¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ my quest of happiness seem vain?
Disdain.
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
Jealousies.
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
Absence.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ for my grief
Where shall I turn to seek relief,
When hope on every side lies slain
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ the prime cause of all my woe ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
Love.
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
If that be so, I but await
The stroke of a resistless fate,
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
What must I do to find a remedy?
Die.
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
Change.
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
Madness.
If that be so, it is but folly
To seek a cure for melancholy:
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
(Blackout of Don Quixote by Miguel Cervantes)
Miguel de Cervantes
wore women's panties.
After writing 'Don Quijote'
he shaved off his goatee.
When and how
did we see chivalry last
or is it now
a thing of the past
and honour among thieves
is no honour at all
while beating my brains
against the wall
besting the dragons
at City Hall
am I wrong in thinking
it's my fight
or am I errant
as a roving knight
exhibiting gallantry
within a crowd
of apathy
indifferent
to the powers that be
outnumbered and outgunned
Sancho when needed oh where is he?
With apologies to Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra (1547 – 1616)
Farewell
I'm tired of Portugal
this small country, not bigger
than a hamlet in Spain
their worldview is what
is seen from an Olive cops
small-minded
and deceitful, bewildering
where the Arabic influence
lingers
decapitated by Christianity
I have family in Spain
who read Cervantes
I don't know why
it could be they are working-class
they value me as an elder
in their clan
I even have a brother
I have never met
he lives in Chicago
the whisper is he is a gangster
The Portuguese is based on
avoiding the truth
at all cost
No matter how long you
live in this fantasy land
they will treat
a foreigner with hidden contempt
Yes, it is time to leave
this country of sheepherders
and lawyers
where the people still hanker
for the days
of dictatorship
As Cervantes said:
For sightseeing, Milan,
to the sea, Lusitania...
As I say:
To work, São Paulo...
To love, Rio...
For rest Belô,
for dating, Natal...
to dream, the moon...
To live, João Pessoa... !
Whirrrrrrrr went the wwwwwwindmills
as the sworrrrrrrrds sliced the airrrrrrrrrr
Climate change grrrrrrrrrrroaned
as the trrrrrrrrruth was laid barrrrrrrrre
(Fighting windmills is the story.)
A fantasy to escape the fall, the void of all
Reality is not that tall when on the horse
Stories plunge the young into the light
Truth stabs the heart once in the hour glass
No one dies while riding by Quixote
or with him either
His lance is stronger than the day is long
And when the book is closed, we know
All of us are braver once we’ve saved
The grave, for another day, to wait
To turn just round the corner made
Edges sharp, much sharper than the blade
*Authors Note: Don Quixote of La Mancha , or just Don Quixote (/?d?n ki?'ho?ti/, US: /-te?/; Spanish: [do? ki'xote] (listen)), is a Spanish novel by Miguel de Cervantes. It was published in two parts, in 1605 and 1615. A founding work of Western literature, it is often labeled "the first modern novel" and many authors consider it to be the best literary work ever written.
The mind indeed is a wondrous thing
it has so much fully retained within
therefrom schooling years to old age
but no matter what it's tainted with sin
Only God can deal with such a state
His judgement alone will have its day
to escape this plight requires a sacrifice
only Jesus can be this perfect offering today
Ink that flows so sweetly has no blot
learn well with your pen a voice
speak with real insight and right
guide your pen so make a correct choice
Remember your tongue flows from your mind
enabling the pen to purposefully write
all that's in your own little grey cells
use it so others may know some new light
The pen is the tongue of the mind
speaking with your ink not a blot
let it flow like a long Mississippi
words to encapture your fire on the spot!
(Quote:
"The pen is the tongue of the mind")
Miguel de Cervantes ( 1547-1616)
A nightmare
after something I'd had,
a cowboy film,
the late-night news
and Cervantes at bedtime.
On a spavined jade
the last of all the cowboys
with lean shanks
astride gaunt flanks
rides down
to Death Valley.
The last of all the cowboys
has soon put paid
to enemy tanks
along Stygian banks
way down
Death Valley.
Ever onward they wade.
to the cowboy's last tune,
some joining the ranks,
some jumping off planks
Close-down, lockdown
at the last rally
in Death Valley.
I hope all this
was just a nightmare.
Thinking otherwise
I do not dare.
Sonho e Realidade
Criar um sonho coletivo,
já disse Cervantes,
é o começo da realidade.
Se você entende isso
e trabalha todos os dias;
a realidade do sonho acontece.
