Best Shunted Poems
On a wing and a prayer
a soldier is shunted
here and there
The wing is his fear
the prayer is sincere
Everyone called him Great
The Kind soaked with pride
He blew his own trumpet
Was he the God’s own child!
His subjects lived in misery
He did not bother for their plight
‘Can’t drink water, drink wine’
He shunted misery out of sight
Darkness never mattered for him
Beautiful women lighted his nights
No opponents to challenge him
He took delight at his might
‘Who is the wisest of you all?’
He made the wise men fight
Rewarded the chosen ones
The rest fled out of sight
The king strode over a desert once
The Sandstorms put him in a bind
Thirst overcomes him, no water at sight
His soldiers flee, left him behind
No drop of water around
The king went wild
Like an oasis, he saw a lone old man
Walking afar, nothing to hide
The Kind appealed to show the way
Promised to give back anything in kind
The old man asked for his kingdom
The angry King made him blind
The old man laughed at him
Ego made the King blind
Rains lashed over his dead body
The soul was back in humankind
School was another word for hell
A place of torment and fear
That I knew so well.
Every night in my bed felt like
A condemned man to be hung
In a Prison cell
The clock ticking away
The fear mounting
Toward the break of day.
I dread the mornings
Because the nightmare was about to begin
And if I'd lived by a river
I'd have jumped right in
But I couldn't swim.
The churning in my stomach
The fear in my head
I just wanted to stay at home
And hide in my bed.
The school bus or 'Hell in wheels''
Was liken taking a trip to Dracula's castle
And to go to school was such a battle
In a war I couldn't win.
I'd be sick in the toilet
And shaking with fear
As time to catch the fear wagon
Was drawing near.
The bus was full of savages
That made St Trinnian's look very tame
As the school bus shunted
Up the lane.
Eventually we'd arrive at the gates of hell
To the sound of death and doom
From the school bell.
The teachers wore black cloaks
That made them look like bats
Stood their canes to flog us
And their mortar board hats.
The dark ravens gathered
As in to the dark pit of hell we'd go
Into the torture classes
Where the creature called teachers would grab us
And not let go.
But still they say.''School days are the happiest days of our lives''.
Peter Dome.Copyright.2015. May.
Within the streets the bodies burned;
No human hand available to put ashes in urns.
What lead to this state was fear, hate and violence.
Rendering everything, normal and known, to utter silence.
Why did this happen? And how could this be?
All that flourished is now decimated, pertaining to society.
Those who ruled shunted their power and that all prevailed.
Bequeathing metal and chemicals to air, the sky and earth were assailed.
The eruptions, aground, incinerated and seared;
Within these milliseconds, Lucifer leered.
Betwixt his lips issued a whisper,
His tongue lolling about in a serpentine slither.
“Mere men need no malevolent coercement,
For evil lurks within their conscious contentment.
The destruction was bestowed upon them and their land,
Not by mine, but by their own hand.”
The suburban pressure cooker expelled its multiethnic horde north. Laden with implements of leisure, bicycles, kayaks, canoes and camping gear; world weary travelers of urban and suburban bent surged north ever, north. Bucking, they wrenched in unison at road repairs, shunted into single lanes by flaming orange cones of warning like so many track horses at the gate. Tail bitten, truck locked windows up; the denizens drove forth cocooned in metal steeds seeking the clean air and open expanses, north.
Few, freer souls dare the unfiltered air of the artery, north on motorcycles or in convertibles, hoods down, or windows down, blaring an enlivening mantra of sixties rock as they shimmied forward in the in the endless conga line of commerce, past urban blight. The trip north became a Chaucerian Pilgrimage from Nutmeg State to the Green Mountain State of Vermont.
The border crossed, the sky opens wide-eyed, ridge rimmed dolphin gray clouds swim in a cerulean scene. Roadside picnic tables fill. Monarch butterflies flit in the breezes between majestic rows of pungent pines. The whoosh of traffic dulls and the robin’s call emerges over the roiling hills and gurgling brooks. Silence falls, complete; upon the entrance to the first gravel road. Heaven is immersed in the scent of fresh hay and sweet purple clover.
Villanelle : Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars
Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars
Nor of how déchets comets shunted life to arid earth
What’s our life worth if we live in mangers as bores
Wildly lashing oceans marked the limits of our maws
When travel slithered on foot mountains did us girth
Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars
How many the astral bodies how shiny the lights of yores
Would clog up the firmament to keep us from eternal truth
What’s our life worth if we live in mangers as bores
Flights of human minds forged in the blasts of quasars
Can in no way enlighten the frigidity of the hearth
Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars
Even if life down hère could have evolved brazen bizarres
Pluck not excuses from the skies aloof to comfort us in mirth
What’s our life worth if we live in mangers as bores
Much rather stop this brilliant race from owning stars
Than believe in the sacrosanct rule of space by earth
Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars
Will life be chaste if we stoke more monstrous maws
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
From what time or place does this White bird hail?
