As your own harsh jailor, keeps you
Chained up in the dark
Fight the fear now; beating off
What of it shouts down
That wishful-voiced, repetitive
To leap which mind-wall.
An exultant escapee-
The sound of midtown!
It’s a place I feel off—
not wedded to anything.
Truculent.
I think in riddles
and answer in metaphors.
I dance on my tiptoes—
an adagio of agony.
Passion pirouettes
out of sight.
Tethered.
Bound by grief.
Temptation forgotten,
tempered.
It no longer exists.
It was a pas de deux,
now it’s just a deuce—
a petulant penitent,
an unwanted pardon.
The dancer stirs.
The pulse quickens
to a tango.
Recalcitrant and longing.
Unable to follow the white line
unless it’s condemned.
So the path ahead is delusional—
felt, not seen.
When will the blocks of life
build up
and make me feel safe?
I feel like I’m
in a correctional facility.
I am my own door.
I am my own jailor.
I realise I have the key.
I bury it
under the pile of shame
in the corner.
Arresting the future
as well as the past
Time the great jailor
its prison precast
A graveyard of victims
in temporal loss
Destiny preying
—perdition the cost
(Dreamsleep: March, 2023)
In here
I occupy the smallest space,
yet cultivate galaxies
to weave and web light
across an infinite sky,
or in darker moods,
conjure glaciers that grind
towards frozen seas
and numb the mind
with cold. Beyond,
I populate the unknown
with fickle gods.
In here
I pretend to be out there.
You may have seen me
seated at a table, conversing,
appearing to be at ease
when really I am - in here.
Out there I masquerade
as me but what you see
is a fiction,
a mere automaton
moved by levers pulled
by me - in here.
In here
I cast no shadow,
all is a closed room,
a darkened theatre waiting
for a movie to be shown.
Thoughts wind like frames
through lighted gates
and blink images
upon a screen. I watch
and examine each passing scene
trying to put together
a picture of who I am.
In here
there is only me,
the solitary custodian
of a lifetime's haul,
the judge and jailor.
I would like to be elsewhere
but cannot gather in all
that is me. I spill between
the frames of this moving mind,
and these words,
no more than a notion,
a flickering ghost
on an editing room floor.
in the desolate
solitary hours
when fear trickles down my spine
time is my jailor
closing me behind its doors
isolating my heartbeats
distant from yours
drips following a storm
ping a pattern of rubies
upon my flesh
heat carved runes
tell of lovers set aside
long ago
riddles on the wind
answers unfound
my present twists
into a knotted conflagration
higher
hotter than before
voices from the past rise
and resonate:
‘your heart-pain
bleeds from your words
that love is the umbrella
under which these wounds fester
is that much worse
untangle your heart-threads
from their prison bars
the landscape of your life
must evolve
immerse yourself
and know freedom’
my quest begins now
Their youngest boy, they call him one-eye Jake
He was as means as a black mamba snake
Cursed like a landlocked sailor
Took a job as a county jailor
Made all the money a good thief can make.
written October 28, 2021
Church Architects
Steeple
People
Jailhouse Clothier
Jailor
Tailor
Navy Misfits
Failing
Sailiing
Imposter Chef
Baker
Faker
Fat Taxi Driver
Flabby
Cabbie
April 12, 2021
for Brian Strand's All Yours (Apr 14) Poetry Contest
Smirk pouty shyne-joyfully
Like an Ancient and Childlike EmeraudeTear.
Curtsy the World clumsily but gracefully
your face draws it nearer.
As are Children, kindred and kin inVestige, Envisage, Heritage of
the Seer.
Drawn to you, magnetically tracing your image,
mirror mirror.
Like a Mark on the Firmament
A Rune of Tapature
You hold your heel on my head
Branding me Evermore,
A fauning stooge caught looking,
RaptureStruckofThe LivingUnDead
As the Wind slaps your Mouth with your hair
Cause of Unspeakable verse-Unsaid
Teases your hair to be equal to
as the Golden Rays did.
Your eyes burn turn to me like a Furnace
That will Urn me a stint in Eternities Fire
of Corrections and unspeakable sentences.
You as my jailor, me as your inmate insuffered to your consequence.
*title is Ralph Waldo Emerson quotation
Enthusiasm often is the reason
behind much-needed change and happiness.
