Best Sovereigns Poems
And if all I had
was a heart to give,
would that be enough?
and if all I had
in that heart were love
would love be enough?
for what good
is other wealth
of the world,
if the grave
pays no special
homage to Sovereigns?
with only love
pledging forever –
even sacred vow spoken
permitted in death do they
part....
I would like to think
that, love – above all! – lives
long beyond its heart –
If I were a dragon, burning old bridges
with the fire that I breathe,
I would perform tricks, from way up high,
and eternally seethe,
lend a daring claw for those in need.
If I were a dragon, I wouldn't cause mayhem
upon the people.
Although I'm sure I'd be tempted for those
sovereigns high on their steeple,
not the matador, but the bull.
If I were a dragon, beautiful
and so meticulously preen,
the world would give me the dunce cap,
every crawling thing would be so mean,
provoking me to intervene.
If I were a dragon, burning old bridges
with the fire that I breathe,
I'd hide my great bulk in the darkest cave,
my claws would be always sheathed,
and forevermore I would grieve.
For the Mythological Animals Contest.
Everybody bears a price tag
Claim tycoons with bottomless purses
With a plethora of dollars to flash and flag
About to entice simpletons who deem their lives struck by curses
Inserted in their DNA
Generations ago
Which render them incapable to shove away
Bets of cash their stricken spines can’t forgo
While stomachs groan and lips
Demand smartphones, mascaras and lipsticks
Deployed to slay chaps with wanton whips
That cut and slice with savage kicks
On pates gone wan with insomnia
As limousine driven juggernauts
Splurge huge wads of notes to catalyze mass hysteria
Among street corner astronauts
Whose flight to Cupid exoplanet
Fell on its face
As moral worth net
They chose to suppress
In the face of perennial penury
That nibbles homesteads bereft of meals
In January
When cash overloaded sovereigns strike asymmetric deals
In which they beat down the cashless
Unless the poor rebuff cash offers
Preferring the famine and thirst the voiceless
Endure twenty four seven cos their coffers
Cash they’ve never seen
Cos fate shifted the balance of resources in favour of the few
Who more often than not turn out mean
To taunt the poor who shift on a church pew
As a tycoon blurts, ‘There’s a price tag on you
The sooner you acknowledge the reality
The better your world will enliven anew
As on you my bucks bestow and restore dignity in humility.’
Sunlight was paling.
Was it drifting on the sea
like an ebbing tide?
It glinted farewell
to a day of sovereignty
as twilight drew nigh.
At the cusp of night
a new monarch took the throne,
glowing was the moon.
Regal as a queen,
gowned in luminous silver,
she decreed her reign.
Celestial diamonds
surrounded her radiance,
facets of starlight.
Supernal nova!
Were they ornaments hanging
in galactic skies?
Incandescent prisms
were reflected in moonbeams
of lambent colors.
Dappled light of morn
was woven with threads of gold
by dawn's gentle hand.
Then, appeared pastels,
lavender, pink and amber,
painted by the sun
on the eastern horizon.
Written: February 10, 2025 For Brian Strand Contest
***********************
In the tempestuous shadows
of my soulful sphere
I squirm in sorrow.
I was wandering through whimsical woods,
alive with hues and aromatic herbs.
Yearning for a soothing serum,
for my katabatic spirit.
The earth reverberates with heartfelt echoes.
as beneath the embroidery of my core,
bleeding brilliant colors onto celestial heights,
wrestling with the shimmering sheen of
love's embrace amidst the turmoil.
My soul swirls in a simmering
cauldron of desires.
Colliding with constellations and orbs at dusk,
cradling the cardinal grief
Like a potent elixir, meticulously
concocted by the cosmos.
Through thick fogs and dusky dimness,
I craft my treasured dreams.
into the breathing bounds,
Wishing to mend the mighty
fissures in life's lofty ledges
with clarity and compassion.
Wretched waves wail.
within me as
I whisper weary woes,
chaotic cries cascade.
in a cosmos that's both
constant and concealed.
I am a heart hungering.
to heal from this havoc,
Searching for serenity.
in soothing scents,
strolling beneath moons
touched by tranquil tones,
Yearning for peace.
