Best Wean Poems
She’s too titty to be a preacher.
She can’t even bead a rook.
A rental deceptionist? Maybe.
At my teeth she once look a took.
As a wean clerker, she’ll never do.
I once caught her nicking her pose.
She doesn’t even hash her wands.
And she chews the tails off her nose!
For this lad sass, I see joe knob.
No mouse or honey has she.
Her life has not one pun fart!
I’m glow sad I’m shot knee.
Written march 25, 2016 for the Contest of Roy Jerden
A soul is divine it is said,
by spiritualists, well read,
but what soul is, most have not seen,
who are by scriptures blindly led.
Detached hermits, whose needs are lean,
in staid stillness have felt soul’s sheen,
which we too can know, if we choose,
erst fears and desires, from heart wean.
With agape love as our heart’s muse,
following truth without excuse,
we then see soul, as light of God,
whence mind games no longer amuse.
Made in God’s image, soul’s a pod,
blooming when we give love our nod,
shining within, as living light;
revelation that leaves us awed.
Bliss drenched soul pulsates with delight,
humming gently by day and night,
as God’s essence, alive, aglow,
known when awakens inner sight.
Thus truth of soul, if we would know,
we must make first, our thought flow slow,
whereupon we see soul’s divine;
whence God guides us and we follow.
toss anger, he said
into the bin of waste
waste not mankind’s love
with abuse and bite
the bullet skies
high the eagle flies
why not the steeple
less with feathers flocked
why not the pews on
threadbare knees
that knock and palms
close touch of closed
and ethereal eyes, in shock
of amazing blue, far above
the whizzing bell of shots
some fell, some rise
both have a knell and sigh
anger flung like monkey dung
lay upon the sheetrock roof
its lies are born and cradled
evil has a childhood, is able
to wean and crawl, to fall
toss anger, he spoke
to the deaf and blind
they never woke nor wised
up. six feet downer done
swept into the bin of waste
a godforsaken life
A Spiritual Narrative
Love Is to be, or not to be, you see
The soul’s choice to be , is made freely
Love , the source, of course, of which souls partake
To be love, from above
You were created to be, not, not to be
Your being is precious, of one piece, will not cease
Please run in this race, keeping the pace
There is one in all, therein is gall
Best of all, there is no fall
One not mature, Oh dear, hath fear
Maturity excluded, love is eluded
Ah, but Love’s grace intervene, and I shall wean
From mother’s milk, to father’s meat,
Meanwhile, Love’s grace, shall take the heat
With my serpent mind beat, I shall retreat
Into whence I came, I’ll return again
Back into my sacred heart, is from where I start
To re connect, above, with love
And with my mind seeing, my being
The soul, I have made my goal
My soul recognizes it’s home, no more need to roam
For the mind illusion, was only outer intrusion,
Of a mind of fleshly strife, trying to create a life
Twas only a dilemma, of the mind, in structured time
In the temporal line, an immortal
Out of it’s portal, become mortal
Without it's connection, of love’s direction
But upon careful inspection, in love’s direction
The narrow way, comes into play
Though few there be that find, for eye of the mind,
Is so very blind, a need of love to be re-align
To a sign, of truth, the mind aloof, will always goof
A soul that has found it’s heart, has found it’s start
So very smart, Love’s booth is it’s cart
Once found from, will never again depart
For I am love, as a dove, spewed within from above
The dove above, is my Father Love,
And I am being of plenty, for I am Love’s entity!!!
[email protected]
Fat midnight bats feast, gnawing gnats, and flit away serene
while on the trails in distant dales the lonesome wolverine
sate appetites as dawn alights and daytime's crystalline.
A migrant feeds on rotting seeds with fingers far from clean
and thereby’s blessed with barren breast (the easier to wean) -
her baby sucks an arid flux and fades away unseen.
On earth I know of no such taste,
No nectar of the Gods so chaste,
So pure, so gentle, full of grace;
As my true love, tomato paste.
Good “ketchup”, as you’re widely known
Wouldst that I could all thee own;
Round thee, ketchup, I’m thy drone;
Ascend thee to thy regal throne.
In bottle, you with bright, red sheen,
You beckon like a harlot queen,
And oh, my heart is swiftly keened,
Like babes to mothers wean.