With clapping thunder and striking lightning upon shale.
A feeling of dread before a feeling of fear,
knowing but wishing the creature wasn't near.
Creaking with sneaking does the wooden floor quake,
slowly and surely, the walls begin to shake.
A trickster and eater of men they say,
once thought a tale but now truth, pray.
Safety and escape would all be for naught,
for the beast would find you with all but a thought.
Plumage of white with specks of blood,
will it ever stop? or will the bodies flood.
A hunter of man steps forth from the Frey,
intent on making the beast-bird his prey.
Stabbing and slashing with all of his might,
into the beast's eyes to remove it's sight.
Biting and tearing the bird's wings away,
ensuring it can't fly yet another day.
rendered to naught was this great bird now made,
escaping from humanity and into obscurity would it fade.
Once majestic and fearsome, the bird king now shunted.
The great trickster-bird had now become...The Hunted.
Gods of glowing neon and gaudy screens
smile upon charming, charming patterns of heads.
All colors of hair, lit red, then green, then blue,
guided along invisible paths, crown heads
perspiring, chanting and glancing down
on marching, mechanical arms, then worrying
as they scurry along infinite, crisscrossing paths -
at once so ordered and so unfathomably chaotic.
Drums are rolled by hurrying feet
dictating the race of mankind.
A metropolis looms, adorned by a billion shimmering jewels -
electric jewels - and an apparition sways over the
bustle, silently watching, silently floating.
Giant chutes proudly puff out plumes of nightly black
and devils forged in impure fire do rise
to the heavens above, graced by the blessings of
the industrial revolution, in turn blessing humanity with progress,
imperceptible except as phlegmatic gasps
and the whiff of crisp green paper, distinguished by
wizened faces and packed in neat bundles.
Bulbous, aged fingers do trace from within
the sanctum sanctorum of a temple aged a thousand years,
charming, charming patterns of jewels
in intricate, frozen dance, carving out hexagons of perfect symmetry
from wearily cut marble windowsills.
The work of a thousand splendid hands
preserved by the unseen, dusty hands of time
did render the mosque palatial, its beauty heavenly.
The admiring eyes sing hymns praising the architecture, alas
they are blind, for the marble, white as angelic wings, is grey now.
The scientist appears, eyes hidden by thick glassy cubicles
yet shining through, lit by the endless pursuit of knowledge
and equally burdened by numbers, figures, notes
and the maddening myopia of man.
On the screen appears, against fresh white
charming, charming patterns of red, green and blue
sinking downward, worryingly as it would seem,
his uninflected pleas let in through one ear, instantly
shunted out through the next by the populace, to whom
the music of modernity rings sweeter.
First Place, Charming Patterns Poetry Contest
Date: 16th October 2021
It's six days since
the Hole was dug...
First frost clings now
to newly turned earth,
to shunted sod,
to stones, to pebbles.
A grave grows colder
today than yet it's been...
Hearts grow busy, too.
Supplanting last images
with happier ones.
The heart and mind curate
a story to tell and re-tell;
to tell ourselves. To hold back
the ghosts.
~~~
It’s a year and some four months
since its been six days,
today.
The field, once buttercupped,
had been for Iris to wander.
His field, unbuttered.
She ignored what he’d eat.
A square of yellow beside a square of green.
(If only you’d seen!)
Her white, stark, above the fresh-cut ginger yellow
field.
Then, in a month of summer, her field...
greened.
She a cloud above a lawn.
He a sienna burning in the
Summer sun.
His field daisied and hers green.
The yellow square now green.
The green square now white.
She in her place.
He in his.
Trading primaries.
Today, the buttercups began to return to his green-then-white
field.
The place where his grave is.
I notice,
through tears,
that none have grown over his grave.
Ghosts, perhaps,
are flowers.
The beauty returning,
from seeds buried.
I admit I've the blues
I swear this is true
Mother of one
Stepmom to none.
But a lover I am
To three children's father
Engagement whatever
Legally doesn't matter.
Marriage counts
In the courts they say
My opinions don't
Until my wedding day.
Even then I'm told
A difference it won't make
To one who's heart
Remains locked away.
Shunted if I do
Shunned if not
Thus why I've got
The not-so stepmom blues.
II.
Carmen had no other family left,
and said,”I guess I can give it a try.”
Her mother beamed. “I live in Miami,
I’ll pay for some movers to come by!”
That was how Carmen found herself living
in the guest home of her mother’s mansion,
it was almost as large as her old house,
but was much more ornate and well-done.
The first day Fileena was hugs and smiles,
she helped Carmen unpack all her things,
before she left, she said,”I’m so excited!
Tomorrow I’ll show you where you’re working!”
When morning came they drove down in a Benz,
Carmen expected to see a large office,
but Fileena pulled up to an aging warehouse,
said,”Doesn’t look like much, but here it is.”
Inside they passed stacks of packaged powder
as they walked to her mom’s office suite,
Carmen said,”Mom, what do you do here?”