Love and loss are my sovereigns.
Crowning me in thistles.
and tints of myrrh
The sun's wrathful gaze
paints my sorrows crimson;
Earth and soul collaborate.
in this eternal quest
for meaning.
In the smoky caress of
eucalyptus groves,
I weep a kaleidoscope of
human feelings—
I'm aching for connection.
yearning for understanding
amidst the storms.
Would that my heart
could seal these wounds
in ink as deep as oceans,
as calm as moonlit cliffs.
Written: August 16, 2025, for contest by Unseeking Seeker
Line of inquiry:
"conjoined with the whole - we play our life role
exuding a scent - granting love consent"
************
Conjoined with the Whole
Not as sovereigns,
but as sylphlike strands,
woven into a ductile tapestry—
Each act of kindness forges
a bond within the communal consciousness.
Love is not a shadowy incantation,
nor a glamour to inveigle us into isolation.
It is hortatory, beckoning forth...
a rosy summons to convene,
amid the clangor of squalor and sojourn
to supplant the slipshod ache
with a warm intention.
We are not mere wanderers
adrift in nebulous vacuum—
We are emulous embers,
thirsting for the amaranthine,
avid to imbue our days,
with seraphic resonance.
Community is not a chimera,
It is pavonine in its iridescent truth,
multivocal in its sweet sorrow,
edacious for connection
but never laden with avarice.
We do not dismiss the burden—
We collocate it, we share it
withdraw from silence,
and cast aside the Icarus myth,
a tale of solitary flight,
Even the untamed child.
crumbles for the quest of kinship—
Even the weary elder winnows,
the soothing balm of a neighbor’s touch.
Love sanctions its courtliness—
not merely a whispered sigh,
but as a philanthropic deed,
a calyx protruding,
amid the clamor of desire.
To love is to be an iconoclast
to find solace in a gentle embrace—
to forbear the yearning
to anathematize others
to witness the evocative elysian—
in the eyes of the distraught.
We are not aphonic.
We are harmonious,
even in our disconsolate times.
We are evocative, full of meaning,
even when our souls feel drained.
And when we reflect,
We accomplish this together—
in the emollient of shared grief,
in the soothing touch of shared joy.
So let us frolic with abandon,
Let us explore the hidden meadows of our lives.
Let us gather in our joy,
transcendent in our understanding,
Our sense of self is transient.
Let us be love—
not as an elusive dream,
but a tangible act.
Let us be united with the whole.
And play our life roles.
with eloquence
vibrancy,
and grace.
I've been to many places.
Seen so many things.
This is where I'll stay, my friends,
Where the bell of freedom rings.
But let me tell a story,
Of bells in other lands.
And how they cracked and crumbled,
From the weight of tyranny's hands.
Built with truth and honesty,
Ringing pure for years.
The people were the sovereigns,
Their status very clear.
But then the tone was changing.
A few were quite upset.
Understanding government
Can be their greatest threat.
The servants said, "The tone is off!"
"We'll fix it if we can.
We'll initiate a bureau
To carry out our plan,
And tax you just a little more
For work that must be done."
The timbre slowly getting worse.
The process had begun.
The people were oblivious
To changes being made.
The bell was slowly cracking
And higher taxes laid.
A private corporation
Controlled the currency.
The gold was taken from them
Along with liberty.
Soon the people asked for help,
They could not stand the weight.
The bell was falling swiftly,
To be destroyed, it's fate.
And they became the servants
That swept up the remains,
Of the bell that fell on hallowed land
And truth that it contains.
The thought of being sovereign?
For a few, a memory.
But most do not remember
Of ever being free.
They struggle, and the simple things
Are now a luxury,
And those that pull the puppet's strings,
Control their destiny.
Can a man – all alone - foist a god upon his fellows
Even if it’s only himself
And they his subjects
G.. is Akbar!
Does the muezzin from the minaret of Qoutoub-Minar
look up or
down to the illiterate savant emperor
whose newly-ordered cosmos
much as Tamerlane and Genghis Khan's blood
mixed gods
invented the Gysin-Burroughs cut-up and fold-in method
a cornucopian chimera
shi'ite-sunnite-kharidjites
hindu/buddhist-jain
confucian-taoist/zoroastrian
orthodox-christian/judaic
saivite-vaisnavite
mahayanist-theravadite
shintoist-zen-chan
agnostic-atheist
A…. is Great!
