Best Well Out Poems
Hello there, do please come inside- no need to wipe your feet
excuse the mess, I fear you'll find it isn't very neat.
This place is always untidy, victim of my disorder
from old hang-ups to memories, I'll admit I am a hoarder.
In here hanging like mobiles, noisy, at odds with my feelings
are life's little distractions, niggling, swinging from the ceiling.
Careful with your torch, don't shine it underneath the bed
beneath it there is lurking a dark sprouting creeping dread.
Most people couldn't live with it, a disturbing thing to some,
as it cowers in the corner from the things still yet to come.
Tread lightly in the corridor, just mind out where you walk
you'll trip on my anxiety that bobs up like a cork.
The fire is stoked, the hearth is swept and logs stacked in a heap
my warmth to all well tended (well, except when I'm asleep).
Cardboard tubes in disarray, and more you cannot see-
plans I drew up in the past, none ever meant to be.
Mannequin in veil of black, arms raised as if to dance
with all my past relationships that never stood a chance.
This rocking chair, my temper, that sometimes I must sit in
and you'll notice that the varnish of my patience has worn thin.
My sense of humour's in the loft, protected by my hats
seemed like the right place for it, since my friends all think I'm bats.
That one small window by the beam lets my faith's light shine in
I'm sorry it's not brighter, window dirty from past sin.
Still, I can climb and open it to aim my telescope
for somewhere in the darkness lies the faintest glimpse of hope
that keeps me living here in peace and shelters me from sad;
you wonder why I live in here? Well, out there-
its just mad!
September16th 2015
For contest 'Inside my head'- sponsor John Lawless
Year of the Acorn
(For my Father who
has Parkinsons &
Alzheimer's)
22/12/12 21:21
pm
Out on a winter walk
one day
you solemnly put an
acorn into my hand.
Something in my head
whispered
"Keep it safe
and he'll be safe".
I kept it to this
day.
Year one.
One candle on my
cake,
burned into my
mind's eye forever.
You took a
photograph
to keep me in the
picture.
Year four.
My sister arrived in
the world.
You took me to feed
the swans.
Back home
she greeted us with
screams.
I fled, covering my
ears.
Year thirteen.
Mother told me the
facts of life.
You kept well out of
it.
Year nineteen,
A disco at the end
of a long, quiet
road.
You always drove me
safely there and
back.
You were judge and
jury
of all boyfriends.
Year twenty three.
You gave me away
to the best
boyfriend of all.
A montage of eras
replay in the bright
lens of memory
till the year of the
walk
and the acorn.
And I kept it safe
so you'd be safe,
only now it looks
cracked and old;
not quite like an
acorn
and you are not
quite like you.
SONG OF THE EVENING
In a lullaby song of the evening.
In the background a cricket sings,
corellas fly past, to their resting tree
high upon silhouette wings.
Red sky widens and covers the west
with half sun glowing and gold,
there’s stark contrast between heaven and earth
as life in a pondage unfold.
Bullfrog! Bullfrog! Clearing your throat,
reed warbler should be going to sleep.
‘Sweet pretty creature,’ call of willy wagtail
and crickets continue to cheep.
In a lullaby song of the evening,
new stars are beginning to shine,
plovers’ static call fills the growing dim sky
and the reed warbler's calling decline.
So when the changeover’s completed,
and day has now turned into night,
these lullaby songs of the evening,
are now hidden well out of sight.
Bullfrog! Bullfrog! Clearing your throat,
and crickets continue to cheep.
‘Sweet pretty creature,’ call of willy wagtail,
the ringtail awake from their sleep.
A red fox is yapping, then a mournful drawl,
the mopoke hoots steady and soft.
Radar pings in flight of the wattled bat
echo with it flying aloft.
A koala growls in the manna gum tops,
a sugar gliders’ stealing its space,
maned geese flying blind from dam to dam
moan ‘gnow’ for the night to embrace.
The lullaby song of the evening is dying,
where hunter and hunted exist,
for the art of survival is simply relying
on mute vigilance in their midst.
