Best Short Story Poems
Variations on the Malay Pantun : The Old Man and the Short Story - VII-IX Continued
for Georges VOISSET, the "Master Keeper-Nurturer" of the Malay Pantun
Check out: www.stateless.mysite.com/Pantouns-20-Aout-2017.pdf
(The pantun line varies between 8 and 12 syllables and is most commonly found in the anonymous quatrain form. Cf " Poietics of the Pantun ", pp. 49-67 in T. Wignesan. Sporadic Striving amid Echoed Voices, Mirrored Images and Stereotypic Posturing in Malaysian-Singaporean Literatures. Allahabad : Cyberwit, 2008, xix-244p.)
VII
The One-Act Play's the favourite Old Men's roman fleuve
Experience shows Old Men how to keep the Wench in hell
They know how to stoke the Imagination with love
They need no how-to softwares to write a novel
VIII
The One-Act Play they say is still Old Men's mainstay
Though on Freytag's Triangle they slip down climax
The Wench cannot make Old Men still come up their way
Not so the Youngster his horns gore Wench's false syntax
IX
The Wench always seeks to milk Old Men in side-burns
Old Men know One-Act Plays don't box-office burgeon
Nor drips invested in banks ensure big returns
Not so the Youngster who banks his bit in oven
© T. Wignesan - Paris, November 11, 2018
Finally – it was Christmas Eve and we put the presents under the tree and hung our stockings at the foot of the bed. In a few hours, those stockings would be filled with barley toys, ribbon candy and chocolates. I could hardly wait! As mom tucked us into bed, I looked out the window and saw it was snowing again. It snowed all through the night as I lay in my cozy bed dreaming of that glorious bicycle again.
Christmas morning we awoke to the sound of the radio which was now home for Christmas after a long stay at the pawn shop as ‘Joy to the World’ rang over her airwaves.
We dashed to the living room where mom and dad stood beside two bicycles with gleaming chrome and multi-coloured streamers; not the ones from the store window, but the most beautiful bicycles I have ever seen, a red one for me and a blue one for my brother.
There I stood, my heart overflowing with joy and love as I remembered my mother’s blood stained hands and my father’s blue and red stained hands - these hands of love that changed two second-hand bicycles into the greatest gift I have ever known and taught me the true meaning of the spirit of Christmas.
The End
May the magic of that Christmas from years gone by, find you and fill your heart with joy.
Merry Christmas to you and yours.
Author: Elaine Cecelia George
Variations on the Malay Pantun : The Old Man and the Short Story (Continued)
for Georges VOISSET, the "Master Keeper-Nurturer" of the Malay Pantun
Check out: www.stateless.mysite.com/Pantouns-20-Aout-2017.pdf
(The pantun line varies between 8 and 12 syllables and is most commonly found in the anonymous quatrain form. Cf " Poietics of the Pantun ", pp. 49-67 in T. Wignesan. Sporadic Striving amid Echoed Voices, Mirrored Images and Stereotypic Posturing in Malaysian-Singaporean Literatures. Allahabad : Cyberwit, 2008, xix-244p.)
IV
During the intervals of the play the actors
Spy on older folk queueing outside the lone loo
The Wench in the hall twists and turns on spectators
Not so the Youngster his pen stiff in the igloo
V
Middle-aged couples in the audience flick through
The programme not reading even the title page
Long years since they thumbed dog-ear-ed novels stuck in glue
Not so the Youngster who jumps high from page to page
VI
Old Men trundle back to their seats trailing wet patches
Not regretting over-coat flirts with hat-check Wench
Old people read novels in bed but in snatches
Not so the Youngster who throws into works his wrench
© T. Wignesan - Paris, November 10, 2018
Variations on the Malay Pantun : The Old Man and the Short Story
for Georges VOISSET, the "Master Keeper-Nurturer" of the Malay Pantun
Check out: www.stateless.mysite.com/Pantouns-20-Aout-2017.pdf
(The pantun line varies between 8 and 12 syllables and is most commonly found in the anonymous quatrain form. Cf " Poietics of the Pantun ", pp. 49-67 in T. Wignesan. Sporadic Striving amid Echoed Voices, Mirrored Images and Stereotypic Posturing in Malaysian-Singaporean Literatures. Allahabad : Cyberwit, 2008, xix-244p.)
I
The Old Man often stops by the hedge or dark bush
His back to the World, the Youngster can hold his own
The short story is written through spurts in a rush
Not so the novel which calls for much breath word blown
II
The poem most write confines itself to the page
Cousin brother to the short story told in a day
Old Men take less time to leave the Wench in a rage
Not so the Youngster whose novels always end gay
III
Plays are staged with intervals peer to the novel
Essays take longer to read than the short story
The Wench smokes cigarettes waiting to stoke yell
Not so the Youngster whose next essay's more gory
© T. Wignesan - Paris, November 9, 2018
I liken happiness as I would
to my best friend and soul mate.
When she leaves my life,
she announces her departure loud & clear.
There is no mistake; she has gone away.
But when she re-enters my life, she's silent.
