Its enough for a crystal stream,
To be troubled by an ape-team;
Though it's truth of existence, friend,
How could I smoothly comprehend...?
It was pandemic; I accept;
Anyone, like fall-leaves, death swept;
When you my gem, from me, were snatched,
I couldn't, from pain, be detached...!
Loneliness in hospice you felt,
In delirium I did melt;
Kith and kin now, O! Never more!
Don’t souls, always, all alone soar...?
The linen you loved most, I brought,
Why these grim gowns become your lot?
No rite; no ritual; none mourned;
As untouchables, all stood scorned...!
What was your funeral, O! No!
Buried just like a dove or crow!
I stood, as though, by unknown robbed,
Senses turned senselessly knobbed…!
I couldn't bid you my good-bye,
Won't I, with this ache of soul, die?
Ember of hope, is alive, yet,
That I'd repay you my each debt...!
15 November 2022
Thought knocks slightly behind the eyes,
A frayed spark off soft flint flaking steel,
Careening amidst a nest of kindled emotion.
Deaf mind crooks awkwardly, blindly crooning,
Nothing but silence, the heart murmurs.
Conscience's breath gently flickers the flame,
Whipping wick crackles feigning strength.
Cranium whispering swirling sooty smoke,
As it cups the dwindling glow alighted,
Lifting, yearning for a faint, embering cloud.
Resilient fire snapped back wildly anew,
Seduction dancing, glimpses below crimson silk,
Alight on deathly, charred, knobbed splinters.
Held for a moment, past felled fodder smirks,
In anticipation of a warm pulsating embrace.
Choice overtaking will, again? Again...
Ashes of will blowing in the wind.
10/04/2017
Limerick: Once a Mom Tigress spurned her lame-born cub
for Commandant Cousteau’s son
Once a Mom Tigress spurned her lame-born cub
Wild Life Champ admitted cub to his club
Took cub under his wing
Till she could wildly spring:
Club members now learn to swing the knobbed club.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Shannon,
I knew her in
middle school
friends caught
somewhere between
being children, pre-teen
adults.
We jumped with
a wooden handled rope
across the stage
in Tom Sawyer.
1890's leather
and petticoats
galloping and swishing
against exposed
pale thin knobbed
ankles.
Crossed stage right
to stage left,
cued when Tom and
Becky kissed.
Growing shannon
learned to kiss dangerous
exciting men.
Coccaine and Vodka
replaced petticoats
and plays. I heard
years later of the haunted
whispers of such a childs
fate.
Death stole her at the
age of twenty after
nightly slaps - screams
from one of her
immoral un-ingenues.
Shannon Stopped.
Stopped skipping,
laughing, playing,
acting.
She hung herself from a
rusty fire escape in a
little city alley with the
same wooden handled
jump rope at midnight
in march's icy rain.