Bullfrog! Bullfrog! You are silent now,
reed warbler is sleeping at last.
Plovers’ are quiet, crickets no longer sing
the moon in a stillness drifts past.
I’m spinning in circles, I’m well out of control
While, to others, I seem to be on a roll.
My mouth is moving quicker than my brain has time,
I’m swinging under the sanity line.
The raindrops pause when I walk outside
No dampness dare, by me, reside.
Yet the sunshine refuses to show today,
So I reach up my hand and the clouds go away.
My eyes part the river, I cross with much ease
Every soul I pass, I smile, and I please.
I’m on the field, running, so fast I might fall,
But not today, no not today; Today I’m on the ball.
I’m a roadrunner, I’m a cheetah, I’m going too fast,
I can’t keep up with the speed, i don’t know what I've passed.
I jump on the playground, I play longer than I have time,
I’m swinging under the sanity line.
Our fortified camp is well out of range of arrow, or gun shot, except the rear flank,
of course the Shoshone are reputed to be deficient in firearms
but are expert in hand weapons and guerilla tactics,
its a gamble, but we must seek to establish identity and intent
I'm taking a recon group of twelve into the valley
we're spread out to mitigate the impact of ambush
remaining close to the brush and treelines
the interior of the mountains look like the inside of deep candle wells
and we are the flame that attracts attention,
I see three people by a popping creek,
its a girl child, a teenage girl and an old woman with baskets picking grapes,
for an instant I think of the mythological Fates, have we been plucked and cut,
signaling for Drouillard, I procure a mirror, a comb and other small trinkets
to offer as gifts, and I'm rolling up my deerskin sleeve to show I am a White Man,
tactfully I step out of the snowberry thickets unarmed
pleading repeatedly the Shoshone phrase I've learnt from Sacagawea,
" Ta ba bone...Ta ba bone...Ta ba bone..."
the child has immediately wrapped herself around the old woman's leg
the teen has scampered like a doe in silent terror
looking back at me with eyes of screaming innocence, mouth crying open,
the woman is standing frozen with a face of defense
and from her beaded belt unsheathes a carbonized dagger,
Drouillard comes out gently doing his best with the speech and sign language
as I go on one knee showing the gifts, thank Deity they calm, smile, and accept,
we have convinced them to lead us to the village
the woman has persuaded the teen, named Maraseca to rejoin and receive the mirror,
J.A.B.
Oh, what am I going to do, today?
I've got so much time on my hands that I
Will simply go mad if I don't find a way
To fill it all up with some stuff to get by.
I try to stay busy with this and with that
And sometimes it works but at others falls flat
I think at such length that my head starts to hurt
And then I relax with a cup of yogurt.
I once had a job where they worked me to death
I grunted and groaned 'til I gave my last breath
The medics restarted my heart with a jolt
I thanked them, then, wisely, decided to bolt.
I could someday make a good living at rhymes
But all I might do is to fall on hard times
I'm cracking my skull like a ripe coconut
To pull myself up and well out of this rut.
A jack of all trades but sad master of none
Among all that's not new now under the sun
I can't just go out there and find a nice niche
It makes me so crazy I want to yell, "SHEESH!"
With his finger on the trigger
He pulled the hammer down
He waited for the orders
From the Colonel to come around
A small band of soldiers
Who were farmers just before
No emblems on their shoulders
No bright and shining swords
They had joined together
And would fight til the end
At a Mission down in Texas
They knew they must defend
They were well out numbered
A hundred to each one
Reinforcements ordered were on their way
But would never come
Five hundred men strong
Marching on their way
Were slaughtered at Goliad
They could not save the day
They held the enemy back
For three long days and nights
When they heard the word of Goliad
They knew they would lose the fight
They kissed their wives good bye
They sent them through the gates
Then they said prayer to the heavens
For their souls to take
They would not surrender
The courage of these men
At a place they called the Alamo
They would defend until the end
They were completely surrounded
The enemy in red
Then Santa Anna and his men
They raised the flag of death
The cannon fire it began
The battle it raged on
But as each one he lost his life
He knew he died, at home.