Fileena said,”Isn’t is obvious, sweety?
“Not an ounce of product passes this town
without first being shunted my way,
and given how this country is going
it’ll be legalized one of these days.
“That’s what I intend to pass on to you,
when the time comes for me to retire,
you’ll want for nothing, the riches you’ll have,
most people for their whole lives just aspire.”
Carmen said,”This is a lot to take in…
it’s all come as such a big surprise.
Can I maybe go home and think about it?”
Said Fileena,”Sure hon, take your time.”
Carmen did not go straight to the guest house,
she spent hours wandering about to think
about her few choices, the gravity of it all…
should she go along, or call the precinct?
She puzzled over it a great deal that day,
weighing her situation and her hopes,
she went to the mansion early the next morn,
said,”Mom, I want you to show me the ropes.”
Fileena smiled, and they spent the whole day
moving around the warehouse on a tour,
half-way through said Fileena,”In coming years,
I’m going to teach you about so much more.”
Carmen saw everything she need to,
she saw the basement where the product was made,
saw the chemists hired by Fileena
to specialize the drugs by their grades.
She saw the dealers as they came in,
to give Fileena her cut, and resupply,
she even met the thugs who reminded folks
that to cheat Fileena was to die.
glancing at thee beautiful doll female human,
an aggregate of positivity arose. That four
tut hood toward slender youthful looking chica
figuratively took my breath away. She galore
re: us lee ranked topnotch on my register
of aesthetic delight. Thus, while this jackfrosted hoar
frosted flake ambled up and down aisles,
an aim sought to relay pleasant physiology while Igor
Stravinsky – Flight of the Bumblebee buzz
within every square inch of my anatomy bon jour
quivered with cockiness, covetousness,
and craveness without resorting to Dumble Da lore
for guidance, hence indecorous, impetuous,
or idolatrousness loosed rampant as more
consideration asper jimmying bold, daring do
hounded (Lo and Behold) luck did not ig nor.
A nod in answer to prayer ready set terrific
wonderful chance arose pondering how to mine ore
and coax a major outcome addressing this ambition,
which unceasingly pecked, piqued, dirt poor
piss lee pricked thy noggin about sudden revelation
presence pretty lady Upon quor
tar number of minutes passed,
whereat her increasing proximity, an unflagging score
begging akin to patriotic duty and appeasement
sans uttering a compliment recognized roar
ring optimal (once in a solar eclipse) chance
to corral, field, and invoke latent obligation that tore
per regaling unknown xwoman a dollop gratutity.
Whether embarassment ensued possibly war
temporarily shunted aside, cuz if no propensity
to risk testing cab age comfort zones of yore
if awesome stroke ignored, a disappointment
toward self would manifest irking conscience.
For the rest of eternity. So without missing
a beat (and reckoning with nary a spare off fence
guess not to turnip ma nose), a apple lick able amicus
brief pickle this complimentary gents
dare devilishly egged, finessed, gambit regarding
how gorgeous (a veritable stranger) kents
humed and appealed to me, whence squashing
regret at a costly emotional ex pence.
I was Indiana, riding with rifle pointing ahead,
then Cassanova, lost count of how many in my bed,
as Sitting Bull, I looked down directing my braves,
I passed under an arch, giving one of Cleopatra's waves.
Tried to change history - it wasn't Custer's last stand,
as Columbus, I called America India, got mixed up with the land,
we couldn't have Captain Cook murdered by a bunch of savages,
Moses didn't take any tablets - just lots of stone pages.
We knew that Nelson was gay when he said: 'Kiss me Hardy,'
and Napoleon was shunted off to St. Helena reluctantly,
I prevented 'The Maid of Orle'ans' from being burnt at the stake,
Fagin asked me to pick pockets - it was more than I could take.
Then back to the beginning - maybe Tutenkamen would do,
which exotic personage could you emulate if it was you?
I've never seen forests so small
as the ones I see in your eyes.
I could get lost in them forever
but could never stop asking "Why?"
Why do they look back at me
when i seem such a bore?
Why do they look as if to say
"I just wish I knew you more"?
Why do princes get the princess
and why do the boorish get the boring?
Why are rules made that way,
and why do they seem to be breaking?
Why am I not being shunted,
shooed away, threatened or hunted?
Why are you so willing to overlook roles,
overlook standings, classes, and rules?
You're the definition of immortal beauty,
it will never fade from your face
and the melody that charms me happy
will never fade from your voice.
So why is this goddess sitting with this mortal?
any vague allure I have will fade,
and she will still be an unmelting snowflake
in this world -
- an inferno -
destroying all anyone's made.
So has a frog found a princess?
why must one change to suit the other?
Maybe when they kiss
no one changes,
instead they both forget their lines
drop their roles and leave their masks behind.
Maybe Jack and Jill will say
"Forget the hill"
to see where life will take them.
I have an awful stressful job
I have to do it to earn a bob.
Shunted,……..
Pushed,………..
Round and round
Like a shiny ball in a pinball machine.
2004