill the sky,
And Dark Templars may be sneakin' by.
Double the turrets, add more bunkers--
Fill them with Marines and Marauders.
What matters most: who's standing last,
So hit 'em hard and hit 'em fast!
I took several stim-packs off a dead Marine,
And I’ll take a few jolts if she gives me the green.
So all those bug-eyed-monsters better stay out of sight…
Better not mess with me and my Medic tonight.
So we’re all out of minerals, almost out of Vespene.
We’re training our last Marauders, building our last Viking.
But if our Ghosts and Banshees hit the Zerg and Protoss just right,
I might still be around for my Medic tonight.
Got a date with that blue-eyed young medic tonight.
You know, the one that I’ve had for months in my sights.
If my Siege Tank’s a rockin’, don’t come a knockin’.
Got a date with that pretty sweet medic tonight.
Jim Raynor's Raiders will soon be back;
Load your ammo, get ready to counter-attack!
So train more Reapers for rear missions:
Sneak around back, take out their pylons.
Make sure we're the ones left standing last.
Just keep hitting 'em hard and hitting 'em fast.
*Image of Alcatraz San Francisco by Pixabay.
The Island of Alcatraz
Startled clouds lurk midst a gate
beams stretch crossed a bay
pylons yon the sneaky fog
dreams fetch castaway.
Deserted prison
vagary hopes long entombed
averted risen.
2021 June 14
Like silent sentries in a row
the pylon docks await my arrival.
It is low tide as I step
onto the gangway.
Crusty barnacles cling tenaciously
to the pylons, as salt water
laps the rocky shoreline.
A lanky blue heron
carefully picks it's way
between the fingers
of the dock slips.
A cool breeze picks up
and the boats respond
bobbing to and fro.
Halyard lines clang
against the masts of sailboats
as weather vanes turn
toward the prevailing
northwest winds.
The pungent smell of sea salt air
and the cool mist against my face
evoke thoughts of escape
and high sea adventures.
How I long to sail away
without a care
and maybe never to return.
The glories of the ocean breeze
waft gently over my face
while prism rays draw me
toward the lapping shoreline
and I feel young and free.
This place is where I am truly me
where my spirit is released
and as I breathe in
the salt sea air
I give myself over
to the sea.
Written by Laura Leiser
4/19/2007
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]
The Coat Hanger
Let's travel back in time to 1928, the place is Sydney (Australia)
The local government wanted to create a harbour crossing from
the North to South of Sydney, architects were brought in to
draw up plans for it's conception, there were suspension bridges
like the Brooklyn Bridge and the Golden Gate, but were turned
down however, they decided to make a single span arch bridge
similar to the railway bridge in Pennsylvania USA, they started
the build in 1928 and over a period of four years the Sydney
Harbour bridge became a reality, made of steel and the blood
and sweat of men some who died during it's construction. This
bridge was unique in design, It had a large single arch, capable
of rail, tram and motor vehicles, with two walkways either side
of the bridge deck, it had four magnificent sand stone pylons.
In 1932 the bridge was opened twice, firstly by a soldier on
horseback named DeGroot who slashed the ceremonial ribbon
with his sword, he opened the bridge in honour of the people
of NSW, however the ribbon was replaced and opened officially
by the State Labor Governor Jack Lang who cut the ribbon with
ceremonial ornamental scissors, then they removed the
locomotives which had been used to test the bridge for strength,
shortly thereafter the bridge was opened for use by commuters.
Before that happened the gathering crowds were permitted to
walk the entire length of the bridge, when this had been completed
the first train and motor vehicles travelled across the bridge. Sydney
had a brand new bridge, 'The Bridge of Dreams' or as it became
famous for years later 'The Coat Hanger', this bridge had been built
during Sydney's depression years, it still remains today an icon to all.
