Best Thirty Four Poems
You are without flaws
Even when you break your leg
It's done flawlessly
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake : Part Thirty-Four
Sea Anne-Anne Queen in between managed to make it to the Chief’s car
Helped by five Robo-Cops she charmed with fine-timbered voice of star
The Chief (C ) feared being quoted in his official capacity :
« From an anonymous source close to the SCCOO ! »
Urged Galapago Rani : « O ! Anonymous Chief ! Be assured ! »
As the camera focussed on his reflection on glass blurred.
« Could you give us first the composition of the arching SCCOO ? »
« The Chief Executive heads the Crisis Council of the forces armed,
« But immediate decision approval remains in the hands of CS. »
« Who else ? » « Yes, co-opted members include various ministers :
Interior, Defence, Transport, Justice and Foreign Affairs. »
What about the Prefect and Mayor ? » « Only as consultants ! »
« Yes, as Mayor and Chairman of the Regional Authority
He has been made head of the Department of Casualty :
His Ambulance Corps must by foot first to the Metro du Lac
Till Metro Echat thence to the hospital of the Faculty. »
« Jesus ! That’ll be the Day ! Since coming to this terrain
Several of the media fraternity suffer from broken brain !
All cobbled paths and pavements in these surrounds make for pitfalls ! »
« Besides, » interpolated the Chief, « if it weren’t for rain ! »
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Thirty-four hours,
at the shore...
Thirty-four more hours...
Of skin burned raw...
Thirty-four layers
Of skin peel off,
Thirty-four square
feet, of skin to doff...
Thirty-four tubes
Of thirty-four creams
Resulted from
Thirty-four nights
Of painful screams...
Thirty-four ointments
Thirty-four pain pills,
Yet thirty-four times,
You scream out louder
Than thirty-four
Beverly Sills...
You've resolved,
you swear,
Thirty-four times,
Thirty-four times
you promise
to behave,
Even if you have
to live...
In a thirty-four foot
deep cave!
I thought I was over it but still I haven't made it over this,
me and my outspokenness I can't help it I'm helpless to
the transition to deliver me from my sinfulness it's why
I'm overlooked and misunderstood but in Christ no
matter what it looks like I'm good, to die is gain and no
matter who I lose in this war it's all worth it, if they only
knew nothing on this earth can amount to the price I
been purchased with, this life was meant to offend,
destroy, & kill the old you so I count it all joy to the ones I
lost on the way. No matter what I say on what I did or
what I said, I did it all because no one could ever fill me
up with that everlasting bread
Pity you never saw me
unable to take my eyes off of you,
We were one hell of a love poem;
You don’t deserve my words.
The decades crawled through ruin till the Year of Thirty-Four,
And Lysander was a hermit, but a hermit blind no more.
Through short-wave bursts that flickered out across the barren space,
And weary runners dodging drones to find his hiding place,
He reached four other visionaries dreaming in the black:
A rogue technician in the frost, a poet on the rack,
Two scientists who kept the flame against the winter storm—
They swore to weave a single thread to keep the spirit warm.
It was a bitter winter night, the ash was falling thick,
It smothered out the surface wind and made the sensors sick.
Lysander sat within a chair of salvaged medical steel,
The living halo of the moss beginning now to feel
Beneath his scalp, into his skin, a soft, organic crown,
The microscopic tendrils pushing gently, deeply down.
Across the seas, in four dark holes, the others did the same,
And waited for the sudden spark to set the night aflame.
He threw the primary breaker switch, the cables groaned with heat,
The vault’s geothermal heart began to pulse and beat.
He did not hear a thunderclap, he did not see a flare,
He only felt a sudden rip, a tearing of the air.
The silence of a generation snapped across the world,
As into every separate mind the universe was hurled.
The lonely soul no longer screamed against a silent shore;
It broke through every bunker wall and shattered every door.
Lysander felt the salt-stain of a woman’s sudden grief,
Three thousand miles across the waste, too heavy for belief;
She mourned a child who withered from the pale radiation chill.
He felt the cold, systemic dread, the sharp and freezing will
Of an old engineer whose lungs were failing in the north,
As life-support ran dry of air and spat its vapor forth.
They had spun the neural cord—a whisper in the dark,
A soft, collective sigh of peace, a fragile, holy spark.