Best Roadsides Poems
Well! Believe the pathetic liars!
Or listen to the stylish scoundrel—
Whose speech’s so harmonious
And Ah! Tone as wine!
Leave your long braid dance
As the charmer’s snake,
Or dishevel fly
As in the ancient paintings the flying fairies…
Or Claw or Bun or Knot
Or loop as the sparrows’ nest
Or reverse as the nomadic maids.
Well! Wear on the thick oily thighs tight trousers
As the white women in west
Wear high heals, and on roadsides Cat-walk.
Or dress as a Japanese Girl gymnast
Or the ancient Greek women wrestlers slapping their big hips.
And or let your big bosom bulge
Or with breeze as ripe melons shake
And then! Tell the tired traveler, am I fine!
But be my love and be only mine!
As all dear admire the unchanging pine!
hell bent on hillsides,
alcohol seeping from my skin come
Monday Morning alarm clock joy.
young, and up all night, drunk, more so than not
and only in love with myself.
narcissistic pessimism: big words overheard in clouded classrooms,
always wanting what I don’t have and horny,
drugged in translucent self reflection methamphetamine at sunrise,
six AM jazz.
but no one listens to jazz anymore, except in cars alone in darkness,
trees forever passing along roadsides,
low hum of distant trains,
hazy moon hanging above two empty bridges,
the choice of only one is troubling.
decisions are gruelling like offices and pay checks.
i’m a mess, the trumpet says, I hate myself, sings
the saxophone riff, my head hurts as
the drums hit, symbols wailing, clashing,
altogether in beautiful harmony.
starlight glow, swaying through meters
of time, roads carve along
sharp edges of thought, clear,
concise, and reliable people going to
work, dreams of offices and pay checks,
and I begin to sing along, off time and out of tune.
imagination of the outdoors and freedom,
never growing up past my bedtime, hide and go seek
I hope I’m never found.
On the cusp of favor brimming in the flavor of missing minutes, laid about the streets curved around sockets of setting suns. Along roadsides and dug deep under sand dunes, I collect forgotten pearls planted in the dismantled timepiece of my chest. I close my eyes letting the hours, months, and years sink in. However broken these wheels and springs, for you, this pendulum forever swings.
Further qualities of the King* the THIRUK-KURAL lauds: IRAMAADTCHI - Canto 39, K381 and K382
[*modern-day "kings": presidents, prime and chief ministers, governors, dictators and the like; K381 & K382 have already been posted.]
K383: thuungkaamai kalvi thunivudaimai immuuntrum
niingkaa nilanaal pavarkku
A sleepless promptitude, knowledge, decision strong:
These three for aye [sic] to rulers of the land belong. (Transl. G.U. Pope)
These three things, viz., vigilance, learning, and bravery, should never be wanting in the ruler of the country. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus)
Not being lulled to sleep, always acquiring knowledge and fearlessly assuming the lead - these three qualities crown the king of a country. (Transl. T. Wignesan)
K384: aranilukkaathu allavai* niikki
maran*ilukkaa maanam* udaiyathu arasu
[* "allavai" = sins, evils, unreal things; "maran" = bravery; "maanam" = honour]
Kingship, in virtue failing not, all vice restrains,
In courage failing not, it honour's grace maintains. (Transl. G.U. Pope)
He is a king who, with manly modesty, swerves not from virtue, and refrains from vice. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus)
Always virtuous, eschewing evil, heroic in deed and honour-bound - of such mettle the sovereign should be.* (Transl. T. Wignesan)
[* Which leader in our world embodies the dictates (and constraints) in this maxim? One often goes to war for seemingly righteous causes, sacrificing foot-soldier lives in order to fill some "cartel's" private coffers; or one might endeavour to boost the growth rate by half a dozen % points only to draw the polar ice-caps down on our children's heads and throats; one might build the finest sky-scrapers of the future megalopolises on the slave-wages of indentured immigrant labour only to deprive them of human rights in the name of the Supreme Creator; one might nonchalantly let city-centres choke in the fumes of carbon monoxide and let human excreta pile up on the roadsides in the name of cultural and spiritual enhancement through the pomp of rallies and manifestations on a grand scale and for what? - to keep the soul purified? - while the "kings" of spiritual development rely still on the divine right to rule the poor bugger down below, conditioned by words from the cradle! ] T. Wignesan, June 29, 2017
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
Through hushed musings,
Sigh of peace clings
To winds, and brings
Serenity.
