Best Swivelling Poems
Feeling hurt owing to belied expectation
The earth entity floundered hither and thither
Spiralling gloom causing consciousness contraction
The wound cut deep since he relied upon his transgressor
Pain amplified by cyclic thoughts plunged him into despair
For healing he visited a reputed clinical psychologist
Listening patiently seated on a swivelling chair
Of no avail were therapists or hypnotists
Finding no way he asked this question
Who feels the pain and why is relief not simple
This line of inquiry brought him to a clear recognition
Cause of suffering delusion dwelling in images ephemeral
Reflecting deeper if an animal is ensouled in human form
It goes without saying that it’s actions will be feral
We expect not from a carnivore embrace warm
Thus our cognition should be spherical
Meditating thus in silence and stillness
He knew each being acts as of his evolution
With all our flaws we too seek divine connectedness
Yet hastily condemn others by our jaundiced eye perception
The afflicted soul then rose in the light of clear understanding
Looking at the other with kindness and compassion
His own orientation thus prayerfully correcting
In quietude of transcendental meditation
17-January-2021
She grabbed at the quarter full pop bottle neck,
cream soda from Marsh’s,
and held like a truncheon, in the harshest
of voices
produced an otherworldly sound, GETOUT!!
“Give me a chance” and he stepped forward.
Stood aside her I moved towards
“****ing try it”
I’d never seen those eyes.
GETOUT!!
He turned and left.
He never normally got angry,
or swore.
I’d only heard him twice before.
Once as a just unwrapped Dunlop 65, badly hooked, hit the Irish Sea and brought blasphemy and profanity,
“Jesus ****ing Christ”
and as he handed me his driver an inappropriate hidden smirk from me,
his Sunday morning caddy,
for a couple of shots and 20p
The second at Elland road,
stood on the Gelderd End Kop,
Clarke swivelling before side footing in from twelve yards with me sat atop
a stanchion,
him stood behind,
“Get the f*** in” and he shook me as I cheered,
right arm aloft,
scarf tied on the wrist,
mimicking Sniffers celebration.
Sharing in the mass elation.
The best birthday treat.
It wasn’t our fight.
The adults crumbled.
We were let down on all sides.
Pre safeguarding times.
No support, no care.
Only the adults got choices,
not the era to listen
to five scared tyke voices.
Wahine hula dance all night
Swivelling hips beneath moonlight
But comes the dawn
Bikini on
They surf the waves like dynamite!
Would you please tell me where I wronged you
Said I to Love
As we sat close to each other
Yet,
Distanced!
Would you please tell me
As I understand not,
After all,
I simply obeyed the skies,
The booms of my heart
And the tugs of my senses!
I obeyed them all
And lay there
With my soul bared,
With my porous infections exposed
With my fragility held tight in your hands!
Still, when you broke me
I chose to hide my pain
Behind sweet civilities
And neutral smiles
As,
Believing in the madness swivelling around the mysticism
Which desires our bond
Remains
A cause meant solely for the mad!
I don't understand how I wronged you
Maybe the silence, coupled with misunderstanding,
That has settled comfortably between us
Is to be blamed!
Maybe, all it requires is a push of the will
As the second hand pushes the minute one
As the winds push todays into tomorrows
As fate itself pushes souls towards their chosen journey!
Still, know that I remain yours
To handle with care
Or to break with rage
I remain yours
As your solace is to me
What nectar is for bees!
I have written for you the day I started to write
I have written lines and lines
Knowing not that I would cross your path in this world
And I shall keep doing so
As long as the body that carries me
Still has enough strength in it to allow me to!
21st June 2019
light penetrated dark, sound birthed
the Word ~ p o e t r y
a superlative emitting that which changes
emerging when ripened as verse
speaking to people faraway
unlocking alphabets from minds
to glide, fast fly, jump or slowly crawl, landing
at destined places, swords or aces
I am Poetry ~ weep or whimper not for me
existentially dancing, enthralling, glancing at
blank paper to be embroidered in ink
ruby red, black or olive green
free flow I from fingers fragile, artistic or sturdy
regulate me only for joy or exploring expansion
perhaps for judicious judgement
I, P o e t r y ~ sequins of Love convoluted or rayed, in service
purifying emotive sentiments conditioned, romantic, missioned
Heart is my home where rest my letters, forms
cadences, couplets, epics
in non-bewildered intelligence visioning dreamscapes
divine, liberated from bandages, buckles, bondages
alive is my Supersoul breath giving voice to electrons
protons, neutrons which fleetingly capture
essenced life through observed elixirs
as Poetry, I witness action followed by pure
stillness ~ transcendental whirlpools in orbits
my limbs reach language lyrical or plain
burnished and wise
cherishing recitals in sacred spaces
I activate thoughts and visions remaining
supremely unattached attuning words
for Grace ~
undulate imagination in perfect waves
misty, clear or intricate, intriguing, unblemished
gratifying, swivelling, sizzling in my own
fire or ice
I, Poetry, consummated
voice the W o r d
Winter Fantasia.
