Best Xviii Poems
IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE : Part XVIII
IF you pull a long dopey face
The least one can in this case say
You don't belong to the eskimo race
Who lament the sun sunk in iced bay
Now if you pull that long limp face
Hoping someone will notice your dismay
Best not to peek through burka-nikah lace
Take the next flight out of tent on any airway
Yet if you keep pulling that long hangdog face
Ev'ry chance you'd be called upon to act in a play
For who knows how to imitate Droopy's face
Who has heard of a cartoon dog star on Broadway
If you pulled hard at that long hangdog face
Through wearisome rehearsals day after day
Fat chance you'll be nominated to play Scarface
No long-faced dogs allowed on stage in Broadway
So if you must pull that long hangdog face
Make certain the collar the leash does not betray
The long-buried wolf in the dog might surface
And actors feast on wolf sans ShutDown back pay
© T. Wignesan - Paris, January 9, 2019
T,
Whipped in with the passion fruit pavlova
your love dangles me, caresses me
so so delicately;
tongued, swirled, teased
then tasted
~ ~
oh so so heavenly
sent and enjoyed
on this
my very very special
Christmas Eve night
a dessert destined to destroy
then rebuild
deliciousness delivered
and devoured
in creases
where trust is created
in more than a meal
pursed lips press
under a star lit tree
dressed in little more than desire
me in a bow tie
you in your red best
burning down candles
with much more than fire
presents await
but your presence is all
covertly coveted
If loving how Donald doth rule
Did you worship bullies at school?
The wealth off our backs
Will pool at Goldman Sachs
While you fools and mules are his tool!
Author's Note: It is evident that Mr. t-rump loves profits (even at the expense of the environment). Profits generally flow to the rich, and we expect to see more stratification in our society soon. Look carefully at what he is doing. Blaming immigrants for our troubles, creating distractions, and making sure the rich (he and his buddies) get richer. He has no idea how most of us live and work hard to make an honest living nor does he care.
IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY : XVII - XVIII
XVII
IF ever I had a country
And if ever I were the Minister of Education
I'd make every child take an Oath of Nature upon leaving school in June
That every kid learn by heart by autumn ten local birds' tune
The Garden Warbler's varied repertoire the toot-toot of the Owl under the moon
To tell which Wood-Pecker drummed which tree out-of-tune
That is, if ever I were the Minister of Education
And even if I never ever had no country
XVIII
If ever I had a country
And if ever I were the Secretary of HEW
I'd make it a certified condition for the leaving of school
Only when every teen acquired the skill of notation as a musical tool
To stock his memory with quarrelsome magpie curses or soothing cuckoo calls cool
And let no carrion crow flutter at school-top eaves calling him a fool
That is, if ever I were the Secretary of HEW
And even if I never ever had no country
© T. Wignesan - Paris, July 6, 2018
walking uphill
the old man
kicks a can
Trauma—it is near and dear to us,
There is a need to embrace it,
But it spits at us like a wild beast,
Not wanting compassion—
Nourishment is its need,
And justice is its desire—
Resolve—it longs for relief,
For unspeakable pains thrive inside
The sound of its crying pierces you—
It is cradled in the open air,
By a loving voice—
The voice of God:
"Come to me,
Be with me and drink the
healing waters of truth and tears"
It ceases its spitting—and is filled
2.18.20
Note: Unfortunately many of us are plagued and haunted by our traumas. I was not trying to romanticize trauma but to accentuate its need for attention, honesty and nurture. Sometimes we need a little help from a higher power to comfort ourselves when we experience trauma. Sometimes we must acknowledge it and allow ourselves to feel.
Thank you for reading...
Always,
Laura
We maneuver moonlight with such finesse
they often call us children of darkness;
I touched the copper dripping from my fangs
upon my lips this liquid life force hangs;
Warm daylight’s melody will decompose
stars cradle us within southern shadows;
So many people they stopped and then killed
to ensure this dark instinct was fulfilled;
Suddenly I could feel Chance behind me
‘This is just the tip of discovery.’
As the wind began to run through the air
I could feel her presence and smell her hair;
‘You can do more than you think you’re able,
She’ll explain, let me introduce Fable.’