Hoje, mais do que sempre
faça um pouco a mais
logo, logo...
os sonhos se realizam.
Bludgeoning gray towers randomly spread, ingesting the living in their walls and beds.
Skeletal dragons seen through Cervantes eyes yet no whirling windmills in Manchester's skies.
A flag flutters freely where the wind takes it mind, red white and fading as this nation unwinds.
Yesterdays grandeur all around now unseen, cowering in the shadows cast by the greedy and obscene.
Lip service is paid to placate guilty minds but the monsters still rise leaving all beauty behind.
Natures sounds scarcely heard in this city so crass, no foxes no deer no style no class.
A symptom of time, progress and decay, with more mouths to feed and so little pay
And the final betrayal by kinsmen of ours, majority counts for nought and the 3 lions cower.
Self serving parties spewing arrogant polices arrogant buffoons and arrogant half truths, serving their pay masters the rich and aloof.
Looking forward I see with the vision of the blind, democracy is dying as this once great nation sighs. .
"Scratch, Quills of God". Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
Rhymes scream like cats and wriggle out of
my arms. Words hide and sick. The stanza’s end
comes to dead-end… Oh, devilish standoff
of plans and pens! The spirit leaves me and
unfinished sonnet bleeds. The crumpled piece
of paper and another one… Why would
I write at all? What in the hell is this -
an intellectual sick, a fad, a good
way to increase a self-esteem or just
a sublimation of repressed libido?
Or maybe I crave fame? A golden dust
in spotlights, Mr. Nobel, the tuxedo,
etcetera…
Alas, the cause is quite
conspicuous: a quill cannot but write.
7/4/2019
Writing Challenge 2, November - A Poem Meaningful - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Dear Heart - Wiishkobi Ode
Villanelle : Merchants of the Word make Writers write for Prizes
Merchants of the Word make writers write for prizes
Does not the failed writer pose as house editor
Great treasures of the past were weaned without judges
Prized-writers in our midst make all kinds of noises
Matters little so long as till fills publisher
Merchants of the Word make writers write for prizes
Lope de Vega scorned long-suff'ring Cervantes
His plight mattered only to French Ambassador
Great treasures of the past were weaned without judges
Prized-writers need not fear e'en wise connaisseurs
Don't they write with flourish cocking-eye on reader
Merchants of the Word make writers write for prizes
Does the Nobel go to some who serve lost causes
Or to some who serve publishers like the Booker
Great treasures of the past were weaned without judges
True, ancient poets sang under patronages
Yet those we love most lived life under the jailor
Merchants of the Word make writers write for prizes
Great treasures of the past were weaned without judges
© T. Wignesan - Paris, May 4, 2018
Villanelle: Whenever Life stamps me down under heels
Whenever Life stamps me down under heels
I think of those who died living deaths young
So say i who am i to bleat meek squeals
Ages gone by how many mute appeals
Fell on deaf bigot ears great lives un-sung
Whenever Life stamps me down under heels
Who dared shift Earth from centre to out-fields
How Galileo ate humble pie dung
So say i who am i to bleat meek squeals
Nuanced scales stringed by chords neuronic peals
Had Mozart in debt into common grave flung
Whenever Life stamps me down under heels
Van Gogh Cervantes Dostoyevski shields
Me from vainly emptying my spent lung
So say i who am i to bleat meek squeals
If my words can’t Gorki's lives serve dire meals
Then would not mine and your pen seem low-strung
Whenever Life stamps me down under heels
So say i who am i to bleat meek squeals
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
Yesterday’s September is gone…
Our love at first sight, our time together in
good times and bad…
Your strong embrace and true love
I will always remember…
Your faith so strong, anxious for nothing…
knowing your day was close at hand
You chose to be still and always thankful…
Wrapped in the peace of God forever…
You called out to Him, He heard the cry of your heart…
He gave you a spirit of power, love and self control
Your soul you fully did surrender…
The immense pain of your broken body...
Didn’t stop you from seeking and praising
our Merciful God
He looked your way, uplifted your spirit,
Your pain He did render…
He called you son, it’s time to come home…
But not before those you love are at
your side and you will make them all smile...
For you will soar on eagles wings
This beautiful day in September…
I held you tight as your last breath…
released your spirit beyond the sky
To see the face of God and His Splendor…
You are crowned a son of God
Wrapped in His peaceful light
Forever, September…
Amor…Enrique Cervantes
Sunday, September 22, 2013
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