Best Yore Poems
The memory still lingers,
Of the times, we ingested this scenery.
The solace of the water
Brushing the distant horizon.
Reminds me of the time,
I spent with you...laughing and crying.
Beneath the sun and moon,
Where the canvas sky painted,
Many inspiring sunsets,
In a sequential series of beauty.
This place still touches my stomach
In a special way like you did,
and I wish you were here,
To reminisce those days with me.
But the photo remains,
As a souvenir of the best times of my life.
Our impressions have cast their mark,
On that very spot where we once stood
And you took my breath away...
In the days of yore, our hearts bore
the burdens of that heavy laden heart
Now, for His love, our hearts are joyful all the day
It making merriment with play because of "Jesus"
He whom had that old, "heart of stone" rolled away
Declaring this forever, the “Lord Jesus,” that had His angels to
move that "heavy stone" at the tomb so we all can view of that
event at the end of the third day. That being the brightest of all
Sundays For this we ever say, “Holy, Hallelujah, Hurray”
Past and present renewed, the future is fully realized
and time now is no more:
The Bible scriptures has extolled and foretold:
of a future with glorious beautiful heavenly abodes
Yes, Past and present shinny renewed, the future is fully realized
and time is now no more:
The Bible scriptures are extolled and foretold:
This of a future with His glorious light and beautiful heavenly
abodes
“Jesus,” the Blessed hope; this to all His disciples; as He said,
written and scribed on scrolls and told
The days are long and unproud, they brood...
and please not the weary soul wearying in its wake;
when gnashing snow and rain bite
cold and bitter nights ---
smite the weary traveler soul
The spray of oceans fierce, the tattered sail
and shattered galleon hulls,
whipping winds above the dead below the waves,
heave torrid warning weeps,
to forgotten realms...
to misty denizens deep,
buried 'neath the seas
Fathom after fated fathom, bugle from mermaids call,
belated beckonings, doom from harp ringing culls;
'ere the storm ends many men;
they sound the trumpet and bugle ---
and sea urchin minstrels again,
'ere the storm ends many men
The masts seem as wooden-braced ghosts;
shackled to grimly merchant (boors) for sailor eyes ---
aghast for Captain Bold and his pickled laugh ---
To the eye! Straight on! Through her gutteral seas we go!
'ere the storm ends many men
The crest of waves rise monolith and mighty,
scolding beam and soul,
lancing forthwith all aboard ---
visions of ill-fated meagre pay;
of wife and child far and away,
forgotten faces...
lost in venomous haze
Terrible is the vanquished soul,
smitten to meaningless display,
needless heroics of Captains Bold,
(summoning water thundered fates)
sleeping seas,
then silence...
sweet silence...
***Dedicated to the sailors who lost their lives at sea***
The Ode to Yore
An ode to yore, when smile’s genuine;
when so much more dear; we, God’s
children.
An ode to yore, when we, young in life.
All’s learning; the start of life.
An ode to yore, as years have
progressed; all the hurts and happiness,
more memory for us.
An ode to yore. As young has passed.
We seek contentment; a love to last.
An ode to yore, when seemingly all’s
revealed; a time to reflect; we’ve grown
older still.
An ode to yore, I still young at heart. My life
an ocean, to share with my Love...Tess
I used to sashay into a room
And see all the guys just stare
Now when I waddle in a room
I get cuddled like a bear
I reveled in the very fact
That I was just sizzling hot
Now I feel rather lukewarm
Marilyn Monroe I am NOT!
I used to have a tiny waist
That accentuated my breast
Now there are lots of tiny rolls
That go right up to my chest
People like to touch my arms
They remind them of a pillow
And when I walk, do watch out!
