Poetry
Creative, Cunning
Writing, Explaining
Excellence expressions, Best grammars
Stanzas
Thinking, searching for the-
meaning of G in my name.
I know if I try I'll succeed, even though
Memories are like grammars!
Stroking my imaginary lines,
To the borders of my mind;
Reminiscing about those days chilling at corners,
a snake stealing copper:
I wanted to get close to mercury!
Knowing that electricity is everywhere
Hence the illuminations,
Just that I never saw livewires!
Sparks firng waves of light,
To over flow of energy: fused,
Lifted high above,
Media broadcasting: the live Show;
the omniscience of the being,
And I watched: a life with no airbrakes!
The irony of being died yet over working
I guess, that I over stood the meaning of life!
Took it way too seriously,
Not knowing the path: I never found self!
Lost, so I surfed every channel!
Never knew after chaos comes order...
Roses are red,
Purples are violet.
Grammars of standard
Your rhyme dictate why let?
The Annalists
they are too educated
they know a lot
but got no action
the annalist
they always know
how to speak
big grammars just
to defined a word
their over education
cost the poor to have
a dictionary in other
to understand what
they are saying
the annalist
they love respect
most of them are too
proud
they believe so much
in nothing but annalist
their facts are too long
to understand
cos they never can
say a thing easy
in a simple way
the annalist
we have them in every
cities
some of them got
foresight but got
no move nor steps
they can trigger a willing
mind to action
while sitting
some are good
for nothing
they are nothing but
the annalist
When a poor exposed
His feeling through pen
The crucifix he shouldered
His stomach pain
How does the poem look?
When a farmer tried
To write a poem about how he feels
On how the sun touches his skin
On how he survived every arrow of the clouds
What the poem looks like?
When a carpenter, vendor, street sweeper
Wanted to write a poem about their lives
Their battles and journeys
On how is it to be like them
What do you think?
Definitely, their grammars are full of blames
But who are we?
Are we better poet than they are
Because our grammar is lesser of flaws
Are those people who are
Too good in grammar
Are the only one who have the right
To hold a pen
To be called poets
What matter then
The correct grammar or the meaning?
The correct syntax or the emotion?
The correct spelling or the honest intention?
Not everyone has a gift of education
But everyone has a gift to feel
There is no wrong on expressing
To define life into words
No matter who we are
The feelings that we have
In spite of our shortcomings
That is my belief
8-19-2016
Mysterious Aries
Villanelle: Think of the trillions who have gone away unsung before us
Think of trillions who have gone away unsung before us
Think what they have left us without staking any claim
Yet the prophets we recall have all been thrust upon us
Those who used this world for their own petty purposes
Those who abused mankind to hoist their peoples’ name
Think of trillions who have gone away unsung before us
Think of the common grammars that underlie languages
Think of the basic numbers logic’s foundations contain
Yet the prophets we recall have all been thrust upon us
Think of hieroglyphs cuneiforms carved into papyruses
Think of the ideo-phonograms that alphabets disdain
Think of trillions who have gone away unsung before us
Think on all ancient thinkers from King Wen to Socrates
Then think on what has been proclaimed in God’s name
Yet the prophets we recall have all been thrust upon us
Think on what makes particular faiths amenable to races
And wonder if all Life’s simply not Somebody’s idle game
Think of trillions who have gone away unsung before us
Yet the prophets we recall have all been thrust upon us
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
You can take a dislike of my rhymes or even read them a hundred times. There is no mood in which I fit, I write what I write there's nothing to it.
I don't think of the words I choose, I put more thought into picking my new shoes.
For me writing is a release no need to call the poet police.
I don't care what anyone thinks, who's to say their poems don't stink!
All I want to do it write I don't care if my grammars alright So please bare this in mind or move along, leave my poems behind.
I may not be that man you so much wanted;
That man you carved in your deepest imagination,
One who is too good to be human and whose air graces the eye.
I must have threaded a path,
A path I so much dreaded
But fate only laid me bare
Just like an iron lay bare in the hands of a blacksmith.
I may not be your best option
Among thousands of your would be suitors
Each with his resume of dainty degrees,
Heaps of galled grammars, Stools of Sacredness,
Crew of Cars, and nobleness in names.
And if asked where I lie,
There among the sun burnt lawn I lay in anticipation.
Like an Hunter in the forest,
I woke to the mockery of the grasscutters,
And to the soliloquy of the afternoon bee,
While the thorns inscribed words on my flesh
In my quest to bring home a prey.
I can boast over a shot,
A shot I am still to make
From this angle that I lay
While in my mind I do pray.
I may not be your best option
One who could bring you all the happiness you do crave,
But if you believe in a better me,
From our imperfections, we can be brave-
While sailing along this matrimonial sea.
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