Long Inwards Poems
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There is so little time,
this life running out
So many people to see,
no doubt
For life is leaving me
This new dimension
All to give
This new situation
Not long to live
This armour stripped day by day,
leaving the vulnerable you
You don't have time
and you know it too
The words you want to say
This anguish,
so little time,
every day,
an extra wish
This fragility,
like glass,
are shattered
Its finality,
only the love mattered
So little time to spare,
for the things to say
straight from the heart
For, you do care
You must say today
Furious anger
at your weakness
There is so little time,
you must say today
For there is no tomorrow
only sorrow
This thing eating you,
powerless to stop
Hurts too
The people left behind,
love is blind
This pain hard to take,
but you learn to fake
So little time
The things you want to say
This pain won't go away
Growing day by day
Agonising so
The pain you face
You feel so low
The pain you bear with grace
This hope has gone
The family weep
The big "c" has won
Inwards they turn
In too deep
This final goodbye
This release from pain,
the family sigh
This pain borne for so long
with strength and foritude
inpired us all
For you walk tall
You did no wrong
So little time to spare
So little time for words to say
but we knew you cared
Pain day by day
Your message sent
But I knew what you meant
When you went
Your message sent
I knew what you meant
Spirit to fly
The family cry
So little time
The family know
One day...........
we all say
Our lives ...so short
So small,
yet dying affects us all
but we are caught,
for our time is short
These battles fought
So little time to spare
Live for the day
So many words to say
This hour glass,
running out fast
So little time
So much love
So much to give
Not long to live,
before you are taken,
you are not forsaken
The gentle passing
you have been taken
your soul taken into god's care
you are not forsaken
no time to spare
but the loved ones left behind
do care
no words are spoken
your spirit awoken
your spirit to fly
no pain
we will see you again
the gentle passing
hourglass shattered
only love mattered
on this passing
Form:
The Question, Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem : La Cuestion
« …Oh ! God, Oh ! Centre »*
for Vicente Puchol
(* Note by the editor, Alejandro D. Amusco, attesting that the above quotation was not included in Bousono’s Antologia poética, 1976, and on the « mysterious Centre » on which the poem is a cogitation. T. Wignesan)
Yes, we know it : would you like to find the secret precinct,
the invulnerable enclosed sanctum,
to enter through any hole into the incredible spectacle,
to penetrate the labyrinth and find the powerful Centre.
As if a thief could rob the totality of light
to find, as I say, the powerful Centre, the absolute Centre,
the immobile Centre of the tempest which moves by itself,
a Centre where nothing is found to budge,
where everything is absorbed into itself, like love, containing
itself in itself,
not on its periphery, but fully wrapped in its contents,
overflowing like the apparition of a card in the suit of Spanish cards,
like an enormous cup of manifestation which augments,
like a wave which continues to mount higher and higher and beyond
its highest limits,
farther yet than possibility’s horizons ;
and keeps growing afterwards, going on for days, and the spectacle of its extermination – the hideous knowledge and the joy of recognising its loss ;
and which continues growing for an immemorial duration in the
direction of its own centre : terrible,
like a persistent cascade pouring down its interior, a flooding within
the experience of feeling well in one’s being,
an existential waterfall without end which retracts - having stopped
flowing – inwards into its own Centre.
Ai ! The crucial question is therefore to enter the labyrinth,
The big question comes down to making the move.
Be warned that it is only an act of penetration,
a simple act of transfer ; it would suffice to make a gesture with an
idea that brings joy,
perchance it might suffice just to find water in the barn
or a path in the woods, or in the woods
to fall upon an exit
through the hole (where we came in), to proffer with the key to the
enigma
the solution of the charade,
and discover the other side of the abysm, the reversal of the plot,
before the roof deteriorates
under probing fingers…
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
This life
Rituals we’re asked to follow
Seem to separate man from man
Something’s wrong, it seems so shallow
Sun shines upon all with elan
So we went to temple and mosque
Sikh gurudwara and the church
Favours from God, all in fear ask
Whilst carefree birds, on treetops perch
Each affirms, their faith absolute
‘My daddy strongest’ is the norm
Fundamentalists resolute
Where lies hermit, bliss rapture warm
The scriptures per say seem alright
For each teaches, true path is love
Narrowness makes us blind to light
If God’s within, why look above
Such being the case, meditate
Celebrating our aliveness
We are still, nodes within gyrate
Entwining with the That oneness
Our prayer then, not a doing
Having chosen to surrender
Moment by moment, blossoming
Our each life breath, is God’s wonder
Our next life
One day this feeble form will die
Liberating soul eternal
Deluded desires, seek the sky
So we’re reborn; God’s miracle
Memory erased, when reborn
The same questions do resurface
Where lies the light that we adorn
Heart seeks to see God, face to face
Of what avail are the scriptures
We are not this here mind-body
Tiring of bondage and strictures
Plunge into the void, when ready
Cessation of thought, is the way
How many times must we be born
Each breath intake, is when we pray
With animal instincts all shorn
As our breath flows here and now
Accepting ourself as we are
We negate not, fear and desire
Nor with thought spirals, do we spar
Choose staid silence, because we tire
Shifting our fulcrum into space
We look inwards at all movement
Futile rat race, blocks divine grace
So sad is heart’s discontentment
Ceasing to size, we vaporise
Letting go of our doership
Life goes on, much to our surprise
No need then, for oneupmanship
Shift, external to internal
Requiring but a mindful eye
All we do, is make desires null
No cause then, for our heart to sigh
That that comes and goes, unreal
Our lower mind knows not the truth
We stand still, feeling bliss appeal
Entwining with God’s will forsooth
Boundaries blur, all becomes one
We are the holder of the flame
Luminous like the yonder sun
Recognising life but a game
04-December-2021
“If you would merge with oneness, vaporise!