Along roadsides
When dins collide,
Calm of breath guides
My inner sea.
She doesn't deserve this.
Alone, after fifty-odd years
Married to him.
Alone, too attached to her home
To leave it to live with a son
In a place strange to her.
Alone, still talking to the husband
Who has been dead a year now.
In a moment of clarityy, she realizes he is gone
And feels compelled to visit him
At the cemetery.
Down the road she started
Picked up by neighbors three times
And taken back home.
They, knowing she was no longer capable of being alone,
Yet no one thought to stay.
Now she's gone, we don't know where
The woods, the river, the roadsides
Where can she be?
Wherever it is, we can only pray, Della
That you are no longer alone.
Explode the galaxy
iron out this wrinkle in time
Cheapen a poor mans rich taste in fashion
it’s habit to be a creature of design
When the delicate send out the search party
start by scanning the various roadsides
follow the stench of day old regret
that should lead in right to my location
Where have I landed?
A strangers planet Earth?
A manic depressives getaway?
A lunatics wet dream?
Drain the oceans
bleed the kids on the mountain
the formidable foes of the knife I haven’t sharpened yet
jam packed arenas stocked with fresh meat
I’ll start at the bottom
-The Man-
The man holds the hand of his wife
greeting me with a reverse handshake
Something grainy about his personal life
leaked into his lovers tears
it sure as hell isn't this lady on his arm
Rinse his eyes in a river of lust only to let him see what he's done has scorched the Earth
straying too far from...
Rid you
Burn
The scum secretes
my head can't take much more of this eyesore
total eclipse of his soul has begun
Next up...
-The Harlot-
The girl holding the rose laughing
she’s breeding an uncanny look of impurity
Nothing perverse about what I’m thinking
it’s what she is
Spreading a soil around the town that reeks
a forked road where she walks down the handle
nothing she won’t do
nothing she won’t take or see
Come here and meet me in the middle
there aren’t so many eyes here
I’m sure this won’t be the most popular of assassinations
everyone likes a harlot
Excitement stimulates
Diseases decimate
Make up your minds
-The Vagrant-
Traveling on web feet has begun to hurt his ego
burn his shoes and prick at the calloused soul of a man ravaged by nothing
Pity is lost on skin without purpose
throw a penny at something that begs
spare a nickel for a chosen profession
Demon in disguise if you ask me
Blameless self de-evolution personified in a cardboard box
warming themselves with headlines and bold ink
Cold?
Maybe
Alas, what I do must be done
It's a thirst unquenched by a common liquid and if not
then innocence is lost in a blink of an eye
Explode this galaxy
iron out this wrinkle in time
Inukshuks abound the roadsides
Carefully orchestrated not to collapse
Offering meaningful direction
Throughout Muskoka's north country
Mindful of legends and lore
Indigenous in the spirit
Environmentally Yours
GLOBAL WARMING, CLIMATE CHANGE, NUCLEAR HOLOCAUSTE-
very big words; beyond us.
ILLEGAL MINING, RIVER POLLUTION, FOREST DEVASTATION-
not our concern; ordinary mortals.
As decent individuals we barely use one car,
one fridge, one air-conditioner or even none.
Leading a carefree life we Indians throw
empty water bottles anywhere, choke waterways
by throwing all waste materials,
even electronic, sanitary waste trail here and there;
spitting anywhere, urinating on roadsides
we find pleasure in heaping more over heaped garbage
remaining alert that no such nuisance is done before our doors
while throwing petty things through our windows.
But all our petty actions, as unified team,
boomerang on us as the ultimate victim.
Environment is what surrounds us
but are we not surrounding our environment?
I cannot drive from my home to a grocery store
without choking back tears that threaten to spill as
sourced from my bruised heart. The gifts of earth as
lovingly bestowed from our Father to us are trashed in
sad quantities upon the roadsides in ignorant, careless
tosses that I cannot understand and refuse to accept.
