Long Marchers Poems
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Unquotable quotes – VII
What comes in through one ear goes out through the rear.
Give him a wench and, he’ll want her to be French.
Give him an inch and he’ll take no small pinch.
Better be swallowed by a whale than be torn to shreds by a
shark of a girl in a gale.
The praying mantis kills after she copulates in bliss ; the
predatory woman drills a hole in your bank account first
before she kills for a thrill.
The banana kills its bearer for the latter cannot bear another.
Take the pillow but not the widow
Marry her sister if she’s fatter.
Frogs in a well croak well in hell.
A crab walking straight is out of gait.
(continuing the series from UQ - VI)
We are all sinners under bums.
We are all looters under swarms.
We are all marchers under drums.
We are all dreamers under balms.
We are all loafers under palms.
We are all voters under domes.
We are all soupers under poems.
for Chrissie Morris-Brady
If you call a spade a jade, you’ve got it made
But if you call a maid a jade, you’re likely to get laid
Though if you call a maid in bed, you’re going to get wed
Yet if you call a maid to bed, you’re sure to be up-fed.
If you call a maid in a hurry, you’re likely to be sorry
Or if you call a maid in a lorry, you’re bound to worry.
If you called a lad dad, he’d likely not be glad
Yet if you called the lad bad, he’d certainly be sad
But if you called the lad mad, he’s bound to think you a grad.
If you called a nerd a turd, you could possibly get furred
But if you thought a Lord bored, you probably will get bored
Yet if you called a Lord a toad, he’ll have you all towed.
Then if you called a Knight tight, he’ll challenge you to a fight.
If you called a Baron daemon, he’ll think you were a doorman.
If you refer to Jude as a nude, you’re likely to get screwed
And refer to the nude as lewd, you’re bound to get brewed
And think of Dude as crude, there’s bound to be a feud.
If you called a squid a quid, it’s bound to think like a Druid.
If you call what you said dead, you’ll never ever get read
If you thought home food good, you must be a real hood
And rely on your word two-third, you sure are a dud.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
It was a time of change for the islanders
a time of letting go
a time of ending things
a time of confusion
a time of saying no
a time when love died
It was a time of change for the islanders
a time of broken traditions
a time of knowing shame
a time of hidden faces
a time of broken families
a time when love died
It was a time of change for the islanders
a time of their truths
a time of influences
a time of the outsiders
a time to be one of them
a time when love truly died
The missionaries and their true mission ...
Hewahewa was King Kamehameha's high priest or prime minister-like.
Hewahewa embraced the new faith and convinced the King to destroy
the Heiaus', or Hawaiian temples, of their gods and goddesses and so
it was done and, of all the Heiaus, the King feared Waha Ula Heiau in Kalapana, which is my mom's village of the present time. Waha Ula Heiau is
Madame Pele's temple. Waha means mouth, and Ula is red, which means
this was the only Heiau where human sacrifices were made. The form of
ancient Hawaiian execution was a single thrust club of one's head, hence
'red mouth.' The King's fear was for naught. He ordered the scared warriors who carried out the execution/sacrifices to destroy the last temple. Having completed their mission with fear gripping them the more, as many still hold to the old beliefs, as night fell upon their return to the King's village on the opposite side of the island, they ran helter-skelter, with their torches going out, hundreds of the King's warriors perished in the sulfur pots. Tales of the Night Marchers that some may actually have heard, continue to make their rounds at many campfires.
The missionaries and their true mission ...
... in later years, their descendants, somewhat ashamed that the missionaries profited from the seemingly 'castration' of the Hawaiian people, have given away many of their ill-gotten gains through philanthropic donations. Mom's maiden/family last name carries her name within the context -- Pele. The villagers of Kalapana whose family were high priest and priestesses of Waha Ula Heiau, carries Pele's name.
Marco Rubio
reminds
marchers against automated gun violence,
their pilgrimage views
oppose
what many TrueBlue Americans
support
as Second Amendment Rights.