Like a game of Guess Who?, she sneaks up
behind me & taps me on the shoulder.
I always turn around in total surprise
and amazement; then embrace her too tight.
I don't care where she has been,
I'm just content she's returned to me.
Remembering Old-Time Telephone Service
By Elton Camp
Only a few decades ago, the wireless telephones that have become so much a part of our lives were inconceivable and remained so until the advent of Star Trek in the 1960s. Seeing the crew of the Enteprise in easy, constant contact struck a responsive cord in the public mind. Nevertheless, few of us even imagined that similar technology would become readily available to individuals in our lifetimes.
Outside of towns, telephones were not at all common in private homes. When I was a child in the 1940s, not a house in our immediate community had a telephone. We all used the one at the crossroads grocery store. It paid the phone company to run a line only because Gilley’s Store was on the main road between two fair-sized cities. The more scattered rural areas had no phone lines and thus service was unavailable.
In 1951, when I was in the sixth grade, we finally got a telephone. It was on an eight party line with all eight homes receiving the ring whenever any house in the group got a call. The rings were coded: one through four long rings and one through four short rings. All calls “rang in” at every house, even if it was midnight or early morning.
Zero privacy could be expected on calls. Distinct clicks announced pick-ups by multiple eavesdroppers. The practice was called “listening in.” Actually, nobody seemed to particularly mind as long as the listeners refrained from commenting on the conversation.
Many of our neighbors didn’t have a phone at all. They came to ask to use ours. Even worse, their incoming calls sometimes came to us. “Can I speak to Ronald,” the caller asked. Ronald lived three houses away. Yet, we were expected to go get him while the caller waited. By current standards, that sounds like an outrageous imposition, but nobody objected. People were more inclined to help each other in those days.
Older folks tend to long for the “good old days,” but I think few would want to go back to that type of telephone service.
Variations on the Malay Pantun : The Old Man and the Short Story - X -XII - Continued
for Georges VOISSET, the "Master Keeper-Nurturer" of the Malay Pantun
(The pantun line varies between 8 and 12 syllables and is most commonly found in the anonymous quatrain form. Cf " Poietics of the Pantun ", pp. 49-67 in T. Wignesan. Sporadic Striving amid Echoed Voices, Mirrored Images and Stereotypic Posturing in Malaysian-Singaporean Literatures. Allahabad : Cyberwit, 2008, xix-244p.)
X
Go West on horseback and fire pistols point blank
Union Pacific galloped at City Lights
The Wench prefers red-hot fire not bullets blank
Old Men let horses ride bareback on Wench sans tights
XI
Go West on quick-shunting trains and let fall frontiers
Go East on horseback and churn Post-Colonial craze
East or West the Wench licks the Master's rears and tears
Not so the Youngster his Beat poems Old Men praise
XII
Shunt not trains which Kipling coupled lest they break wind
Old Men returned from the East rest traumatic
The Wench can take any Beat grind save the hind kind
Not so the Youngster e'en pistol-packing mama flic
© T. Wignesan - Paris, November 12, 2018
In the 80's I lived in Anchorage Alaska. You could go anywhere and catch salmon till your arms fell off. I would drive for hours to fish in completely desolate (of people) lakes. There were several lakes that were so clear you could see the trout swimming two hundred feet down (they were 8 to 28 inches long) you could see the bottom of every lake just by peering over the edge of the boat. After several years of catching these trout that were as long as your arm, I checked the map for new and more challenging lakes. I found a lake Southwest of Wasilla that had "fingers" cut into one side of it. Each one was 50 by 2,000 foot long, obviously man made. I didn't bring my boat and planed to fish these "fingers" from the bank.
I had snapped my Fly pole running through the trees and was tired from all the the frantic running. I rigged up my Casting pole and walked out to where the water was just above my knees, between two trees 20 feet apart. 15 min went by and I figured I better change lure. My right foot had sunk past my ankle in the silt and I pulled hard to get unstuck. My left foot sunk deeper. I had been in this situation before and kept working to get at least one foot unstuck.
Almost an hour went by and the water was to my waist, I had mud to my calves and the waders were like a second skin. I couldn't move, I tried everything. By now the water was up to my armpits. I saw my cooler float by and then my tackle box (and needless to say, my life too) That's when I started yelling help. There was no body on these lakes and I knew it. I went under water and tried to dig my legs free, only to run out of air! I came up yelling help. I yelled only to hear my echos of help, I had a wife and two daughters to live for. I was done.
That's when I heard a calm voice say "catch this knife" I looked over and it was an old man in his 80's. I told him I was stuck real bad- he said, "I know, cut em off" and tossed me a knife- It was a perfect ten foot toss and I caught it! I went under water and sliced my waders from the hip to the thigh (240 bucks worth)- when I came up again he was reaching out his walking stick to pull me out. It was 5 feet too short. I yelled at him to come closer, "just grab hold of the tree branch there and I could reach it" He shook his head and said again "cut em off" and then he walked away behind the trees.