If man cannot comprehend all that earth’s wonders offer
us on even a basic, selfish level then what hope is there
for man to understand anything at all that would lead us
back to Eden? How are we to globally comprehend the
benefits of goodwill when we fail to understand the good
concept of trash cans?
trash throws vast blessings
back at our generous source ~
my mascara runs
Humankind's quest for be bereavement memorials has no bounds.
Headstone or brass plaques used to suffice,
Hidden away in grave yards and draws of ashes on walls.
But now crosses and plaques litter the roadsides,
Like a strange form of offensive graffiti to mark
Where drivers have fallen and been slain in the driving campaign.
Upfront and in your face these unauthorized crude memorials
Add unwanted crosses and bunches of fake flowers, to the weeds and litter on roadsides.
Now the pristine face of man in the moon,
Admired and loved by countless generations of folk,
Is to be littered and trashed by human cremated remains.
Send by 'Moon Express' rocket from Cape Canaveral, no less.
To be left as permanent firmament memorials to humans who want their remains
left in space, in the heavens above, in the eye of man in the moon.
For everyone on earth to be forced to see, like drivers forced to see crosses on highways.
Such pollution, graffiti and litter add to the footprints and spacecraft junk
Left to deface the pristine, much loved and cherished face of man in the moon.
For heavens sake, is there no bounds to human depravity!
Road stop
By cop
Perceived
Car weaved
Two Beers
Cop jeers
Slurs talk
Can't walk
Clyde weaved
And heaved
Ker splat
Fell flat
Clyde drunk
As skunk
Tests muffed
Handcuffed
To jail
No bail
Transport
To court
Demand
Remand
Severe
One year
Oh dear
No beer
What do you do with road kill
Dispose of it you say
So how does one dispose of it
There is always the Maryland way
You see Maryland picks up road kill
To keep their roadsides clear
And turns it into compost
Mainly made of deer
Bodies are placed in wooden bins
Wood chips and horse poop piled on
Each week the bins are aerated
For the composting of deer and fawn
After three months it is ready
To be spread along the roadway
Helping to grow the grass and the plants
Until sometime around dusk one day
When the deer who are always hungry
Come by the roadside to eat
Along comes a passing auto
And the deer and the auto there meet
So there along the roadside
A deer dies in the weeds
Thus completing the cycle
Of road kill to compost to feeds
An Apache pilot once sought for a treasure
In booze, in fun
Sampling leisure and pleasure
Until an Apache chopper gun
In his attentive ears whispered
Enjoining him to a wound-prone warfront to go
Where the gun the pilot pampered
Soon sadness and recklessness the pilot did forgo
Strafing an egregious enemy
Determined to inflict huge casualties
Until the enemy’s alchemy of blasphemy
Enjoined the pilot to exploit the enemy’s foibles and frailties
Inflicting huge losses on the enemy who by roadsides planted improvised explosives
To kill or maim the pilot’s troopers
When the pilot engaging sibilants and plosives
Alongside paratroopers
Read a crystal ball
Hoping to glean a roadmap
To his life’s call
And Wrap
Up the direction to his future
Engaging first this dame then that dame
In a complex culture
When the crystal ball requested the pilot to stake a claim
On the heart of a feminist damsel
Who the crystal warned was a tough nut to crack
Neither for hire nor for sale
In circumstances within a pesky pack
Teeming with churlish challenges
Which the pilot tackled
Unwrapping and unpacking lozenges
To his Apache chopper buckled
Somewhere in the United States of America
Where the pilot’s eyes and red hair
Flew in search of Erica
With whom he played fair
All of a sudden a way crystal clear
Appeared with a miracle string
Which the brave pilot seized and bending on his knees said, ‘Erica, dear
Allow me on young finger to insert a wedding ring.’
The petrichor of the first rain on the field
Gets into my nostrils
It is a freedom from the cage of scorching heat
In my exhausted lungs
Into the uncaged shower of moistened fragrance
From the dank dry grass
My tongue seeks to get a salty taste of the ocean
Inhaling the wet mass
Of the stones on roadsides emanating petrichor
The scent of rain once more
I understand jasmine will be at my drenched door
The exit of dead dance
Drizzly entrance of your rain-kissed glance
_______________________________________
June 6, 2016