Add zest to common sense and careful planning.
You hold the recipe to great success.
Though just the word “contagious” makes us fearful,
some things we spread are much to be desired.
Just think of how a smile and lively manner
spread through a crowd as others are inspired.
******************
The Bible speaks of our approach to living.
What gems of wisdom does the Word convey?
Do not be lacking in enthusiasm,
but serve the Lord with fervor* every day.
When Paul and Silas, jailed for their convictions,
sang hymns at midnight, hearers found The Way.*
Good works and labor, do with verve and spirit
to please the Lord; that’s what some Scriptures say.*
*Romans 12:11
Acts 16 Jailor became believer, then family became believers.
The Way—Jesus
Col. 3:23 and Ecc. 9:10, are examples.
June 17, 2020
entered Caren Krutsinger's contest, Write a Poem about Enthusiasm
Placed 2nd
Date: October 20, 2020
Poetry Contest Title: Completely Your Choice (30)
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Claustrophobic walls
These claustrophobic walls
That grasp and hold me tight
Destroy my very soul
And end my will to fight
Enclosed I am in loneliness
My mind a silent yell
Age became my jailor
And my home a prison cell
I hope each day for visitors
I pray that someone calls
But all I see in my final days
Are these claustrophobic walls
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
Oh say! Under a mischievous sky
A minstrel came singing and seeing me cry
" what are you facing?" Upon seeing me vexed
My soul is afflicted and deeply perplexed
I am charged with writing but cannot lie
Both my words are quitting and my pen is dry
He spoke to my pen, he spoke to my hand
Slowly and gently started to understand
Flashed in black sunlight comes the bird of the sun
Flowers of heaven all birds must be
Lost is her jailor, lost is the key
Standing there naked shedding her cloak
Unashamed her beauty is free-
For eons did man lust after liberty
In swaddling cloth soaked, the blood of the free
Untainted by rumour at half a century
Now painted in colours of contorted nebulae
Explosion of gasses in a smoky melee
Came swirling around and still I stand charged-
Just a moment ago , standing there mesmerized
Of the grandeur of you in the fluid of my sight
This bird must take flight, this truth I must write
Over these hills and meandering river-
Until she finds you, this is for Heather
sun sunk unto the womb
of the sea
stars cried at the tomb
tears of warm blood
through glittering eyes
moon meowed, dogs sang melodies
unheard
rivers rattled prayers breathed
unborn kids, mirror is a
jailor
secrets in the seed tears on the cheeks
mirror mutinied
naked dusks wingless birds limping
silence of the divine music flows
colourful coffins saints marching
blood from the nipple
breast milk
tasteless
In an exercise of
Psychopathology
Students are told
To find
A safe place
And to go in
My home, your room
In the forest
Under a tree
A hidden cave
Quickly went out
My mind
Crippled and entered
Stayed there
Never ever again
Expected
Older and rumbly
White washed patches
Dirty big walls
Three sides secured me
The heavy iron door
Kept me watched
And locked by the big key
I was safe and slept
Shadows of inmates
Shaded in and out
I was called
To come slowly
Out of the place
Stepped to the door
Was not opened
The jailor or the guard
Was not near by
I was called
Come to the present
And to open my eyes
From closed of my eyes
Tears fell out
Hid it I in
Opened my eyes
Incredible sight
Mind in the cell
Broke the heart
Why did the mind
Go there for a safe
To escape from the death
That was the place
It was not my choice
Time gave the prize
Darken days and nights
Prolonged the life of death
Once in away
Flash back to the past
I am not allowed
To forget my pass
Udaya R. Tennakoon
Sleep's the Great Healer—
Sleep's the Revealer
Of hidden meanings,
Unbidden gleanings.
When sorrow aches us,
Sleep overtakes us—
Stealing away grief,
Like a welcome thief.
Night is the coverlet
For a longing lover— yet
It's Sleep who delves
Deep into our selves,
Finding dusty dreams... on shadowy shelves.
When life's a jailor,
Sleep's the unveiler
Of an inner key...
To set us free.
Sleep's our best friend
At a hard day's end—
Weaver of fantasy... with reality,
Make-believer of what could be...
Sleep's the Great Healer... of you and me.
– Harley White
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