The bottle tipped, thy rich, red ooze
Slips forth like soft and tumbling glues,
And marvel I. Yet I must choose
T’annoint the heads of sleeping foods:
‘Pon fish or chips or stoutly steak
Thy blessing might I deign to make,
And slowly o’er them thou dost snake
In anacondic swirls and takes.
I praise thee, ketchup, and I haste
To glory at thy noble taste:
‘Pon my tongue you swiftly chase
My tingling taste buds, and you race –
O’er my teeth you blood-like flow
‘til all my senses rush to know
Thy rich and red and warmly glow
- - and so!
O ketchup, thou art garnish queen
And thou art gracious food supreme,
Companion thou hast often been
To many foods of lesser mien.
And this I know, dear ketchup, yet
Have I in faith, one great regret:
Though I and you in love are set,
. . . my wife and you are in dissent.
Must our affair be clandestine?
Must I be forced to steal and hide
My fuller portion on the side
Of mashed potatoes, shrimp, or pie?
No, ketchup no: I know that I
With such deceit cannot comply;
Choose I must ‘tween thou and my
Belov’d . . . oh how I cry.
Yet wed so long, I must confess
When “pass the ketchup” is address’d
No more my hand will serve excess,
. . . but my dear heart will cry no less.
Do dreams dream-up the Dreamer to mean something
Do dreams go on dreaming without the Dreamer dreaming
Hold not dreams in mid-stream even during Covid-19
Woken-up dreams scream wild as harpies in poetic shebeen
Don’t dreams tend to come round like long lost tunes tinnitus din
The Dreamer dreams in the Void trillion times trillion
And leaves no trace of hung time-spaced dream dreaming in the Dream
Who would dream dreams for oneself they wouldn’t highly esteem
Dreams worthy of a world they didn’t really mean to wean
In the first place out of a Void-less Big-Banging blinding sheen
The Big-Bouncy Dream teasing the fistful of mashed Big-Crunchy cream
Where the Dreamer bounces his Dream on the seamless turf green
O’er and o’er again ‘till the Dream turns tinnitus mean
Till the recurrent Dream the Dreamer dreams his own Uni-Verse seem
Ev’ry dream’s the Multi-Verse of a unique team unseen
Do dreams dream-up the Dreamer standing-up on a linear Time pin
(c) T. Wignesan – Paris, January 17, 2021
Grace Paces in four faces
…………………..
Graces in four faces
of trinity, three paces
living in life races
a lion, a calf, a man, an eagle
A flying eagle…
complete and legal
Ah….Loves grace intervene…
by and by one shall wean
of Mothers milk
to Fathers meat
one shall complete
by grace, amazing feat
Meanwhile…
Love’s dear child
in love meek and mild
a serpent spent and beat
shall soon retreat
as grace absorbs life heat
A cycle of seven
Love’s blueprint of heaven
earth cycles seven/eleven
of whorish bevvies
Sub consciously…
Human concepts grievous
+++++++++++
Warning: A view from human concepts might find the preceding
poem a bit preachy, as sub consciously this terminology
has emerged of human concept for purpose of discrediting wisdom
when it is imparted of Godly precept. While wisdom imparted on the
level of human concepts is declared to be the only source and means
of conveying knowledge. “Two Logics!” (Isaiah 55:7-11) (The Christly
mind vs. the human mind) “You have the mind of Christ!”
You May use it!
Selah….
To a woman
(In this traslation of Paul Verlaine’s sonnet : « A une femme »,
I have retained the rhyme scheme to the letter, I hope. T. Wignesan)
To you these lines in faith must console I address :
A sweet dream laughs and cries in your large eyes through
The purity of your soul which is wholly good, to you
These lines from the depths of my turbulent distress.
Just that, Alas ! the nightmare which haunts me hideous
Allows no respite and furious, mad and jealous continue
Multiplying themselves like wolves in a funeral retinue
Hanging on to my fate which at their mercy they harrass !
Oh ! how I suffer, I suffer hopelessly, so mean
That the initial whimperings of the first man
Banished from Eden a mere eclogue to the cost I wean. !
And the minor discomforts you may endure in comparison
Are like the swallows in the sky on an afternoon
- My Dear – make the beautiful warm September day a boon !
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Your room remains unchanged-
just as it was when you went away-
Care Bears and books still arranged,
your dolls all lined up on display.
On the table by the window nigh-
miniature Briar horses on array-
now gather dust not knowing why
you nevermore come in to play.