Why hide
your own NRA Red supported agenda
You cannot politically
and economically afford
to be found
in this wrong?
So let's explore
with colonial ForeFathers
their Original Democratic Health Intent:
How sure are you
they
and their wives
and mothers
grandmothers
and children
would have supported
your right
to have a military-grade assault rifle
in your self-defensive closet
and in those of all your neighbors
and your most feared racist
fascist
rabid
AmericaFirst monocultural
public competition schooled
enemies?
How sure are you
that these students
and their parents
and their grandparents
marching against automated violence
actually oppose
your right to domestic self-defense
as originally intended
by patriots of polycultural democracy
and matriarchs of domestic family health?
Why is it,
do you think,
so many Second Amendment protected Americans
are marching
on and in and toward
state and national and international
cities
to remind you
They too are Americans
with proud and loyal Second Amendment
and First Amendment,
on around through all Amendment
rights to Sacred Unity,
Public and Private Health Welfare,
Left and RightMind and Body Happiness
They too are USA domestic residents
and tax payers
who believe the Second Amendment
is not whatever and however the NRA
competitively
and toxically define
and refine
and exegete it
So much as
whatever and however Original Health-Intending Democrats
cooperatively refine
and systematically define
domestic self-with-other defense
of WinWin
freedom from assault repression,
terrorizing depression,
racist and sexist suppression
Freedom for MotherEarth
wise economic
and political expression.
True colors saturate the undeserving sky
Coloring the four corners of the earth with
Transcendence light and a glittering message of hope
Propelling the marchers as they walk by in the ninety
degrees sun.
It’s radiant pigment dissolve in my face
opening the gate to start a brand new race
it’s scary and unpredictable, and the tension I once felt
that pulled me out of the well came on suddenly and disappeared
I have passed through this storm and made it home just before dawn,
And made a vow to the tree that I would never resurrect this feeling unless a naked tree is standing over me
colors are sensual , colors are revealing,
colors are natural, the colors are real.
The grey clouds have disappeared and colors
are spilling everywhere
I can feel its vibration in the sun
and excitement bursting within the jubilant crowd
The crowd kept coming and the colors keeps growing.
When the world comes to a standstill
and the lights around you grow dim
the colors will mesmerize you and strengthen you
It will hold you in your arms and drench you with its charm.
Thousands of people lined the street marching in colors that are deep
They have the stories that resonate from the past
Stories that are filled with glory and just a tiny sparks
Will explode the passion inside you and embrace you in the light
My eyes kept moving around looking for you among the thick crowd it moves within crevices and corners but I could not find you
I can smell your perfume and the motion that you choose, a dog and a cat and a funny little hat so the marchers gave it all that they have got
Suddenly I felt the presence of a shadow standing over me and a curious eye staring at me; black, brown, blue, yellow, purple, indigo, orange, red, pink green stretching at arm’s length
And the secret heart warms my face,
Colors are amazing.
Mountains rise far above valleys below
As shadows morph into morning's hued light
Celestial shades cause mountains to glow.
Out of marauding mist birds soon take flight.
Menehune folk are known to abide
In mountain ranges or forests, they keep
Away from all humans, they seek to hide,
Live off 'aina with bananas they reap.
A divine essence floats through tropic air.
Hawaiian night marchers of past up high
Still chant along cliffs with torches, beware
To let them be if you don't want to die.
Most kama'ainas respect island lore
With many legends they tend to adore.
5-14-19
*Menehune are a dwarf people in Hawaiian tradition who live in the mountains, deep forests and hidden valleys of the Hawaiian Islands, far from the eyes of normal humans. The Menehune were said to be craftspeople. Legends say that the Menehune built temples (heiau), fishponds, roads, canoes, and houses.
