Long Enshrines Poems
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Your lover’s drawing straws without you, better bid farewell;
he’d never time for rhyme or reason, so it’s just as well.
Slip out the curtained window quick, the future winks and calls,
ignoring paths of pagan gods, where faulty footsteps fall.
Identify faint flashbacks, cloaked and clustered in a heap
and sort out those you treasure most, you need or long to keep;
Forget about the epoch past, which wasn’t what you’d sought,
pursue instead remaining dreams before they come to naught.
Reflect no more on what it was he’d meant for you,
strike out ahead where something waits, has sent for you.
The graveyard night is haunted still, it hovers where you sleep
recalling souvenirs amassed, the ones that made you weep.
The poets poised in dungeon vaults, now growing old and bald,
retrace their palsied pleas in dust, like those that you once scrawled.
Except for runic proverbs carved on stone walls ill defined,
assumptions will not dog you that you dare to leave behind.
The fortune-tellers waiting at the moat for you
read tarot cards while setting sail a boat for you.
The road behind is empty now, the sky is painted black
so gather all the wisdom gained, no time for looking back.
Forego the prophets’ prophecies, so tempting to pursue -
although they might be asked advice, they seldom have a clue.
Reject the secrets they reveal, enveloped in their guile,
which be betrayed between the tombs in ruins of their smile.
They’re waiting with a fractured rule of thumb for you
while beating on a perforated drum for you.
A sand-glass dribbles distant dunes, the sun dial’s shadow’s late,
so now’s the time for slipping through the open swinging gate.
A joker wild defies the fools to read between the lines
in search of cryptic radiance the future world enshrines -
“the days ahead will wake again like waves before the dawn
when picking up the pieces left behind a passing pawn.”
A noble knight awaits to clear the board for you
when, soon, a cup of nectar wine is poured for you.
A cruel Jack Frost blows icy floss
(in front of spring a’ burstin’)
while shiftin’ sheaves of withered leaves
near freezin’ streams a’ thirstin’.
A pack reviled runs roamin’ wild,
the alpha wolf wakes howlin’
then scents a lean and lonesome scene
while on the lurk a’ prowlin’.
A cloud revolts with spangled bolts,
and starry skies start closin’
as wild geese soar beyond death’s door
neath naked moon a’ posin’.
Electric shafts, like fractured rafts,
sail night’s cathedral caldrons –
their cracking curse makes herds disperse
in random splayed and sprawled runs.
A she-wolf sighs with hungry eyes;
the ancient wolf waits, bayin’ -
with weary back, he’s lost the track,
his bandied legs betrayin’.
The brood’s somewhere in shrouded lair
with mama left to mind ’em -
the wolf, a’ drag with empty swag,
is on his way to find ’em.
The pack rejoins with weary loins -
perhaps its days are numbered.
In evening’s night, he’s feeling tight,
with aches and pains encumbered.
As morning nears, with shaggy ears
(one droopin’ down, hung over)
he’ll set the course with renewed force,
for, yes, he’s still the rover.
When snow enshrines the timberlines
and skies are ripped asunder
though young, lupine, they’ll stifle whines,
as gullies fill with thunder;
mid echoes in the mouth o’ death,
they bid farewell the lair
while panting puffs o’ crystal breath
float, hanging in the air.
Their path is black (they can’t look back
for herds long gone a’ missin’)
as dusk profanes the snow-bound plains
the sinkin’ sun was kissin’.
Neath northern lights, with barks and bites,
he keeps ’em all in motion –
the speckled scars of fallin’ stars
display the night’s devotion.
The sky’s a’ blushin’ in the east,
and hollow wind’s are sighin’
while buzzards freeze in gallows trees,
a’ roostin’, rapt and eyein’.
These ghouls of prey, they’re spooked away,
like tumbleweeds a’ blowin’,
by tilted head, white fangs tipped red,
and warnin’ wail’s a’ growin’.
...... Continued in part 2 ......
My verse has been chosen as Poem of the Month at Sherborne Abbey!
The curious offerings of sacristans
Are given in obscure humility
The symbol of the cupping of the hands
Enshrines the essence of this mystery
The dawn unlocked; the turning of a key
The mystic world behind the little door
The mourning weepers, watching, silently
The quiet foot upon uneven floor
The layered shadowed centuries; the pass
Of long dead worshippers before the throne
Slow shifts of coloured pools of stains of glass
Soft drift of latticed light on pillar stone
The empty candle, thirsting for new oil
Unscrewed and filled, screwed up again and lit
The hidden corners, carved by masons’ toil
In which a wary flickered flame may flit
The covering, uncovering; each fold
Of linen and of altar cloth an art
Within the starch of white, on marble cold
The space to hold His living, beating heart
Here, understated wafers wait in line
For blessing, as an unblessed congregation
Here silver, water, light, and red wine shine
Anticipating sacred consecration
Here eye, and hand, and mind, seek symmetry
In objects placed, in psychic ebbs and flows
Seek that perfection only God can see
In right angle and scented mystic rose
When all are done and gone, her hands will shake
The fragments of His flesh on holy ground
Shed drops upon the earth its thirst to slake
Pour water through the light without a sound
When all are gone, all blessed with wine and bread
There, in the East, where better men have trod
She kneels and presses to the step her head
And, lost in awe, she speaks these words to God
I am that ancient soul you always knew
A part of you, from when time first began
The I am that I am, the that in you
That serves thee, as I will, while still I can
I come to you as Christian, Muslim, Jew
Agnostic, Gnostic, Druid, Angel, Man
The cupping of my hands I give to you
The curious offering of a sacristan
© Gail Foster 2016
Zen master
Kept
Pouring
From his kettle;
The tea continued to flow
By now cup was full, he didn’t stop
Cup was now overflowing, he continued. His act
Disciple was amazed awestruck. Had never seen
This was most strange behavior Unseen before
He finally gathered courage. and asked.