Snowman, his coat a trillion frosty threads...crotched by Jack,
the naughty mischief maker.
Each crystal cast perfect by Boreas. #
Blizzard bullies, bustling, jig-sawed sleet,
crystallized in my mindscape of imagery.
Winter Sun dares to melt you down, pasty white.
Your peculiar perfume, suggests ice cubes soaked in lemon-crush.
Shiver, quiver. As goose-bumps frazzle your Arctic world
the moon shines crazy, diamond flames hang in the lonely sky.
I materialise you...the absent person,
I colour the scene with my paintbrush and bucket.
Bold, stiff... blow a bon-bon kiss,
you sentry on snow-laden ice,
under heaven-hung, bunting stars...
a diamante necklace, swanked by Nyx, Greek Goddess of the Night.
Platted rainbows twist, entwine hues, illuminate
a fibre-glassed squirrel who morphs into a swirl of peppermint puffs
and whirls round in muffled silence.
Rouge-crested Robin rests on cold shoulder, then
alights on umber wings...
Ruby stained Snowman chuckles like river ripples,
egg-white flakes dying to pirouette,
airborne ballerinas, swivelling, spinning...
from knitted, silken clouds, finer than a Fuschia’s blush.
Come Spring sprinkles of Lime grass and creamed Crocus
blanket my view where you once stood.
Reality or imagination, I am the speaker of this poem,
so Jack, draw fern-like patterns on my windows, then
run away with Nymph shadows...
Even the wind dies happy.
# Boreas...Greek God of Winter.
We dragged the slopes to our feet.
On the summit, we burnt our clothes
for wood and there shuffled our feet
in the hush of the falling snow.
We had come out of the scuffed grass.
With one look back in unbelief
exhuming the long trek
the silent keen
puffing through blubbery fingers.
We pulled the hoofed trail through
the trapdoor of our unchained links
foisting for new heights.
Beyond the Appalachian Mountains
the hanging fern on pine dripped snow
on moles burrowing in gashed hollows.
We paused. In that doubtful moment
we rued the climb, succumbing to the assault
upon this stilled millennia’s eerie silence.
All that time the swivelling blizzards raged
shifting soil, eroding avalanches.
Below, burgeoning customs
unmaned the silent dignity of bisons.
All bore testimony to a familiar preparation.
And then, suddenly before our eyes
the solemn ground rose with the breeze
the spangled map changing to the quick:
Chicago Pittsburgh Kansas City
wild barnyards dry-coughing, pop-corning garages
horrent timber ribbed the coasting steamboats
the linoleum walls
the mild Indian piqued he was
by the mahogany cubism of our speech.
We wondered if coming so far
only mattered, we would be content
to build a fire, here and now
and unpack our horses.
We saw little need to go on.
One night the summit might open
up and swallow us all or old age
would come upon us like a lonely neighbour
on a pretext to the door.
© T.Wignesan 1964
London, U.K.
[from the collection: tell them i’m gone, 1983; published in Fire Readings (A Collection of Contemporary Writing from the Shakespeare & Company Fire Benefit Readings). Paris-Boston: Frank Books, 1991, pp. 36-37.]
