Beard or bard? queried chief counsel, The Spit.
Bared wit: "alike drunkn greif".
Berkspeller loose in the fief!
Beware, none sings from his lIEf...
In fact, at first,
By fiction’s thirst,
To thrust my sight in curse,
‘Tween nurse and verse,
For better, for worse,
At least I can rehearse.
Before the former:
A stench in fallacy’s flame,
Neurosis is but a game.
After all the latter’s the same:
Whether I meld or maim.
When the flames engulf my hands,
Lit parchment sparks my pineal gland.
Answers to question beg ampersands,
To slither out tricks per mind’s demand.
Whether or not, why I live,
I used to care to give,
Thoughts to sands and shaken sieve:
I think them too determinative.
Beyond a child’s belief,
Who knew them for their fief,
And in relief I saw the grief,
Of a diocesan thief.
So then what is it, we should think?
Too many wrote it in faded ink,
Idolatry failed in me to sync,
Whose world their tales just shrink.
So I turned them into story,
They whose nouns feign glory,
With capitals wrote by signatories,
Gave pardon for the gory.
And then I turned it into poem,
To the Devil: I’d have to show him,
To a God: who lives in hymn,
Alone, and written in a whim.
Hailed through the ages as the staff of life,
It takes many forms in each town and fief.
There's white bread and brown bread, biscuits and scones,
And hoe cakes and muffins, crescents and corn pone.
When setting a table with china replete,
Without buns or rolls it's just not complete.
The main dish is scrumptious, the side dish is fine,
But the meal is a bust without bread of some kind;
And when a young man is seeking a wife,
If she can't make a biscuit there's gonna be strife;
So when it's all finished and all's done and said,
Please pass the biscuits it ain't supper 'thout bread.
Dreams are not the horses to fly,
But the hope to continue a while,
Joys are clouds that disappear soon,
Dreams are those who live with you,
Eyes are liar of lethal cause,
Hardly separate passion and love,
Misuse dreams with dreary work,
Success is not in destiny's womb,
Power lies in our striving arms,
Dare to dream is meaningful if ,
Effort to pursue is founded in,
Addiction and passion are faces of dreams,
One vanquishes while other reigns,
When dreams become the slave of addiction,
Suicide is the final destination of life,
When confidence becomes your mind's fief,
Dreams will become your reason to live,
starve for dreams you will be satisfied,
Chase your passion you will be dignified.
Limerick crochetés: Once Tamil Promotion Director
Once Tamil Promotion Director
Excised wise Japanese co-founder
Called him names like rogue thief
Set himself up as Chief
All Dravidian Tamil Editor
He posed as the Royal Ancestor
Even of the Chola* Emperor
Slave-drove workers in fief
Used savants make belief
Such the Tamil Highness Publisher
He caged talents the Money-Maker
Poised as Conference Organiser
Preyed on Buddhist belief
On Chan and Zen mischief
To lard his own family bunker
Ideas he plucked from the Other
Made as if he put up with bother
Tamils to lead as Chief
No matter what the grief
None see his pen as plagiariser
All helpers rough-rode he the Miser
Shed them shorn one after the other
Damn not this common thief
Just his penchant for Chief
For Tamil knowledge made he Server
[* The Chola dynasty (among other South-Indian reigns) of the 10th to 12th centuries C.E. extended Tamil culture and civilization over the better part of Sri Lanka and Southeast Asia without having recourse primarily to conquests and/or of maintaining colonies.]
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
... to my wife
I do not ask for an invaluable love;
I do not ask you to love me
unlimited;
I do not ask a boundless love.
I wish you loved me
in the short space of our steps,
in the narrow horizon
of the mutual glances and sighs;
I wish you loved me
in the intimate fief of ourselves,
in the small kingdom wherein we are
subjects and sovereigns;
I wish you loved me
in the strip of Heaven and Earth
where we live the moment,
in the gentle breeze that envelops us
in every now
in which you and I
exist.
Marco
TOYSHOP WINDOW GAZING
A wooden castle with windows and a drawbridge wide
Which could hold a regiment of toy soldiers inside
And a turret with a big red dome -
No point in even asking to take it home
Then, each time we passed the toy shop
I just had to slow and stop
And muse and wish achingly without relief -
But it was never going to be my boyhood fief.
Now, my kids don’t stop there to muse
But chisel, saw, and screws I use -
The toyshop now is closed for trade
Instead I’ve cut and glued and made
That wooden castle for them
And doll-house, puppets,cars, and farm
And sailing boats and planes and things
Like tree house, stilts, and garden swings.
Absence of a small toy leaves heart unfulfilled
And makes big boy hands much more skilled.
AUTUMN COLORS
Trees, and endless squadrons of their fellows,
In full dress with their medals, reds and yellows:
An army in bronze and topaz uniform,
Ready and waiting for orders to fall in and conform;
And in fall - with its rich golden leaf
And needles polished - ready to guard its fief.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written 15 August 2012
Entered in Russell Sivey’s Contest Autumn, Fall Colors
Hailed through the ages as the staff of life,
It takes many forms in each town and fief.
There's white bread and brown bread, biscuits and scones,
And hoe cakes and muffins, crescents and corn pone.
When setting a table, with china, replete,
Without buns or rolls it's just not complete.
The main dish is scrumptious, the side dishes fine,
But the meal is a bust without bread of some kind;
And when a young man is seeking a wife,
If she can't make a biscuit there's gonna be strife;
So when it's all finished and all's done and said,
Please pass the biscuits, it ain't supper 'thout bread.
(Poetry) let it thicken as it stands.
Let it be beautiful, unharnessed verbal rage or
song or deed, or graven image set in stone, where
walls fell around some demagouge in
some ill-remembered time.
$IN
In our arrogance we place this
joyous thing in
chain$
We seek to give it rules and charter, duties and forms but
the ravenous beauty of our thinking has outsmarted us.
and,
much like pandora's discretion,
when the first man (Or Woman)
-chicken or egg get over it-
pressed his stick to dirt and made his mark he unleashed a
torrent that can never be held at bay.
(Poetry) will not be held in fief, and the
Box which was held by the daughter of Zeus
is
open.
And I for one am glad of it.
Let it light our hearts ablaze and temper our
might with frost, let
the last vista overlooking the plauge of perpetuity be
LOST
War is just a means tae a’ end
Deaythe’s the price o’ life.
Famine comes upon black horse
fillin the gullet o’ Deaythe’s strife.
War is just a means tae a’ end
Deaythe’s the price o’ life
Power swings War’s blood red swuird
the weak an’ the old suffice.
War is just a means tae a’ end
Deaythe’s the price o’ life.
Conquest raises mighty bow
crownin’ Kings with rare delight.
War is just a means tae a’ end
Deaythe’s just the price o’ life
on pale horse the banshee rides
binna matter what your fief.
In deayth we fertilize the field
Life is aw an’ Deaythe's real.
*In the style of Robert Burns
War is just a means tae a’ end
Deaythe’s the price of life.
Famine’s black horse
fills the gullet of Deaythe’s strife.
War is just a means tae a’ end
Deaythe’s the price of life
Power swings Wars red sword
the weak an’ young suffice.
War is just a means tae a’ end
Deaythe’s the price of life.
Conquest raises its mighty bow
crowning Kings with delight.
War is just a means tae a’ end
Deaythe’s is just the price of life
on pale horse the banshee rides
no matter the what your fief.
We are the fertilzer of the field
for life is all and deayth is real.