Be a child again, welcoming surprise!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Immersed in limitation
Shrouded in darkness
Feeling thus confined
We flounder about
Hither and thither
Searching for joy
Bliss in permanence
Yet our heart senses
That we are far more
Than this mind body
With senses externalised
Lower mind fragmenting
Trying to piece together
The puzzle of life
Without success
Thus in delusion
Hypnotised by illusions
We strive and struggle
Hoping for a miracle
Which instantly appears
No sooner we ask
As voice of conscience
Echoing Gods will
Which has but one vibration
Love unconditional
Here begins a struggle
Between head and heart
Between ego and the divine
Former seizing, grasping
The latter, sharing, connecting
We recognise
That the voice of truth
Is that of conscience
Yet, we fear to lose
Fleeting images garnered
Or which we yearn for
Since we are clinging
To ego mind body
Stagnating in ferality
Trapped by our own hand
Unable to escape
It is then
That God in His compassion
Extends us a hand
Showing us the clear light
Of immutable truth eternal
By posing challenges
By signalling the futility
Of chasing a mirage
Illusionary thought forms
Which is what
All manifestations are
Thus when so graced
We begin to look inwards
In silence and stillness
Thought rested awareness
Doing nothing
Simply resting
Poised in the void
Of no-thingness
Desireless
Fearless
Detached
Nonchalant
Unexpectant
In timeless time
In as ordained
Attention is softened
Thoughts are quietened
Ego cravings recede
The external fades
As we get to
Vibrant emptiness
Thus we are
Thus we remain
For as long as it takes
Toxins within cleansed
Our earth life vessel
This mind body
Is readied
To receive the elixir
The magnetic impulse
Of Gods bountiful love
In boundless measure
The paths are many
We know them not
For we are not the doer
God alone is the mover
In childlike trust
Aspect allowing
We imbibe the bliss
Scintillating
~~~~~~~
He is that who may not be named
We too are as He, oh hermit
Within heart as the turret
Our divinity unstained
05-December-2020
Contest: The light N/A
“Hyacintho Caelum”
salvus me
per poetica
Hyacintho Caelum
advenit
sicut turbo
in pluvia
red life reigns
poetry awakens
opening
gifts again
a gain
Life
mysterious
calls us all forward
metronome time
constantly calling
the call
it never changes
the poets’ Majesty
pleasure through
the wrecking balls
dropping white and
black dogs barking pain
blue sky arrives
through inner worlds
ownership -
their belief in faith
messages
in the crazy minds
all turning keys
treasure notes
delivered
and passed
like naughty kids
in class, romantic
black sheep
waving white flags
and all the recalcitrant
revolutionaries
marching metronomes
marking wild rides
through storms
in search of some
golden purpose
down rabbit holes following
their shining diamonds
tears of mutes imparting
stars shining their way
they seem like magi
searching for some better
more beautiful
destiny
dark night
becomes day, eventually
some not blind, find losers
leading the way
red roses,
sacred hearts
deep, some
bitter and dark
turning inwards
then outwards
now becoming bees
pollinating the blooming
of all the others
lost then found
poets
and their stories
parked, for sedentary
ghosts to read
ignite new sparks
blessed
through soft and harsh
sentences
in the prisons
of their mind
they are now
opening doors
like the Magi
protectively
holding forth
their Frankincense
and Myrrh
wisdom for fools
now wise men
is eventually found
in an unrecognised world
birthing pearls
placed reverently
on electric walls of worship
lights glowing ultra violet
are ignited by something other
to lead the way
Winter watches sky
arriving on clouds
Christmas melts all
like a Summer heatwave
hearts to bloom again
we have read
what others wrote
poems and verses
in their ancient tomes
their scrying books
before us they
were searching
for their purpose
written with love
through joy and pain
gifts and lessons
through
one true word
our destiny
now begins
LOVE
always
wins
awakening
awakenings
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
Christmas, 2021
The Poets
...For a year they lived and were not bothered,
began to question what it was they’d heard,
but one careless night, though the love was sublime,
Miriam got pregnant for the second time.