Maroon man
Broad back, true mouthed
Flinging fire to frolic in the face
Jamaica man, Saint Ann sprouted
Long lignum vitae of the race
Belly clean
Platform devoted
Africa's champion, noble will
Great scholars by new men quoted
Your voice from Harlem here rings still
Costa Rica
Panama far flung
Homes of Black people rising to live
Peru, and vision that he hung
Colon and astride the world to give
Hero man
Prison cuffs thrown down
Red, Green and Black Starliner floated
Prince of us all, and new pride found
While to the Black race devoted
Garvey, man
Maroon hero bright
Lit the dark land against foreign nights
Sweet talker fighter for the right
God blessed leader, hope in our plights
She’d recite the fairest refrains
As upon marble texture I languish
Moxie was her focus to sway me
I, never once yearning to retreat,
Became enveloped by an aura of passion
Spry was the breeze that descended
From the design ‘twas her lovely palms
SONNET XVIII
FOLLOW CHRIST
Not to be More Catholic Than the Pope
–often said but, what if
What if the Pope is not Catholic Enough?
Hello, here is the point,
That in the Race of Christianity,
No Man However so Esteemed
Esteemed and Approved by People
Is Fit Enough to be our Standard.
The only Standard is Christ
Hence, Not Pope-like, but Christ-like,
Christ-like Not Bishop or Apostle-like.
Apostle Paul said and I quote
Follow Me as I Follow Christ.
I.e. Christ is the Goal, Not Paul.
@MARCH 2017/©M.H.O.G Unveiled
wanky wit is not moist motive;
hoisted hankering damp feelings
dark denotations foils fleshened
salient smothers, sil'ette slackened
wielded wit ain't fame - fostered fleas
la-de-da lurch humming pored pleas
meagre magnanimity strained
vying voluptuous veils, torn traits
wedged wit ain't manipulation:
pruning pored chances, gaunt punctures
sassy stances trailing tactic track
jiggery-pokery plumes packs
wisdom ain't taking advantage
it's a game of patience and rage.
'20:06:11:11:35
Note: of wet wisdom.
I’ve started seeing faces
of once strangers reappear with time
they don’t spare a smile for me
perhaps I’m still a stranger to them
the mother with a cart full of fresh
produce and peanuts, a daughter eating grapes
the steel-toed man at the sandwich
counter who eats absolutely no tomato
I can feel the warmth in the quilted
fabric of our lives, slowly woven together
EARLY POEMS XVIII
You didn't have time
by Michael R. Burch
You didn't have time to love me,
always hurrying here and hurrying there;
you didn't have time to love me,
and you didn't have time to care.
You were playing a reel like a fiddle half-strung:
too busy for love, "too old" to be young . . .
Well, you didn't have time, and now you have none.
You didn't have time, and now you have none.
You didn't have time to take time
and you didn't have time to try.
Every time I asked you why, you said,
"Because, my love; that's why." And then
you didn't have time at all, my love.
You didn't have time at all.
You were wheeling and diving in search of a sun
that had blinded your eyes and left you undone.
Well, you didn't have time, and now you have none.
You didn't have time, and now you have none.
This is a song-poem that I wrote during my early songwriter phase, around age 17.
49th Street Serenade
by Michael R. Burch
It's four o'clock in the mornin'
and we're alone, all alone in the city . . .
your sneakers 're torn
and your jeans 're so short
that your ankles show, but you're pretty.
I wish I had five dollars;
I'd pay your bus fare home,
but how far canya go
through the sleet 'n' the snow
for a fistful of change?
'Bout the end of Childe’s Lane.
Right now my old man is sleepin'
and he don't know the hell where I am.
Why he still goes to bed
when he's already dead,
I don't understand,
but I don't give a damn.
Bein' sixteen sure is borin'
though I guess for a girl it's all right . . .
if you'd let your hair grow
and get some nice clothes,
I think you'd look outta sight.
And I wish I had ten dollars;
I'd ask you if you would . . .
but wishin's no good
and you'd think I'm a hood,
so I guess I'll be sayin' good night.
This is one of my earliest poems; I actually started out writing songs when some long-haired friends of mine started a band around 1974. But I was too introverted and shy to show them to anyone. This one was too racy for my high school journal.
Keywords/Tags: early, early poems, juvenalia, time, love, youth, young, 10th grade, sun, night, care, song
Venus,Goddess of Love sans her mascara
central lady in Sandro's' La Primavera'*
Simonetta Vespucci as this supermodel
To Bottecelli close-ups were a doddle