My bum does jiggle like jello
Although now I am not streamlined
Unlike Angelina Jolie
I’m still happy with who I am
Cause there’s beauty inside of me
I don’t think that a woman’s meant
To be merely some skin and bones
But rather curvaciously soft
Or her pokiness will bring groans
And yet I confess to moments
When I wish I could turn back time
I want to be drop dead gorgeous
Not skinny… but full and sublime
Well, this lament is getting lame
So I'll start the exercise craze
I still want to make men go weak
So they’ll stare at me in a daze!
But Belly Dancing won’t be fun
There just won’t be enough to shake
So maybe I’ll just stay this way
And be good...for heaven’s sake!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
A bundle from the past -
the 1930’s and ‘40’s.
A wisp of his breath…I’m breathless.
Did he know his love story would last?
1941 envelope -
my fingers glide over the sleeve.
I tenderly take out the note,
the sweet poetry…telescope
peering into the days of yore.
Grandpa won his sweetheart with words:
“From a worthless bum,” a treasure,
Grandma and their progeny adore.
Love poems, other’s curious.
One bespeaks of “…is it murder
to help someone dying…in pain.
Contemplation or serious?
The carrier, my sister, brought
back from her travels photos, too.
…and I thought of my mother
her photo, now, an afterthought.
The sentiment held in my heart.
Illustrious words and still lifes
my mind ponders as I grow old.
‘Tis true, one day too, I’ll depart.
I’ll take my time reading the words -
I read some to my attentive spouse.
How lovely we shared that moment -
the nectar of two hummingbirds.
7/6/2022
Life is more like a book
Its chapter never closes
How do I bury my times of yore?
Each corner I turn
Each route and avenue I take
There are my times of yore
Right in my way
Malls and shopping complexes
Brings back all the memories
The good times we had.
Our favourite restaurants
There waiter that served us there very first time
The sport we picked on our very first date
Excavate my yore
The first smile
The first hug
The first stroll
Our sing along song
My music collection
Her favourite T.V show
Brings back memories of us together
I am sick of my past
My time of yore always catches up with me
How do I close her chapter in my life?
I crushed her heart into pieces
Her innocent heart is haunting me
I carry the burden of dishonesty
The weight of being deceitful is intense
I was inconsiderate
When I think of all the seconds I drubbed my fingers
On the skin of long-drummed typefaces to wipe spam
Away from the screen of my inboxes in my computers
I wonder how many years of my life drift as flotsam
So many sales pitches tail in mouth in epizeuses
String their tuneless spiralling from end to no-end
Swim in the swirling soup strings of multiverse oases
Lost as jetsam into a blacksucked bottomless oven
A spam is a foe who seeks to con you as an old friend
Sure don’t mean that old spiv driveling over your girl
But who’ll make you think you’re good for a lend
While he seeks to worm your hard disc in a whirl
McPeesee McCoffee McMoney or McMaster Kasparov
Spam is the Checkmate King none of us can fend off
© T. Wignesan – Paris, from the Collection “Poems Omega Plus”, 2005.
I miss the sweet, long-ago simple days
most lives contented, not hungry for more
A path we walked with gentle, simple ways
It was the way of life in days of Yore.
No TV back then in small towns like ours
Instead, hours spent rapt by the radio
'The Shadow,” and 'Soaps' listening for hours
Jack Benny and Red we all grew to know.
But those days vanished, like an ocean breeze
Now we read our phones for all the canned news
Flip twenty channels to find one to please
Between then and now, the simple I'd choose
I dream of a house on a mountaintop
Growing my own veggies, and then sharing
Plenty of sunshine and rain for each crop
And neighbors all simply warm and caring.
April 9, 2023
for 'Simply Poetry 2' contest
by John Lawless
From his sweetie Dave took lots of guff
'Cause his beard was mighty ruff
Too bad you get fewer kisses, Dave
Try Burma Shave - its all the rave!
Do you sprout a very wild stubble?
Have you heard of the latest rave?
You'd save yerself a ton of trouble
Taming yer mug with Burma Shave!
We feel very sorry for poor Walter
His bride left him standing at the altar!
His whiskers scratched her lovely face
Should-a used Burma Shave to save face!