Not long after things started going amiss,
Brad tried to stay calm,”Let’s not read into this.”
But furniture moved, the creaking returned,
they heard pained howls that left them disturbed.
And one still night, quieter than most tombs,
Miriam heard a dripping from the bathroom.
She felt a terror most will never know,
refused to get up, clutching covers close.
For ten long minutes the dripping went on,
then suddenly stopped, and a new horror spawned,
’cause in the doorway a tortured shape stood,
bone scraping on wood as it moved down…
Then something behind it, a new brilliant form,
shined with ethereal light by the door!
It was a young man, shimmering in white,
that beamed out brightly, lighting up the night.
He grasped the horror in a great bear-hug,
crushing inwards the great demonic thug,
as the young man fought with this entity fell,
he cried,”You are long overdue down in Hell!”
Then in a flash the two figures vanished,
Miriam sat up stunned, Brad oblivious,
light appeared again, then over her bed,
the young man floated, looking exhausted.
And though she’d not seen her first little one,
somehow she knew that she looked on her son.
The shape of his face, both Brad’s and her own,
the spirit of a boy she never had known…
James smiled and said,”The priest asked the Big Man
if he could stop this from happening again.
Normally He says that,’Vengeance is Mine,’
but He subcontracted out to me this time.”
Miriam gasped,”I….there’s so much to say…”
James said,”Don’t fear, you’ll meet me at the gates.
No need to rush though, live out all your years,
there’s so much to show my sister down here.”
With that he faded, the room now serene,
she awakened Brad to tell what she’d seen,
he seemed skeptical, but didn’t press the fact,
but the creaking and howls never came back.
From that day forth their farm was a refuge,
devoid of spirits, now hopeful and true,
and to a girl Miriam became mother,
named Etta-James, in honor of her brother.
When she opened,
her pollen seeped out and dripped down her stem.
Her petals were stained and warped,
her color uneven
and even her thorns were turned inwards.
But she was dying,
from the moment she opened she was dying.
She died as flowers do –
slowly.
If you have ever watched a flower die,
you would know this.
Their petals droop, turn dry and curl up towards themselves,
their heads sag,
their leaves fall off
and their stalks shrink in the direction of the earth.
She was no different.
But as this process occurred in her fragile body,
there was,
at the point where this particular flower met the rest of the plant,
something brewing.
Just the spark of an idea,
of a beginning,
a new beginning,
was starting to form.
This spark was sent up to where this flower
was slowly but steadily disintegrating.
When the deformed petals had all fallen off,
one by one,
when even the strings that had held the pollen
for the bees
had crumbled to dust,
when nothing was left but the head,
the furry base,
the core,
only then did the spark turn into something more concrete.
This something had drawn a new stalk up the inside of the old one,
and it was beginning to be more than a thought now.
It bulged out,
crowding a multitude of petals under tough green skin,
laying the foundation for more, new, beautiful leaves.
When finally the core of the old, failing flower
fell to the ground,
this bud burst forth,
springing out,
ready to show the world the colors and design
it had worked so hard on all those months, years,
it had waited in the seed to be born.
It grew slowly,
just as the previous flower had died slowly,
but it grew thorns the right way out,
forming its natural protective barrier,
and its leaves were bright green and faced up, towards the sun,
to catch its rays and give nourishment to itself.
Best of all, though,
was this new, young, slowly but steadily growing flower’s petals.
The design was intricate,
and the colors were brilliant and spellbinding.
And this flower swayed in the soft breeze that had sprung up,
knowing that one day she would die too…
and that was alright.
He grasped my fingers and I took a breath,
I counted to five and allowed my palms to sweat...
I stood, Converse clad feet turned inwards towards my opposite knees and thought about the
irony of plaid, I looked to rabbit ear shoelaces with tugs in the bows, and wondered...
how to make decisions.
Here we were and ankle length white skirts held the past in their hems, I fell beyond the
boat docks that became swallowed by the sea, once, twice, and someone told me, on a warm
afternoon in September where trees sheltered us from pouring rain, I spun on concrete as
if it couldn't break me....