Master the cup is full now overflowing
Master was waiting for this question
He said without blinking a lid
Son, you have to learn…
Here’s a lesson from this:
I can not give you knowledge if you are already full
In order to receive, you need to first empty yourself.
Disciple unfazed
He responded
Dear master,
I am not a cup
That is made of baked clay
My body enshrines spirit and soul
Am not limited as a concrete object
I am not limited by my exterior form
Your example fails to acknowledge
The play between body and spirit
Look at a one year old toddler
Joyfully crawling on four
Fragile nascent soul
The beings evolve…
A seed contains a forest
The human body is not a limited vessel as you say
Diferent in name and form we are made of the same clay
The make, what we contain, even the source is the same
If the cup was bigger than the kettle and could take it all
Would that empty you? Where do you get your refill from?
Let us acknowledge, it is the same source.
My Rhetoric Rhapsody
Oh! I am a Poet
It’s me again pretty poet of the century,
Breaking through till I reach mercury.
A pretty poet with popping phrases,
A poor poet with perpetual personality.
Praying that my poems pulls out pieces of pleasure,
Arouses interest, motivates and inspires.
Oh! I am a Poet
Who teaches as he preach
On every inch that becomes a cliché
And leaves your ears aching when reached.
Who frees frozen feelings of Refugees.
Who unfolds fundamental mysteries of false phenomenon.
Who washes and enshrines shameful ships on a sea shore,
Assuring Sheppard of Shelter by Lord Krishna.
Oh! I am a Poet
A rock solid hardcore poet
Self proclaimed Fundi
A super duper verse creator
A self sufficient professor
A prodigy not a protégé
A dictator not an agitator
A toughie not a roughie
I don’t recite to hear myself talk
I don’t talk to be noticed
I don’t take Hobson’s choice
Nor hobble to a hoax
I don’t settle for a bird in hand
Nor crawl for half a loaf
My reaches exceeds my grasp
My wishes akin to my riches
My poems are my pillar
My wits are my tools
No hocus pocus for my hoi polloi
I’m not a hoity-toity poet who scribbles down hokum poetry
My poetry is impalpable,
Inexplicable and impeccable.
My creativity is infallible.
My verses so impregnable.
I am an imperious poetic licensee
I am a rusty epic epidemic through youth poets’ wannabes,
A penurious poet who indulge in perilous peripheries.
My masterpiece is not some common handwritten handiwork on handkerchief.
I craft them like a handicapped handyman with no haphazard!
And this is my Rhetoric Rhapsody...
See, when I rhyme my rhymes that hum like hymns
And step on my Poetic Stiletto heels to find open minds
And dine in a pile of my rhymes...
My mimes start to mime my rhymes
And this is a route where I quote that this is not over yet...
My Cousin Chaos
What cousin incest I am my own chaos
too much unpredictable prediction not to be cosmic
comical maybe the anarchy the drive for comprehension
and so much honest serious hilarious enjoyment
I am related to myself brother in arms mind and legs
on the journey to what where and because of
which fallacious fragmentation reconstructed
polar posited complementing contradictions
She or he who searches seeks the clown jester uncertain certainty
father mother sibling offspring un-othering completion
takes domination pseudo-science’s conjectures
concatenating refutations of the blinding path and vision
The butterfly who flaps the wings the roots to fly
propels the grounded theories of places times
in foresight hindsight blind-sight sentinel sensation
full of telling meaning narrative enlivened imperceptibility
Embraces cuddles rejects rejection rediscovers lost
and lonely loving horizontal longitude the lateral
collateral imprisonment of iron cages rational irrational
emotional confinement liberation freedom from and of
Enshrines in effervescent transcendental condensation
of what perspires inspires transpires in the illuminated
darkness boxes ignorant lamenting shallow high rise entities
makes love to sensual cognition consensual chaos
Or is it co-sin cuisine havoc’s Karma dishy chaperone
and chastised illusion disordered fusion fission
elemental monument harmonious disintegration musky
tall minuscule order rising falling standing firm
When thereafter now again before and yet again I loose
the plotting pot containing potty madness sane insanity
I ask my cousin and the loopy loops and square shaped circles
question the Universe that stays aloof precise and altogether mine
02nd June
Hope and Faith
With my body suffering from acute pains
After a fall on a slippery floor,
With the back hitting against the footsteps
And several ribs fractured at the core
Sleep becomes utterly vain,
Conflicting thoughts and clashing concepts
Invariably invade my mind,
The days seem to be dull, dreary and long,
Hardly inner peace I can find
And only wish my course not to prolong.