The Gingham Dog and Calico Cat
are held captive behind your door-
Green Eggs and Ham and a crooked hat
bring a smile to your face no more.
There are no more Easter eggs to dye-
or costume parties on Halloween-
no more sugar and spice or kites to fly-
no more baby kittens to wean.
Annie remains forever young-
but not so real little girls-
childhood times are too soon done-
stolen away as time unfurls.
Cabbage Patch Kids and lets pretend
have given way to wedding rings
I always knew that these must end-
bitter-sweet memories each now brings.
@ 2000
The termite culture's rich and vast,
more so, sometimes, than humankind,
with martyrs and mujahideen,
and projects ponderous yet precise,
and back-up plans, a hundredfold.
How do they do it?
Society is based on caste,
with tasks and territory assigned
by social rank. Some watch, some wean,
some whittle, weave, ward off, entice,
while food for all is fairly doled.
How do they do it?
Their architecture's unsurpassed,
with geodesic shapes, designed
with opulence almost obscene,
and altruists. Self-sacrifice
is common. And they mine for gold!
How do they do it?
Hardly least and never last,
over her subjects (all of them blind)
there reigns a massive, fertile queen,
releasing pheromones (how nice!)
She lives to forty-five years old!
How do they do it?
I'm Mephistopheles, you, my Faust
I'm to your mind what a fluorescent bulb is...
To a fly. I take perverse pleasure
In trapping you in my undertow
I'm a tireless tease that will break your will
I live in your mind, rent-free. I'm tough to evict
I'm your friend with bad intentions
Always up to mean mischief
I show no mercy to my victims, and I have...
No remorse. I couldn't care less whether
You're a person of virtue or vice
I couldn't care less about your age...
Your race; your religious or political affiliation
Once I've seized plenary control of you
My sole aim is to destroy you, and take your soul
I'm that enticing demon that tempts you...
Minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day
Refusing to let you sleep or take a vacation
Wean me off at your peril
My name is addiction
Date written and posted: 05/30/2019
The legend begins before time begins
In a far away land so beautiful and green;
The child gushed out to the sunny world
And was given the name Eileen!
But the gal was not an ordinary child
For she spoke poetry so supreme
In that far away foreign land
That was beautiful, vast, and green!
Since then, the journey of words took off
Writing to her became a daily routine;
Places visited, people met, and life incidents
All were summoned on papers agleam;
She gave birth to visions beyond
Any limits of time and sound
That girl who was called Eileen!
The spirits she evoked whenever she wrote
Rejoiced her name in the holly ravine!
The gal knew not she owns within her hands
A power that runs like a stream,
She poured her love to all who were around
From when she was a preteen!
But life was somehow severe and
Compelled to change the scene;
The young maiden travelled across the world
Leaving hometown and forced to wean!
Yet, the green fields she missed were revived
In a lyric, a song, or a heart-aching scene;
For the myth did engrave deep in the heart
Of the gal named Queen Eileen,
A light that surpasses any other light
Just as her name does mean!!
© Guru Jad 2013
* Dedicated to my Muse Eileen Ghali.. The greatest friend and supporter that anyone can meet!
Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent – 36
All day long we kill to keep the home clean
Insecticides aerosols rat poison
The killer instinct makes us bold and mean
Down by the pond mosquitoes wake and preen
Time to send fighter jets by the dozen
All day long we kill to keep the house clean
Peeled apples for veg flies succulent wean
We spend week-ends choking every last one
The killer instinct makes us bold and mean
Kids we love but not the kind who boil spleen
So we sock the wife more than hard in the bun
All day long we kill to keep the home clean
At Antipodes some guys flex muscles lean
Call that homefront affront to smite them down
The killer instinct makes us bold and mean
What counts home comfort by all overseen
Secure society to foist nation
All day long we kill to keep the house clean
The killer instinct makes us bold and mean
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
Some fireflies lit the way of wishful whim,
the expectations fired diminished vim.
The lack of lucence rendered chances grim.
Design of great foment—I hugely now repent.
The flowers vie with scent—their vibrant colours spent
when light from Sun in lower meadow mean.
The crows at dawn abated soon to preen.
A gibbous Moon in western sky still seen.
Yet rainbows will succeed—the face of Moon must bleed;
the rays absorbed thus freed—its cast expressions knead.
I guess my chance to win your heart is slim.
Tenacious Moon by day espy torment:
From arduous labour I tire and wean
myself by increments in chocking plead!