One of my childhood memories I wish to keep with me is apple picking time. Once a year
On a Sunday our family would head out to apple orchard country. Never forget the large
sign :Pick your own Apples: 5 dollars a bushel Well, out of the car and in no time My
sister and I were filling the basket with big red juicy apples. Knocking them out of the trees
With one hand and eating them with the other. In no time our basket was full. All the way
home both of us munching on these big juicy red apples. Some things you never forget. This is one of them.
Unquotable quotes – X
A beautiful wife gets to changing husbands as she may.
An ugly wife gets to keeping her husband out all day every day.
A plain-looking wife doesn’t give a damn any either way.
A happy wife gets to watching her children in carefree play.
A shrew gets to driving her husband round the bend at the end of the day.
An adulteress gets to infecting her children every other day.
A nymphomaniac gets to making her husband out to be a gay.
A high born wife gets to sleeping somehow out in the hay.
A gay wife gets to making a harem out of the honeymoon day.
A loud-mouthed wife gets to keeping all her neighbours in fear away.
An over-aged wife gets to making her husband look like he was in her pay.
A frigid wife gets to making her husband out to be an impotent lay.
A dumb wife gets to keeping her husband without a say.
A saintly wife gets to thinking she wakes up every day on Groundhog Day.
A heftily-backed wife gets to thinking her husband hides in her bay.
A baby-faced wife in bed gets to making her husband look the other way.
A bored wife watches corridas on the tele on a rainy day.
A sad wife spots the hairs on her husband’s head turn slowly gray.
A chaste wife is an empy church or temple where no one goes to pray.
A wise man gets to keeping well out of the way of wives and husbands in dismay.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
I'm going to share a story
That happens to be true
Because it's sometimes good to laugh at ourselves,
I think. Don't you?
It happened in first year high.
It was a funny scene!
I'd like to share this memory.
Yes. I'm spilling the beans...
Our science teacher was telling us
All about capillary action.
He invited us to try an experiment.
The creative challenge was quite an attraction!
So at home, I did just so...
Found a jar and paper towels, as said.
I artistically attached the beans...
But no growth? I scratched my head...
" I've done all he told us.
I never let the water dry! "
So I approached the teacher, telling him,
" They've not grown! I don't know why! "
So, on his request
I took it in to show him.
His response was kind, was tactful
And after a long and thought filled grin,
He asked me what kind of beans I used.
" Baked .. Broad .. Kidney, with some shells to decorate. '
Then I added, ' Maybe they didn't grow
Because they are well out of date! "
Though I was proud of my ( messy ) masterpiece,
Bear in mind I was only eleven,
He had to disappear to laugh
To ask for help from heaven.
On return, he brought three beans.
He had something important to show...
" In processing, this bit gets cut off
That's why yours didn't grow. "
When he turned, I hurried off
With a face as red as rose.
My friend caught sight of me and asked,
" What are you doing with those? "
We laughed, she thought me crazy
To give it another try.
But two weeks later I informed the teacher,
" They've grown! " With lit up eyes.
" I'm so pleased it's worked out for you. "
He replied with celebration.
Perhaps because this will be historic!
Proof of the need for education!
So. When you think you've something sussed,
All may not be as it seems.
Although this lesson's at my expense,
I'm spilling the beans!
Written 8th August 2021
one blonde.one brunette
both could well out the toll too
johnson and williams
Villanelle: French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe
Dedicated to the great French actor, Off Course!
French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe
Must you invite high breeds to the Hebrides
To maggis shellfish wine said: I love you!
Starved Loch Ness Monster kept well out of view
For this Gourmet eats even monster breeds
French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe
Medieval monarchs gulped innerns – rest threw
To the serfs lords ladies dogs and hybrids
To maggis shellfish wine said: I love you!