But the mind, after deliberations,
Counsels me not to forsake hope,
Not to give way to emotions
Nor a dark despair to adopt
But to cherish and nurture hope
As it is the effulgent light
That keeps the spirit ever bright,
Spurs man to rise up if he falls,
To move ahead to reach his real goal
And mark his imprint in the human scroll.
Hope enshrines a positive attitude,
Helps to discern the bright side of life
Relieves man from obnoxious solitude,
Assuages his arduous daily strife
And lends a hand to restore one`s health,
The most precious gift in the world
Which no amount of treasures or wealth,
And not even the rarest of pearls,
Can retrieve for one striving for a last breath
And who maintains hope at arm`s length.
Yet a low voice deep from my inner self
Extols the the virtues of faith in the Lord
As faith in the Lord is faith in oneself
And not to think of the Lord we can`t afford;
He cares for us in ways we can`t believe,
Extends His hands to temper our downfall,
Works out wonders our pain to relieve
And showers His grace on us if we call
On Him with wilful faith and devotion
And with resolute determination.
By Krishnanand Guptar
Sidestepping the shadows and agony
A trance spelled vision offered
What body-broken progressions lost:
A miniature emblem in the holographic light
Healing minds belabored with aggression
For a second, all subjects grieved
Casting doubt on veracity of pen movement
A storied skull to soul-bone rumination
Yet the decadence of words unearthed
A new perspective from modern-day recycling
Lost in trance, the ritual gothic tragedy
I could sense the eyeballs truncated
Against walls of dastardly meat
Human beings in a monstrous shredder
Capital investments cold as day, threatening
To rip song from hearts of mercy, then
Somehow gathering strength to run, I
Could see the glowing beauty of shadowed climbs
How the sky will shape into earth
How every birth would carry meaning
So as potent sacs of fluid
Vomited their lungs into space
Its an ancient purging
To put limbs to ease
Instead of resurrecting hidden tension
In the glowing portal of untying soles
Our redesigned ink of dreams
Assembled new gateways of thought
Poised for subjects to enter
A bold declaration with the typewriter of space
At last, if all fails
In the dreams of men
We retrace back the golden bridge
To vermillion flowers
To find meadows of plenty
So as to train hearts and ears
To recognize ever flowing creativity
Nature poised in simplicity
The Gilded Age by Mark Twain in his 1873 novel /The Gilded Age: A Tale of Today, which satirized the era's materialism and political corruption is just what this King has ordered in his Megabill —Poetess
There was economic prosperity,
tho unconscionable social inequality
as a few “robber barons” tycoons
amassed great fortunes,
whereas degradation inflicted dire poverty,
mass starvation from petty wages
and long suffered humiliation
spawned a widened path and following stages
Arising of labor movements,
for better rights and conditions
narrowing the gap ‘tween the CEO
and the working Joe
killed for organizing strikes
The Gilded Age was notorious
political corruption made glorious
influencing many politicians
dominating were the captains of industry
An era of the rise of patronage systems
and widespread bribery and kickbacks
eroding trust in the government
Lack of effective regulation
contributed monopolist’s chasm reign
solidifying rich/poor disparity
We’ve forgotten that era and are in the midst
of repeating the plunder
A royal signature enshrines greed now just as then,
making America for the privileged gilded again
His majesty has his victory lap
and with no room for a generation gap
he’ll sign the Big Beautiful Bill
On this Independence Day
A gilded new age awaits his will
Further observations in the THIRUK-KURAL on those* who would be King: K389 and K390 WITHOUT COMMENT
[* such as short-term presidents, chief and prime ministers, governors, dictators and the like]
K389: chevikaippach chotporukkum panpudai veenthan
kavikaikkiilth thangkum ulakam
[chevi = ear; kaippu = bitterness; kavikai = umbrella]
The king of worth, who can words bitter to his ear endure,
Beneath the shadow of his power the world abides secure. (Transl. G.U. Pope)
The whole world will dwell under the umbrella of the king, who can bear words that embitter the ear. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus)
When scathing words assail to no avail the ear of a nobly forbearing sovereign, the world will find refuge under his panoply. (Transl. T. Wignesan)
[Note: NO COMMENT]
K390: kodaiali chengkOl kudiOmbal naankum
udaiyaanaam veentharkku oli
Gifts, grace, right sceptre, care of people's weal;
These four a light of dreaded kings reveal. (Transl. G.U. Pope)
He is the light of kings who has these four things, beneficence, benevolence, rectitude, and care for his people. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus)
Liberal giving, kindness, just rule, protection of subjects -- the king who enshrines these attributes, yes, shines forth a (celestial) luminary. (Transl. T. Wignesan)
[Note: NO COMMENT]
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017