Written: 4th August 2013
Anti-Poem — “Snaking It To Venice”
(Poet’s Instruction: Play “The End” by the Doors loudly, while reading this anti-poem)
it’s you and me baby inside this gliding duster
this ’74 green plymouth cruising machine blasting
spit fire and gasoline grenades into the LA sun
snaking it to venice on the santa monica freeway
passing pillsbury billboards and green verdigris
doors music playing loudly on the duster radio dial
taking us past the santa monica civic auditorium
our rock pleasure palace under the ocean stars
fronted by the six high dudes straight as spears—
pylons of steel drum solos and marijuana memories
standing upward like skinny giants waiting to eat
hippie dudes and the bongo kings stand out front
polka-dotted chicks smile and pass running joints
we’re riding the snake babe riding on main street
looking for the rock gods behind beaming glass walls
looking to hear boogie music with the mind jive girls
the van chicks craving a bong hit of columbian gold
looking to groove on organ sonics that weaken you
kidnap you with handcuffs for a ransom of lost time
now jim morrison shimmies into view with a beer
the boys play the end again in 1967 with amps blaring
the vox organ humming out electric mind lacerations
as Ray Manzarek sits upright again on the melting stage
dig it baby, dig it there are no tomorrows no endings
it’s just you and me baby snaking it to venice beach
passing the dream palaces lit up with phosphorescence
the sun pole-dancing there doing the cosmic bend-over
the ’74 duster blasting spitfire and gasoline grenades
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]
Hitherto a sleepy way-lost village,
Shall now enter history’s fresh new sheet,
Vain may turn lessons of its farm college,
That would wonder how men should the greens treat.
Poor greens to greed shall now the tithe pay,
Life alive to dead graveyard shall yield ground,
Grey iron and concrete shall the earth pound,
Pylons, pillars stand where trees smile today.
Old hillocks and heavenly shallow lakes
Shall get buried deep under greed’s duress,
Standing denuded shorn of born-with dress,
If progress all its priority takes.
As far beyond as tired sight might endure,
We shall see trails of plied and potent wire
In hope birds would avoid this deadly mire,
The Null Lake may not retain her old lure.
The village of refreshing lush green look
Shall soon wear an over-sized greyish coat
As an industrial township of some note,
O with a book-marked page in history book.
And yet, a village long frozen in time,
And orphaned now of its springtime dreams,
Her bounty of beauteous trees, it seems
Oh shall pay price of progress to us prime.
Should man lose on growth highways on the run?
He knows of no ventures without a price,
There’s no virtue today without grey vice,
Let’s still one day hope to such crossroads turn.
______________________________________________________
Industrialisation and technological progress and its impact on the country-side form the theme of this poem. Yet, helpless, it displays an ambivalent attitude: All progress demands its price that alas has to be paid—yet, a village frozen in time… shall show signs of some future. The signs of time are clear, yet can we have progress that demands no such stiff price?
______________________________________________________
Images | 12.10.08 |
Limerick crochetés: Once a band of non-hearing sans abri*
Once a band of non-hearing sans abri*
Camped on the banks of a highway free
Full score years stopped traffic
Begged at lights electric
Police scrapped their dear home sans country
Held on to rubbish rolls quilts rags these gents
While township lords robbed them of their tents
Down where reinforced slabs
Pylons concrete bridge sags
To nurse their punctured pride clogged-up vents
All day all night long year in year out
The crunch of tires on tarmac clout
Their senses ear-drums numb
Drive them sick deaf and dumb
Yet none up high see why they hold out
None see them cook none see them strip wash
Morning day and night wrapped up in their mush
Tipsy turvy happy
For them our world’s at sea
Espy passers-by their eyes in ambush
Yet sleep they the sleep pure in spirit
But those in power who at them spit
Would put’em in HLM*
Blot them out overwhelm
Insomniac quiet sure’ll kill’em no bit !
• ”sans abri” : French for “destitute, those without shelter”
• “HLM”: French abbreviation for “tenement flats of the lowest social scale”
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2018
No ball games, keep out, no access
and please keep off the grass,
restricted zone, no entry here unless you show your pass.
Stay clear, don't go beyond this point,
warning! Electric fence!
(you could tell by the transformer-
unless of course, you're dense).
Remember childhood playing outside, all
bumps and scrapes and scuffs?
You lived by using common sense, and if
you didn't- tough.
Public information films said don't go
flying kites near pylons, swim in
quarry lakes, in case the foolish might.
But now we're wrapped in cotton wool
and everyone's just fine
but freedom's being washed away-
if you can see the signs.............