I replied in a grinning whisper, words that danced through raindrops and giggled through
clouds,
“No, it shatters.”
I shook in the moment I remembered with my heart first and my mind later, because I loved
him so much on that night that the words didn't matter and I spun as April melted
inbetween us and sheets held the skin that told my secrets, the tattoo who heard
everything, and she heard me sigh, she heard me...
smile when I slept...
the sound of him, the days flooded, I fell...
on concrete...
and skinned my knee, I studied the shade of my bruises and the tiny drops of blood, I got
up and wiped the dirt off my hands, I studied my palms and my fingers and counted to
f i v e...
months later, I swallowed his voice, I attacked the shame I had in holding onto him for so
long, and I changed my shoes, untied the laces and zipped up boots, whose black leather
hugged my calves, whose toes were scuffed from all the miles I had walked, ran, and bumped
into him...
and the hems of my jeans, frayed, and stained with the dirt that settles on...
concrete...
rubbed up against his as I took his hand and looked down at the intricate patterns of the
way we held on...
I kissed him, then, when the rain stopped, and counted, as my teeth ran across the lips
that still tasted of his breath...
to one, and closed my eyes, to two, and opened them, and underneath the shadows that broke
the sky with my lashes, I reached...
forever.
What would makes a dead ass belly moves
And scream and grunt in a boy's imagination
The ass was dead vultures presence proves
And flies abuzz add crude to consternation
And we in fragile school days state
Look, saw, and lost or broken slate
From fear the animal grunting in pain
Would chase our hearts out against the strain
Clarence had a good hand, our best Tarazan
He and Derrick armed with missile stones
Attacked first the beast, and buzzards ran
And flies cloud the air, while the donkey groans
And grunt and shiver in its belly
Oozing rotten scent miles and miles
The stones hit hard and sank into jelly
My trembling frame still now recoils.
The donkey lift its head, and books were strewn
And screams were heard, and feet thundering away
And some fell by haste, but not yet in swoon
Wait upon the gorging of their unbridled dismay
But brave Clarence, stood despite our fleet
And hit, and hit again the dead ass daring
To defeat our sensible and hasty retreat
Was this a new demon? Something in tradition missing?
For many had heard, and some even would swear
There was a rolling calf, a demon shaped like a little cow
But myth nor custom told of rolling donkey nowhere
What dark at was then flung against us children now
For we are the outcome of our beliefs, and we
And from tradition's soil we take our mold
Each in his custom his boundary carry
Children's fear are the superstition of the old
I know this now, but not that moment then
Until I see the pigs through the anus gorged out wide
Fleeing, and grunting their fear with ours to blend
Their dismay our innocent stupidity to deride
Yes, it was only the pigs at lunch inwards
Feasting safely from our eyes. But we
Afraid of signs, ignorance made us cowards
Safer in truth, but, O, vulnerable in our fancy.
Chance / Change
Chance, that translucent shadow that creates change.
Change opened doors, opened windows outwards
into the deep, dark, recesses of inner space –
space, the dialectic – dilating the synapse –
giving birth to the possibility of dreams, of hope.
Chance, that opaque shadow that created change.
Change closed the doors, closed the windows inwards,
shutting off access to the light, of inner space,
slaughtering all the hopes and dreams
born from the mating of chance and change.
Change the light, of hope- a black cloaked, Grim Reaper.
A Beautiful Drug
This Drug, became a habit,
the habit became sorrow,
the sorrow became a nightmare,
the nightmare became change and loss
the loss of – what beauty was imagined,
has come to an acceptance, of a reality,
a reality that existed from the beginning.
Change, will not go easily into that black night.
Chance, will not give up easily, not without a fight !
This grape, will not a raisin, become !
This ivy refuses to metamorphose into a chameleon !
The shadow, the door, the window, the drug remain alive,
The life in them does not want to be shut out, shut down.
The feeling though – is – it all dies on a vine !
The feeling is, in that inner space, it all - remains ?,
the burial ground for change, for the future,
the end of hope and dreams never seen.
The essence of change, sometimes is a force so mean !
B. J. “A” 2
Will – ful – ness
Deep down, in the recesses of the hidden, the mysterious,
lies the will to hang on, to hang in, to live, – in spite of –
even in the grip of winter’s icy strangle hold,
forcing change to renew, rejuvenate, resurrect,
from deaths hands, an neonate, to journey
into another future, it seeks not, wants not !
The reluctant grape, the loathe ivy,
can not see that they will become food
to nourish our neonate, on it’s sojourn
into the wavering light of the mysterious.
Oh how I love the mystery !, why I love this mystery ?,
is a mystery to me and is a mystery to her - ( the drug ).
B. J. “A” 2
March 18th 2008