*Hawaiian Night Marchers:
According to Hawaiian legend, night marchers (huaka‘i po in Hawaiian) are ghosts of ancient warriors. They supposedly roam large sections of the island chain, and can be seen by groups of torches.
What to do when happening upon a night march in progress? The ghostly procession must never be interrupted. Legend has it that resting your eyes upon the Night Marchers could signal a grim fate for the perpetrator, a friend or relative, so witnesses are urged to crouch low to the ground, "play dead" and avert the eyes. Any sound or movement could invite a Night Marcher's deadly glance. These Night Marchers are set diligently upon their destination and are not considered spirits that will deviate from their path to haunt humans nearby.
*kama'ainas are Hawaiian native born equivalent to kama child, person + 'aina land, earth
* 'aina land, earth
It was one of those splendid mellow golden days
in early autumn when many trees, though still green,
begin to betray a trace of red or yellow.
In the afternoon I took little Eleanor to the park
just round the corner from where we live.
I came across a man whose hair, greying slightly,
was swept back to hide a bald patch. His cheeks
were hollow and he wore bifocals:
"Der Hund tut nicht beissen!"--he reassured me
when Eleanor ran up to one of his hounds.
Only little children and dogs were worth knowing,
he said, the rest he didn't give a hang for.
Eleanor was accosting all-comers--frosty matrons,
flint-faced marchers who had calculated that
the most direct path between A and B led through the park.
Then she joined in a knock-about game of football
till a young Turkish lad, shrewd in psychology,
gave her a spare ball to play with all on her own.
Her euphoria was ended when, carrying her trophy off
she tumbled down a six-inch hole. By the time
she'd recovered, the ball, ineluctably, was somewhere else.
Unabashed, she toddled to the playground, where
she found some children digging away in a sandpit.
She brought out the mother in a girl of eleven
and bathed in the glow of much adulation,
too young to know divisions of language and custom,
to be aware that the minutes were fast ticking away.
Then I looked at my watch: Well past six, almost dark.
Despite my entreaties, Eleanor remained unpersuaded
that it was really time for us to go.
With what vehemence she kicked and screamed,
how transfixing her glares when I got the pushchair
and strapped her down. She made me feel
what a pig I was all the way home.
NB. Der Hund tut nicht beissen - The dog does not bite
The winds of Winter wait,
Whispering to me of the approaching future,
But still far off, biding their time
Until this span of light and warmth has lasted out its stay.
Meantime, I engage myself in taking stock;
Compiling the days that define myself to myself
Enlarging the catalog so far as I can,
Building up a narrative.
So many memories
Like fireflies in a Summer's night
Flash through the dark spaces of my mind.
Childhood: Flash
Youth: Flash
Young Parenthood: Flash
Empty Nest: Flash.
Family, friends, events
Joys, sorrows, beginnings, endings -
All make their flickering passages;
All paint their images onto me
The particles dance and shift
Cells die to be replaced
The face in the mirror becomes my father's
Molecule by molecule
With each passing instant.
The particles dance and shift
Moving back towards the dark unknown
From which they came,
Yet somehow in the midst of it
The I that was
And am
And shall be
Remains to watch the long parade unfold.
And that parade, banal and fantastic,
Marches past that inside window where I watch to see myself pass by,
As some newer self shall do the same through all tomorrows
Until the day when all the marching stops for me -
And then, my fellow marchers,
O my many, varied Loves,
On that last Winter's day,
Where will we be,
Where will we be?
What musics shall we hear?
What wonders might we see?
A Pilgrim
(A song for 'Dia')
I come here at night's edge,
This parlour of hidden shadows
Questing for
Some measure of solace
From the bible black grind
Of mundane despair.