"Another Man’s Treasure"
Jetsam tumbles
broken doorbells
no one
answers
anymore
ironing boards
pressing to imprint
something of significance
a life, your life
droll and predictable
it all sinks
to the bottom
of a bad dream
with yesterday’s
stale tears
sharp heels
clicking on a parquet floor
like knives ripping words
jagged scratches on old wallpaper
like a warning thrown at a wall
Sundry feelings furry
ageing inevitable
intimate moments blurry
moulding green against a new life
you prophesy diamond clean
their part in your life
half-state now
pill swallowed
like a bad dream
forgotten
and
there you sit and twirl
grinning from ear-to-ear
on your swivelling black leather chair
before a glowing screen
lighthouse revolver ready
evolving
glowing prisms adrift
blue ribbons of seaweed green
tangled in your wide Sargasso Sea
morse code blinking reverie
lost memories pleasantly drowned
like a murderess you pin them down
then, the tight grasp of possibilities
rise to face the horizon
eventually, they are Marco Polo found
and
there you are
midpoint
hovering
poised
waiting
Unconditional
Singular
One man’s trash
Another Man’s Treasure
(LadyLabyrinth/2020)
"Wonders of the Deep" / Chemical Brothers
https://youtu.be/xHEgT--jJLk
It makes a heart glad to know
there are still, small country towns
like Woodford, where homes
with large old trees,
sit scattered between small shops
and local businesses
To think the spirit of Elvis exists
in a greengrocers’, called, “Grapelands.”
‘Elvis Parsley’ swivelling his hips
amongst the carrots and parsnips
imitating “Blue Suede Shoes."
I select a punnet of strawberries
as a smile slips out at the absurdity,
of how, some live out their fantasies
“Blue blue “…you can do anything
I cross the street to check out
a “Second-hand” furniture store.
It is closed so I cup my hands
and peer through the window.
A group of old, store mannequins
piques my interest, draped in 50’s fashions
It seems like a time warp, as there
are no opening hours posted on the door.
I wonder if the mannequins
are an eccentric collection,
or, if they were for sale,
which one, I would buy,
The one, with eyes, demurely cast down,
or, the arm-less one,
looking enviously past her
Back on the street, I inhale sun-warmed earth,
as I walk past a garden’s bright picket fence.
A shiny black crow flaps up, startled.
Suddenly I smell, what the scent of home
is like, for someone else.
For My Kind of Town Contest
Janis Thompson
Scented ember a moulted smoulder
Skied as crackling softness
Spied and felt thru a film of dexterity
Uncalibrated, solvent, translucid
Trance and dance
Street fleet, guttering inhabited by creased indoctrination
Yet to be ironed
Yet to be pressed and left on the stoop
Cornered like bluefin, fed, foddered and canned
'Til the ink runs dry
Dust, seen but not sawn
Settles on my pine needles
Green hue askew now turns to blue
Appointed to the disjointed and as hard edges glint
Drones trudge thru sludge to fund the mints
(I know these words are bare, and that this poetry is bleak but it's channelled from a source which I seek.
A clear blue nectarous swivelling blissmist.)
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Fifteen
She dreamed a dream all unfulfilled all through the dragging day
Even while she tossed and grumbled half-starved and in dismay
Two lives she lived as the swivelling Door swung through her faith
Did Ol’ Khayyam keep her company absent during the day
Through the empty branches on her shoulders the squinting sun
blinked
Yet tore a dazzling path across her swirling lithesome loins inked
The constant lapping and lolling currents tilling her mien
Where the light-foot Lass of Lahore gravely treads lights fuse linked
Doleful night or dreary day the Door swings loose on hinges
As the Maudite of the Lake knows not whether Khayyam cringes
At his quest to seek and save her from the blindness of fate
Even as the sizzling orb blurs the horizons fringes
A lone lost dove hops from one Tim Burton branch to another
Damp benches under white birch trees keep lover from lover
Unseen seeds shoot their hopes through decaying wheezing morasses
As pigeons corner head-darting mates across her feet’s lather
The sluices of her invisible canal lie in limbo
Each level of water rises into some alter ego
Till the Door that she must cross opens on Ol’ Khayyam’s quest:
Now her brimming breast heaves with the Bard’s bold super ego!
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
The sunset was amazing,
Blinding,
Divine, wonderful!
Yet, standing on the ocean bed
Was a warship
Loaded, armed,
Ready to attack!
It felt like life on Earth had become hell
Now,
To fight shall we
To try to survive shall we
All else,
Dreams, secrets, longings,
Ambitions, love, great becomings,
Nothing would ever be of purpose!
I wanted to immortalize it on my camera
So bent was I on my purpose
That I saw you not standing nearby
Trying to grasp the sight as well!
Pray,
Should this warship be between us?