In the begining there was no VERB for him
In the end
from
"brahmana" Himalayas to the "asurya" Deccan
from
Ghazna and Kabul to the spent chugged mouth of the Ganges
where bloomed the Allah-Upanishad
One common language
One uncommon religion
One classless society
One mutually nourishing art
One scientific quest
and the sweet music of friendly disputation
within then the world’s vastest book and art collection
though knowingly
took to wife an Hindu princess
chose his prime counsellor from among the Brahmin élite
where within hearing distance lithesome nymphs bathed in scented milk
his victoriously wearied warrior limbs back from punitive expeditions
through Panipat Delhi Agra Punjab Gwalior Ajmer
Gujarat Bengal Sind Orissa Baluchistan Ahmadnagar Kashmir
Khandesh
to circumscribe the sub-continent
a Ceasar at the court of Fatehpur-Sikri
Akbar is ___!
Who would parse and complete or conclude the syllogism
For « One » who dared abolish the jiziyah
Note: Jalal ud-Din Muhammad Akbar (1542-1605), the third Mughal Emperor, edicted that muezzins should herald the rising of the sun by the call: Allah-u-Akbar!
The « jiziyah » , a word of Arabic origin, meaning a tax levied on non-Muslims who wished to conserve their own property, and imposed by the Moghul sovereigns – on and off - in India, was abolished by Akbar in his seventh year of accession to the throne.
©: T. Wignesan, March 13, 1992 (from the sequence/collection: "Words for a Lost Sub-Continent")
Was it his head tilt that stumped me—
Was it his keen variations of hilarity,
Was it his words—wild, strange, free,
Like a bird straight out of captivity?
He had a frisky, playful tongue
That sounded like a friend
With no limitations save the time span
Of sixty seconds—
There—none wasted—
No—a wit sharp and full enough
Uttering colloquial meanings I could only dream
To attain through a matter
Of a downloaded app
And yet—he needed only sixty seconds
—on the spit and spot—
To relay inch by inch
A soul so beautiful and rich,
Creative and lovely,
With flawless bite and light
Smart phone readied,
His big toe hit the record button
As he played his tunes,
As he always had
And always will.
He called it the Toe Jam Jamboree,
And I applauded ever so inwardly
With a smile of awed sincerity
Sixty seconds and it ends,
Cut off too soon—
The limitations of fellow man
And fellow receiver
Playfully cruel
Ever playing through
Maybe the thick sail of tunes reached my ears
Beyond the time of the app’s snipping jeers
I told him—ever so inwardly,
His Toe Jam Jamboree was symphony—
Onward with sovereigns in silver harmonies
Reaching a peasant’s light and a warrior’s fight
Straight to a lone cock with feathers too bright
Beak strong-held high, and sharp
Ready to peck his way out of the coldest of hearts
And into ripples of rhythmic paradise
Where there breathes
The guy who attracted me,
With his tilted head,
His words of glee,
Flipping off every useless ad
And sifting words and airs like mad
Toe Jam Jamboree, he called it
And I call it symphony
With a steadied foot
And a readied middle finger
It’s his difference that will always
Linger
I invite you to my window,
Where forks a path you may never go
See that garden there bursting with blooms?
It is yours, but you must only look,
Sit in my boat, but please do not row
It grabs holds and doesn't let go
Great things happen outside that window
The brownies there sing joyful medleys,
Their allure entrancing and deadly.
They whisper come, but I must say no
And out there their world is aglow,
Out there they only reap and never sow.
Saw many a-sovereigns in flowing capes
A stones throw away from dusty drapes
It pains me that I may never go
As you gaze outside my window
Forging conniving plots utterly low
Sure, you may break the glass and climb outside.
But when you breathe in that garden ever-wide,
Will it be what you hoped?
As you gaze outside my window
Longing for more than to watch the plants grow
I bid you, please, to simple gape in awe.
And take it for what it is; a silly law.