Hitler was a short man
His horrors committed
atrocious and despicable
with Zionists he colluded
acts of depravity, unspeakable
Netanyansky
a polish man also of horrors fame
loves his genocide like his pierogi
in the dark loves his kotlet schabowy
If they had ever met
they would kiss and rub each others neck
in love with genocide
Golda Meir on her knees for both
A threesome of perversions
rejoicing on babies death
and licking of burnt human flesh
a cult of evil, that will be in the end
A short story
when Palestine becomes free
Caste of language and literature to the eyes
You embrace the culture of Bodos
The Bodo race in the world to introduce
Sweet stories you wrote
Great race and all of the fields to watch
You are the emperor of the Bodo short story
The poem of you bikram
Like brush many your creativity
Your poem in the blooming flowers
Does embrace thousands poet
You are screenplay writer of Bodo films
You wrote Alayaron in 1986
You have written for 2002 film Songali
Wonder how much of you creation!
Takes only your creations
We are lose you!
Just said to me your philosophy
Can human effort and can be successful
Come on friends, let us go to try
Caste and country for advancement
"A Short Story of Winter Wonders"
The old man looked at the sky, which was still dark,
Amid the chilling waves, of cold and aching cries,
Which were coming, due to long food less day and nights,
His body’s flashes, bones and even his stomach too were aching.
Without the sign of any warmth, of any kind except a little food,
Which with difficulty he could secure, for his ailing, hungry wife,
His destination was his beloved wife, who was still a little away from him,
There was no place to warm up, in that chill biting time,
Without the hope of any glimpse, of the Sun’s slightest warmth and shine.
He prayed to God, to give him a little more strength,
So that his tired and aching legs, may reach near his waiting wife,
As her last hopes and eyes, must be hanging on the doors,
To see her love at least once, before she departs to heavenly shrine.
The old man suddenly saw, the glimpse of his doors and pushed his aching legs,
Next moment, he was inside the doors and found his love and hopes were still alive.
Ravindra K Kapoor
Kanpur India. 29th Dec. 2018
For Poetry Soup's contest "Winter Wonderland"
Story that begins with love
and ends with pain
it happens usually to most of us
ending with loss no gain !!!
you kept complaining to your friends
screamed , wept , your tears became like rain
You promised to take care the time you met a new love
But yet you fall again !!!
it is hard to see what is inside hearts
there is who sincerely stay and who aparts
it is hard to know how pure is soul
You look to eyes
and eyes tell lies
Which made you simply fall !!!
If we could know the story end
we wouldn't have started it
you nearly know the film fin
and yet you still buying a ticket !!!
Faten ishak
He died for freedom and the righteous cause of liberty.
He gave up his own life so others could enjoy liberty.
"OOH What a lucky man he was. OOH What a lucky man
he was.....Nobody could save him so he laid down and he died."***
The Short Story.*** "Oh What a Lucky Man he was."***
He died alone with no freedom fighters at his side. He fought
against slavery and oppression and to help liberate his fellow man.
But he was just another human, and an ordinary man. He was not
a professional solder or a police man. He witnessed danger around
him so he sacrificed his life for his fellow woman.
He died in an dark and dangerous ally way, trying the save
the life and the virtue of a young woman. Vicious hoodlums
instantly attacked and knifed him. The earth cried out in pain,
as it received the life blood of a young and noble man. Their
attackers also murdered the young woman, after robbing her
of her virtue!
A few days later their bodies were discovered by the police women and
the police man. He was given a hero's funeral for the courageous way
he died. He wasn't a pillar of the community, he was not important nor
gainfully employed. If the facts be made known, he was unemployed.
He never held a job in his entire young life. He was a drifter and a loner.
He lived and died a John Doe and she also lived and died as a Jane Doe. They enjoyed their fifteen minutes of fame upon their untimely demise. The law enforcement community and the family of the young woman mourned
their wasted young lives! The hoodlums were apprehended by the law.
But they did not repent of their dastardliness deeds. They held no remorse
at all. How many other victims' did they stab with their knives?
Love as always,
Roxanne Lea Dubarry
Roxy Lea 1954
Roxy 1954/ October Country
October 05, 2020
***This is a fictional short story.
My Short Story by Robert Allison
To be a good Christian - you must pray,
read the Bible, and praise God everyday.
Jesus said " I am the truth, the life, and the way."
And the ten commandments God gave us to obey.
In God's loving arms is where we will grow.
Even in times of trouble, he'll never let us go.
The church is the place where people sing
praises and glory to Jesus our King.
Only Jesus is the one who can save your soul.
He'll change your life, and make you whole.
To Jesus we must give all the glory.
Now this is the end of my short story.
Author's Note :
This is one of my early poems, created back
in the late 1980's. Hope to post more soon.
Thanks for reading, Hope you enjoyed it.
I have another piece that's too long for here - so it's in "Short Storries."
It's called "Seniors" - about a High School graduation party
I know I could take things out - but then it's not what I wanted to say *shrug*
Here's the link
URL: https://www.poetrysoup.com/short_stories/seniors_9476
I hope you like it!