Best Thumbed Poems
A dark room with a small wooden desk, no lamp
A thick pad of paper and a typewriter, never used
Like a museum exhibit, though they aren’t allowed to gather dust
And dead flies and moths, a pack of playing cards
I never learnt to play, but still they’ve turned yellow with age
The shelves full of books, thumbed and read a million times
The pages fall out sometimes onto the slanted shelf, broken
The cascade of over-used books falling into each other
A literary car crash
The carpet burnt by years of clumsiness, dark and worn
The ceiling stained by years of nicotine, the cigarette smoker
Looking on at a world frozen, the books are the only living things
Read a million times and thumbed to death, the dirty pages blending into each other
The faces and the timeless, frozen authors and poets, trapped here forever
In the corner, a lonely television set, never used and not even plugged in
The lonesome keyboard, beaten a million times, my voice recorded
The German tongue, screamed above piano murder, the manslaughter of my violin
A cultural car crash
The curtains, white to ivory to ashen, unopened in an age
Time to let the world come in through the never-before-seen window
I sit upon the bed and watch the silhouettes gather, their vagabond army
Creeping over everything with their tired and dirty little hands
The books I’ve read to death, the literary suicide, gathering in a spot of light
Like flocking birds fleeing for the winter, their matted feathers and scabbed legs
They can’t fly anywhere, trapped here, my favourite victims, dead within the covers,
Like broken pigeons trapped within damning cages. I close the door and leave
The untouched car crash
That’s not my elephant you see
right there in the garden.
Mine is in the prison
where he’s waiting for a pardon.
That one in the garden
is a charming one named Ella.
Mine just steals spaghetti off my plate;
Obnoxious fella!
Second graders like to come
watch Ella spray the roses.
At MY elephant those kids
just simply thumbed their noses.
Ella waters all the flowers,
helping out our town.
George (that’s mine), behind cell bars,
just sits and wears a frown.
But he’s been attending
inmates’ classes -Monday nights.
And his teacher taught him
all about the Bill of Rights.
He’s learned that his Miranda Rights
were overlooked, and so. . .
he made me find a lawyer
and I found one in the know!
So my unruly elephant
is getting out real soon.
A female has been writing him.
He’s way over the moon!
His lady likes to spray.
He told me, “Carry an umbrella
when you walk me down the aisle
with my charming bride named Ella.”
LOST in the "That's Not My Elephant" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Matt Caliri
I got out my pipe and stuffed it with pot,
You better believe, it held a whole lot.
I whipped out a lighter and thumbed up a flame,
Then sucked down that smoke which comforts my brain.
I tried alcohol; and smoked cigarettes,
Though, they did nothing, but give me regrets.
My mom had arthritis and couldn't walk around.
When I rolled her a joint, she danced on the ground.
I thought I was losing my lovemaking knack,
But, after I smoked some, to me it came back.
Soon I decided prices were too high,
So I searched for some ground I wouldn't have to buy.
I bargained for seeds from smokers all around,
Then, got in my truck and drove out of town.
I walked through the woods where the wild birds nest,
And found me the meadow I thought was the best.
I dug up the ground and sowed all my seeds;
Then said a small prayer for strong, healthy weeds.
I watered at night with a five-gallon pail;
The mosquitoes went hungry for I wore a veil.
Eight months went by; I thought I would die,
'Till the Halloween moon was high in the sky.
One night I went out, in my camouflage suit,
And used a corn knife to chop down the loot.
I hung it up to dry where it couldn't be found.
Then came back and got it, when it had turned brown.
I trimmed off the buds, and stuffed them in bags,
Called all my friends and passed out free drags.
In less then a week, my crop was gone!
But, I flew to St. Thomas with love-hungry blond.
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
It was never exactly pinpointed
for only the African Crowned Eagles knew of the twisting paths
to its misplaced place.
In that crystalline chamber, upon that gold dusted floor
were found much thumbed volumes of all Nietzsche’s
works,
a penguin in a glass bell,
a twig cut from the tree of Life one million years from now'
A windblown leaf but only the wind that blew it.
a silver cuspidor, a ancient helmet made of Pittsburgh steel,
a Neolithic moonshine still,
a copy of the illustrated Karma Sutra,
several debunked words of wisdom from Aristotle,
an Olmec Letter Opener.
and a stuffed tufted rat.
The find has been carefully transported to the Smithsonian
where neuroscientists are trying
to solder together all these missing links.
The NYT has declared these odd finds
to be ‘Russian disinformation,’
but ‘Bokonon’ the mythical poet-sage of the Republic
of Never-Never Land
has blessed each artifact and declared them
to be far too strange not to be absolutely true.
More than a pot of gold awaits beyond the rainbow’s end;
Leprechaun’s are of the faerie clan and they play tricks.
The clever little bugger’s are sure, your mind to send;
on fascinating journeys that’ll leave you in a fix!
You may end up with two noses for, poking just one in
their secret world of mystic arts, that you are not to see.
The fact is, they’re the real bogeymen,
do not befriend, those Leprechaun’s, so wee!
I had a friend, into their den, went he.