Simply stay,
Simply cope...
NOTE: I originally wrote this for a "garden contest" that I stumbled upon. But now that I posted this the contest seems to have vanished :(
A thin veneer of stormy war-clouds arising
To threaten the ever-roiling sovereigns,
Keeping the world in constant surmising
Hence no peace among the sister nations.
To threaten the ever-roiling sovereigns
Each greedily coveting the goods of another
Hence no peace among the sister nations
No family ties of ancestry, sister or brother.
Each greedily coveting the goods of another
Amassing armies for their supposed defenses
No family ties of ancestry, sister or brother,
Nations aggressively building needless fences.
Amassing armies for their supposed defenses
A fragile world divided into opposing castes,
Nations aggressively building needless fences
Makes a thinker wonder how long it can last.
A fragile world divided into opposing castes
Keeping the world in constant surmising,
Makes a thinker wonder how long it can last
A thin veneer of stormy war-clouds arising.
Written May 10, 2022
Mother as wise as Solomon,
beautiful as the purple flush of dawn,
eyes like eccentric moons that quiver in some stationary tarn,
her love dwells like moonlight in my face,
we are familiar to her as a screenplay,
With memory like a sieve,
like a well-ordered cupboard,
ideas spreading with the speed of light,
succeeding each other like an empire of sovereigns,
her words kept ringing in my ears like the ding-dong of a bell.
As flexible as a rubber band,
her smile flashed over her face, like brightness over a flower,
her laugh is like a rainbow-tinted spray,
her words sound like wavelets on a summer shore,
her voice soft and sweet as a tune that one knows.
Fraud and deception of the affluent eyes
Toss my purpose aside and let me hemorrhage humiliation
Drops of unappreciative pain plaster and soil black
Cackles to hide my mammoth of hurt
Echo through a maze of sovereigns and numeric cipher
I’m a non-significant member of manuscript
An unknown, a recluse, a bother
Gauche trials of loss and fray
Matter to none who play the game
Yet in our tightly packed world
The Joker is always included.
Carols
The old story
Revives in the dying year, when carols begin to play:
The familiar tunes open advent windows on scenes we know:
Stoic figures by the crib, and placid beasts in yellow hay:
No dung heap here – all is fragrant in our nativity show.
The church choir
Breathes life into these flat stained-glass figures,
Animating the pearly child and parents cool and trim
With rich cadence and rhyme and descants of heavenly singers:
No discordant beast is allowed to slouch towards our Bethlehem inn.
The congregation are moved to
Sing hallelujah, cheered by the gift of life,
The birth so bravely born, sweet Mary, with neither scream nor curse,
For all is calm and orderly, without a hint of strife,
And neatly done, for foreign kings, with sovereigns in their purse.
Carols:
Comfortable songs amid this northern winter chill.
We shepherds watch and pray each succeeding year:
Hoping that every newborn child will
Have a star, and rise above the clawing hands of poverty and fear.
So the old stories
Are replayed, sometimes redolent of dust. Reworked anew in Palestine,
In Baghdad, Belfast and Bombay:
Sing hallelujah for peace to hold its flimsy borderlines
While tidy shepherds kneel at prayer, to keep disorder well away.
O, come to our feast,
Suspend your drinking laws,
We've plenty of the Beast,
Guffaw! Guffaw! Guffaw!
This Beast is called Red Rum-
It's very potent, too.
Those who drink it-numb,
Their conscience runs askew!
It's the lifeblood of our Cause,
A right, a guarantee.
Our product has no flaws-
'It' wasn't meant to be!
Our Cause is such a lofty one,
The choice of all Elite,
Sovereigns have a lot of fun,
Red Rum is such a treat!
Red is our sign of victory,
Rum has the taste of bliss,
Freedom is our revelry,
A blessed drunkeness!
Red will mean a sacrifice,
But necessary is our choice,
Rum itself will not suffice,
Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice!
Who hails from yonder pew,
To argue for a life?
The thing is mere tissue,
Why cause us undue strife?
I have found your logic crude,
You morals, very rude!
Personally, you're a prude.
And, I'm really not in the mood!
"You have 'it' backwards, dude!"