French Gourmand let Scots talk their tartans through
Venison loins he carved out for his needs
French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe
Goths Visigoths Vikings Normans or Dieu*
Falstaff nose and paunch hide much actor’s deeds
To maggis shellfish wine said: I love you!
Eiffel Tower Louvre Versailles nothing new
Mountain Man kept apart Scylla Charibdis
French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe
To maggis shellfish wine said: I love you!
• Dieu: God, but French pronunciation, please!
He might take exception.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
Medical Marvels
Medics in a clinic in Honda,
Columbia – way south of our border
Helped a young woman who’s HooHa
Seemed a bit – well – out of order
It seemed she had green vines protruding
Where green vines should never have been
Twas from a potato now sprouting
That her mother had had her place in
Her mother said it was protection
An organic grown IUD
The sight of a vine from that region
I know would sure do it for me
The doctors said it was unhealthy
Removed it and all of its sprouts
They said she was now back to normal
But me; well, I still have some doubts
Another young woman in Bishkek
Somewhere in Europe I guess
Complained of severe stomach cramping
And seemed to be under some stress
She had a bad habit of chewing
Discarded hair and her own
And all that hair she had been chewing
Had gathered in her stomach zone
The doctors performed hair removal
An 8.8 pound ball of fur
She’s since cut her hair in a pixie
In case the urge should reoccur
I look upon your remarkable frame
and marvel that you started out
of no acclaim,
a tiny clump of cells en route
to where you are, ignited by life’s flame.
In truth, a mystery to contemplate
how all the parts get sorted out,
without a doubt,
the most amazing aspect of this little game.
For surely God must find delight
in works performed well out of sight
of eye of mortal man,
dividing sinew, marrow, bone
in full accordance with the plan,
the outcome known to Him and Him alone.
And who am I, a fault to find,
or declare right
the formulations of this great and wondrous mind?
No, I will fall upon my knees and praise
your gentle shepherd, baby goat,
for He who plays
at such a game is not remote,
but has drawn near and given us a name
by which to call upon,
for ever on,
creator of us two, alike but not the same.
“Knock, knock” “Who’s there?” I haven’t a clue
What day is it? Who’s at my door?
“Here is some breakfast I made just for you”
Says some stranger who slept on my floor
The sight of the eggs and the bacon and tea
Turns my stomach inside upside down
Migraine’s the price that I’ve paid for the glee
Of a banging night out on the town
“‘Ere, it’s New Year, do you fancy a beer?”
“No thanks, mate, I’m feeling quite rough”
I may have blacked out after midnight I fear
But now I’m…remembering…Stuff
Slowly but surely it’s coming to mind
As glimpses emerge from the fog
Of a twist and a twerk and a bump and a grind
And my new Christmas phone down the bog
I thought I was hot but in retrospect not
In the morning light nowt could be plainer
And that I remember I like not a jot
My naked and drunk Macarena
Oh me and my mates, we do get in a state
And last year we gave it some welly
But if anyone had not enough on their plate
We’d do onesies and pizza and telly
My mates are my life, we’re a pretty tight bunch
They’re alright, mate, they’re really all right
But last night I must have been well out to lunch
For I reckon I started a fight…
It was something to do with a girl I once knew
And a joke that she did stuff for money
And a fine upper cut in the queue for the loo
Well, I thought the punch line was funny
Oh, what’s in my pockets, this isn’t my coat
As I’m clearly not Super or Dry
And what are the words that are writ on this note
‘Bell me, baby, you’re totally fly’
And I’m going commando, hilarious bants
Will be had in regards to my loss
Much mirth to be had from the sight of my pants
On the top of the Market Cross
It’s not looking good, and tucked in to my hood
Are two gherkins all wrapped in a bra
Half a kebab and a squashed Christmas pud
And a wing mirror nicked from a car
I think I’m experiencing chemical guilt
And at some point I’ll have to atone
But right now I’m going to hide under my quilt
Crying blubbery tears for my phone
by Gail