She is wearing white,
Tonight,
My Magdalene
My source of wonderment,
Thunder child
Storm raven
My crucible of momentary Eden
We are all searchers in the end
All weary marchers
Down the long winding road
From the cradle to the grave
Lovers poets fighters and slaves
Lords at midsummer
Winter's bedraggled paupers
God you are even more beautiful then I recall
The Raven woman
Speaks in tongues
Many faced
Multifaceted
Her magpie soul
Joyfully treacherous
Am I the fool
Prowling after true love
In this tangle of thorns
Where carrion children
Play and frolick
Over the bones
Of heroes fallen
And hope forlorn?
Tonight the storm child
Is screaming
My heart pounds a battle song
My soul sings the dirge
Of princes
Bereft of kingdom and country
Queen and cause.
What have we come to my brothers?
I love this sweetly rotting humanity
This slowly withering dream
That aspires to utopia
But falls short on emotion.
I am the lost soul
No harbour no anchor
No star to navigate by
drifter storm tossed
My back has been broken
My spirit quelled
The poet in me muted
Dead in life
Diminished.
Valletta
City of a thousand echoes
City of heroes
In the dead of night
Streets are silent
Empty, pristine
Clean
In a fractured sort of way
So perilous as to
Chill the clear heart
And scar
The unready soul
And her name
Is mystery
Wherein lies her power!
Carlos
Marching and dancing and singing
in and of and for healthy climates
regenerating wealthy landscapes,
ideally coming together,
like masturbating in pubic,
but subtly, and trans-genderally clothed,
only on the inside as if outside,
cuming together as one new multicultural regenerator march.
Sexy strutting marchers
but with opulent simplicity
remixing mindbody co-arisings,
with polyculturing health-wealth
resonating perpetual just-right foreplay climates,
then simulcasting decomposing re-investments,
of and for self and other
cooperatively,
and sacredly,
internally as externally,
perpetuating our collective climax fertility.
Climate marchers that cum together
spray cooperative ownership and mutual-governance
to gather future generations of climate-healthy marchers
as public,
yet resonantly private,
master incubators.
This liturgy of sexy climate marching
grows room and spaces,
folds and places,
for both sad becomings into ego-loss,
making more room to commence with singing glad
being Earth's echoing climax
of zero-sum eco-gain,
rhythmed not sin to sin,
but Win to Win further healthing days
and fertile nights.
My climate march
begins at midnight
with sad responsive songs of dualdark longing
to be rid of depressing competitive pathologies,
then rise with dawning trusted landscapes
to greet this new EarthDay,
to sing and dance and march
with glorious cuming resonant echoes
shimmering through Earth's capital domes and turrets,
until we ring together
West and East
Left and Right
Yang and Yin
in perpetually resonating climax.
Old Harve woke up in a cold sweat that day
And he’s never been the same—
He dreamt of a Veteran’s Day parade
Where no other people came.
There were only riderless horses there,
And some empty Sherman tanks,
Pilotless planes, deserted moth-balled ships—
No one watched or waved them thanks.
And there were uniforms marching in place—
But gray phantoms filled their suits—
There were only white crosses on the curbs,
But no children or recruits.
“But this all makes no sense to me!” cried Harve,
“Where’s the gratefulness and cheers?”
Then a gaunt specter turned to him and said:
“This happens with the passing years.
“Oh, it used to be quite different once,
When fights were ones that we chose—
But war and freedom’s now inconvenient—
Seems the blush is off the rose.”
“But liberties are not easy,” sighed Harve,
“They’re for our next generation—
They’re not like fast food or our micro-waves—
It takes time to save a nation!”
Then marchers changed to young men and women,
Who wore their uniforms proud—
As suddenly sidewalks filled with people
Who waved their flags and yelled loud.
Yes, what if they held that grand old parade
And no one came or cared to see?
Then maybe we would deserve what we’d get
And lose all our liberty.
But then that dark, grim specter just vanished,
Like a naysayer in the sky—
And that vet’s parade was the best in years,
As our souls and spirits flew high.
Oh, what if they had a Veteran’s Day
And no one had died for me?
Would this still be one nation under God
That was strong and good and free?
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