I hear him screaming to this day, his tiny little shout,
barely taps my ears yet, Leprechaun laughs with glee;
I know my friend’s trapped within and will never get out.
Saint Patrick may have scared away snakes;
his courage never frightened the Fey.
While the snakes may quiver and quake;
the Fey thumbed their noses while snakes slithered away.
Written 3-11-19
For: "Pick A Title, Vol. 2 - Rhyme - Poetry Contest"
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Kermit thumbed a top shelf magazine
It had pictures; which were quite obscene
The frog got arrested
For it was attested
The worst ‘frog’s ****’ that they’d ever seen!
(poem based on an old joke)
07-20-17
Her tread even lighter than a field mouse,
Her gown more bluer than a cloudless sky;
She stiffens like the cat about to pounce:-
Right now...another wretched soul to die.
Hand as Michelangelo's hand of God;
Outstretched arm pausing momentarily;
And in that dreadful instant some poor sod
Staring back: eyes imploring, "no...not me".
The awful deed, that last despairing look --
An elderly generation betrayed!
Constant self-rebuking and endless tears;
For in her well thumbed, cherished book
There is no solace found upon a page...
Just a guilt borne unto her final years.
a higher purpose
celestial highway thumbed
eternity in focus
Blank pages in a book
yet thumbed and coffee stained.
Stared at in bemusement
long lost fairy tales.
No beginning, No end
the story stays untold.
To turn the page is pointless
as the next page is just the same.
Oh how you loved the author
their work from younger days.
The love, the laughter , the tragedy
of long lost fun filled days.
Chapter after chapter
the pages are just the same.
I crave an happy ending
to stare into your eyes and see
a reflection of us from years gone by.
for you to then speak my name .
so I can close the book
on this love filled tale.
I'm that dog sitting in the rain over his best friend's grave.
I've waited fifteen years for your spirit to brush against my spirit.
I believe some brown-thumbed clod pruned your heart.
Cut too often- too deeply with a blade of insensitivity.
Honed his cruelty on your vulnerabilities.
Made himself a shrine from your broken pieces.
Tossed you to the darkness, cleaved your light.
Then offered you a cool drink on the coldest night of your life.
I'm the dog in the rain waiting indefinitely.
The Devil spoke to me
with glee about what could be, promising, possibly,
he thumbed a drum of hearts pulsing
so I could see the drug of love
that I was missing,
a tempo true and rude impossible to elude
took my breath to the hue of blue,
reflections of calm joy and coy laughter,
refractions violent and violet floating vibrantly,
demons and angels in the flesh fighting forever for admiration
of a clever and aloof Trinity demanding dues,
he said may your body be dense and follow the sequence
of the spirits with you and never miss your cue,
I was awestruck, rendering enquiry futile
as prayers in perdition,
the clouds were copious, his face lucent & sizzling,
nefarious and dangerous these galleys and valleys are,
gamble the gambit of your soul's sanctity,
In the cold stillness consumed by a gray melody
an ancient perfume of rose blood
inflated my mind moonstruck,
a woman wise and disguised like a brilliant bandit
with persuasive eyes presented to me keys to her city,
the Daughter of my Devil was indellibly pretty and sitting lonely saying,
believe me through love and find liberty,
try your luck in rivers red
and in deep seas soliciting felicity,
pick a course and secure your rolling rope
to this feather never to pluck,
horse power and a flower dower,
love your Mother always in hallways dark,
then I was born once more -
J.A.B. 2003
I thumbed my way across the states,
flew over oceans. I lost myself in city crowds,
tried the boundaries of my brain's
inventiveness -- yet I did not outrun Time.
I did the things some young men do,
avoided others. Years shrunk the heights:
my expectations changed. I fell and climbed.
The journey still excites; the roads still wind.
And, still, there is much to see.
That will never become enough for me.
But I'll never outrun Time.
In the sitting room by the wall stands
Great Grandfather's pride and joy
The glass fronted mahogany bookcase
Scratched and worn, but still majestic
Housing beautiful old books
The choices of generations past
A set of Shakespeare Plays, leather bound
'Great Short Stories of the World' and
'The Lost World of the Kalahari'
Books on Botany and even Hypnosis
With Classics to improve the mind
Much thumbed dictionaries and a big red Atlas
Pictures of exotic places
Preserved
Stale smell add to the magic
For the curious child.
Broke down
On the side of the road
Got no where to go
Just a flat tire
Slept in the car till day light
Thumbed a ride to a Texaco
Man says, “Girl you look wiped out,
You could stay at my place for the night.”
Ain’t got no control ain’t got no money
So what do you say honey?
Wiped out left alone
On this American road
Yeah, I’m wiped out left alone
Got no place left to go
Rain running down the window shield
Tears in my ears got everything to lose
Make up don’t do me no good
Can’t afford change, got no lipstick to wear
Put your hands down my dress
Ugly man what a mess
Bend over it’s all over
So what do you say honey?
Wiped out left alone
On this American road
Yeah, I’m wiped out left alone
Got no place left to go.
Wiped out left alone
Wiped out I can’t get home.
Wiped out left alone
Wiped out I can’t get home