Said I to you
As you made me realize of your presence
Why does it even exist?
Why is it here?
What is it supposed to achieve?
Without it,
Life would be all love
Grandiose, exciting,
A stay worth all its due
In a world which gives us not its meaning!
Pray,
Should this warship be between us
Repeated I again
While looking deep into your eyes,
Losing myself in their depth
So much that I saw not time
As it sped by
Bidding the sun to sleep
And the moon to glow, as gloriously as ever!
I knew not when I was pulled into your warmth
I knew not when the night drew its stars on the dark sky
I knew not when the waves turned rogue enough
As to sink the warship!
I knew nothing,
Other than experiencing the bliss
Of swivelling in between the urges of both our needs!
I knew nothing till the next day,
When I woke up
With the revelation that the Gods
Were finally content!
Not
the dripping words from rotund cheeks
Or
the mesmerized audience in fashionable conferences
Not
the frantic letters pawned from sacred pages
Nor
the cowering force of conviction in hallowed institutes
Neither
the skewed statistics manufactured on swivelling chairs
Abi
omniscient,omnipresent hard-mini-traitors know me
Rather,
I am the brackish fluid in hunger gorged sockets
the menacing cloud in the orphans eyes
the rumblimg rage in growling bellies
the taut thread on diseased diaphragms
the bloodless taste of conquered cities
the shriek from stripped streets
the chaos from breadless tables and passionless beds
and the repugnant smell of decaying dreams
I AM POVERTY!
You will have to fight to survive
Whispered the guardian angels
Watching over me
As I was swivelling in between the folds
Of consciousness lapsed in deep sleep!
You will have to fight
Even if we will be by your side!
My soul woke up, bloomed into a hurt heart
And it whispered back,
Why should I fight for it
If such is not what was chosen for my fate?
Pray, I would accept Death even if such was what was
Deemed best for me
I would accept anything except having to fight
For that which was never destined for me!
Why should I fight?
Is Life on Earth a battlefield?
Are we to fight for survival, for love, for security?
This is getting way too heavy for my frail stature
Guardian angels, muse of my poetry,
This is getting way too heavy
Pray, if life, or love is not meant for me
Then may I denied of it!
I don't believe in fighting for anything
The blinded and the unawakened fight,
Guided by their senses, by their egos
They fight for that which is transient, for that
Which is temporary, for that which turns to shadows
They fight for that which is not to be fought for!
Why, after all, Existence remains a mystery
Of our purpose here in this world we still have no idea
Struggling have I always been with life
And with everything that makes it up
Ever since I first dawned
Yet, I always held out my palms in resigned submission
To whatever life has to give me
I'd rather crumble, die, shatter into nothingness
Than fight!
OUTSIDE YOUR WINDOW IS A BRILLIANCE OF LEAVES SWIVELLING AND
DANCING ROUND AND ROUND. THE SKY IS THE COLOR OF MAPLE SYRUP.
THERE IS A HINT OF BURGUNDY ETCHED ON EACH GOLDEN LEAF (B)
YOUR HEART HAS BECOME A SYMPHONY OF AUTUMN, RUSTLING ALONG
BREEZY AND HAPPY AS A WAYWARD KITE. CHILDRENS LAUGHTER IN YOUR
EAR AND WINDBLOWN PATCH OF EARTH ARRIVE IN YOUR COLORFUL
PLAYGROUND, AND SUDDENLY YOU ARE YOUNG AGAIN.(B)
STANDING ON A HILL OF LEAVES YOU RAISE YOUR ARMS AND DROP THE
LEAFLETS THEN WATCH THEM TUMBLING DOWN BRINGING SHADES OF
COCOA BROWN, PUMPKIN ORANGE, GOLDEN GATE RED AND MELLOW
YELLOW (B)
PUMPKIN GRINS AND BLUSHING APPLES SITTING ON A LINEN TABLECLOTH
OF WHITE AND RED. JACKOLANTERNS WILL SOON BE LIT AND COSTUME
DRESS WILL BE IN FULL SWING. DIVE INTO AUTUMN SECRETS AND TALK TO
NATURE IN YOUR QUIET AND SURE VOICE. TELL THE BUDDING PINCONES
ABOUT YOUR LOVE OF FRESH OCTOBER CALLS. ETCHED ON A LEAF I SEE
A WORD. IT SPELLS P E A C E.
(B)