Is that 5 o'clock shadow giving you stress?
And are the ladies noticing you less?
Then, on yer mug you should slather
A creamy coat of Burma Shave lather!
While they were dancing cheek to cheek
Said she, "Go paddle up the creek!
You scratched my face, you hairy knave!
Next time treat yer mug with Burma Shave!"
As I peruse the magnificent works of poets long gone
read their words of love, wisdom, pain and suffering
I am uplifted and filled with awe at what they achieved
all this without modern aids, most read after they are gone
I pause and think what would they produce if still alive
were able to get the instant feedback of modern times
could write their poems not on paper as in oldie days
able to use computers and easily store their precious works
Think of the realms of paper screwed up and tossed away
a start, an inkling of an idea that will not freely flow
how they sweated searching for a particular phrase
read, ponder and be amazed at their outstanding works
So raise your glass in a toast to their ingeniousness
Salute them for they fought hard to bring us joy
delighting hearts holding us in the palms of their hands
such power do they still wield over each of us modern poets
Left to beg but not beggarly Novel ideas of the match the pencil seller but the chimney sweeps upward and smoke filled the skies as poetry gave rise to the industrial mass appeal Lady fair stands as her outstretched glove changes colors as drops of acid rain flow through her hands Her rich husband killed from a triangle with pour business sense left her there walking the streets with memories of the matches insensitivity Written in her mind knowing she is now in a world where she is neither young nor fair in days before she needed not pencil match or tot Art for art's sake in her relative life no need of miracles life imitating art she walks the cold uncoated streets cold wet and dirty she hopes God is aware
From days of yore, from ancient times long before,
were prophets, and bards and sages;
these men of lore, who wrote of fate and more,
were scribes of the scroll of ages.
Today we know, from what the documents show,
that these men were highly revered;
so long ago, these souls spoke of tomorrow;
and now they have all disappeared.
Villanelle: Often I think of writer-poets of yore
Often I think of writer-poets of yore
Who wrote in fear of lords kings patrons of church
Their voices hushed humbled by the stoop they bore
Often I conjure up their solemn lives raw
And wonder how their pages weren’t left in lurch
Often I think of writer-poets of yore
Pages to patrons puppets to popes galore
Hidden chaste natures all resisting research
Their voices hushed humbled by the stoop they bore
Often addressing some damsel they adore
No more ambition than to lead her to church
Often I think of writer-poets of yore
Pauper some who pilfer to pen metaphor
Through some trope in their guts some scheme beyond search
Their voices hushed humbled by the stoop they bore
Lean those dead young despised by the loves they swore
Never knowing if their verses will us broach
Often I think of writer-poets of yore
Their voices hushed humbled by the stoop they bore
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
Sublime Poets of Yore
Sublime Poets of yore;
Chaucer, Homer, Spencer
All in poetry folklore
Tireless toil they bore.
They took a lot of time
To lathe or polish poem
And lavished in rhyme,
Wisdom and wit sublime.
Hardy, Dickens, Coleridge
All blew a lute so pure
Tunes smooth as porridge
Flowed across the bridge.
Pound, Vigil, Shakespeare
Not least Wordsworth,
Poetic plays crystal clear
Bore pervasive cheer.
Sappho and Propertius
Endowed graphics of love
That riled the Incubus
Who bestows wrath to us.
Ovid of Metamorphosis,
Milton’s Paradise Lost
Their unrelenting thesis
Is the Devil’s nemesis!
Shelley & Pro.. Unbound
Gives form to Epic Poetry
Length of which astound
With vibes pretty sound!
Poe, Tennyson & Blake
Toiled Poetry to refine
Rhyme& meter to bake
Writ to appetizing cake!
Read it from the Plays
Peruse from Epic Poems
They used all their days
To serve with endless trays!
Enjoy then this legacy
From wise Poets of Yore
Who bestowed ecstasy
With unremitting messy!
03rd Oct’ 2013