Long Meddle with Poems
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{"You’re alive,
The dagger hadn’t slashed you deep enough, to coalesce with your veins and say Goodbye to the world that wasn’t created to be for your amusement and pursuit. My parents would repeat over and over as they convinced themselves rather me.
It was assembled to anguish you; your crux, it was made to torture you, plague you. The devil whispering in your ear was made to haunt you.
And we go about, wondering why we can never be normal,
Being normal inside of our heart's dimensions would be atrocious, We decree on the fodder field in expectancies for it to tangle around us so we meddle with the ground, the soil that lingers in your core and smells earthy.
God’s Devine creation; I prodded the blade that was subsisting into my wrist nevertheless, even though I pondered about all the options scorching me from the inside out.
There was no hope for me;
nothing to live for,
nothing to die for.
I composed myself and nudged even further; in hopes to end my demise and tragedy in this world. It didn’t transpire, call it fate, call it destiny, but the rusted cores of the blade annihilated and shattered within my hands.
I bit back a scream in despair; my voice heaved in desperation.
My eyes cut to the side of the room as I went limp under the weight of my feelings. Even this I cannot do, even though the attempt to take my own life; was an unsuccessful effort. The blood was drawing and inking out from underneath my flesh, but nothing major that it would massacre. My eyes went to the back of my skull as they latched;
I recite the invocations everyone has once in their life before going to bed; ‘I want to die, take my soul out of my chest.’
my prayers went unnoticed, and neglected. ‘You still have another chance.’
I didn’t want another chance, I wanted the freedom in sauntering out of this world to scorch me, the inevitable punishment for wanting death to shroud me.
for wanting death to love me, a plaguing
curse."
The wind is blowing from all directions and the cloud is falling beneath the earth, the hills are standing tall and strong, and my heart is singing a merry song. I long for the days to come back again when we will be just like old friends, the shadows will dance with the moon and the stars will shine upon us.
I can feel the wind blowing in my back and an unfamiliar sensation moving up and down my new frock projecting a strange noise in the roof that brings joy and laughter in the atmosphere.
It is the howling sound that comes with the wind forcing mankind to pay double for his sin and nature rock you to and fro and catapults your mind all over the floor and when the moment has passed you sit still gasping for breath.
Th smell of roasted coffee beans seeps through the kitchen roof stirring my morning appetite and meddle with my midday delight. I struggle to bridge the gap between the coffee and the ice-tea and the early morning shoppers drain the energy out of me. They converge on the pavement next to the house and crowd the coffee shop in the corner. Discount coffee, strawberry doughnut galore, and cinnamon beagle pile up to the roof waiting on hungry buyers.
The crowd begins to swell and spills out in the street, and the dogs emerge out of hell pointing their long guns at the brawlers to control the swelling crowd.
Droopy eyes and hungry gut yawns before me, anxiously waiting for a cup of tea, the coffee shop finally opened, and the people form a line leading to their destiny. I have never seen such display of emotion before; it puts everyone on the dance floor.
My lips began to tremble, and heart begins to move and a song that has never been sang, a rhythm that has never been felt burst out my lips and the early morning crowd caught on to it and everyone start dancing, coffee cup in one hand and cinnamon and bagel in another.
Morning came alive and my emotion touches the sky.
Awards and Recognition
They patted selves on their very own back;
They do have all things which we will lack;
Am so sore,
We are poor,
Live in towers while we survive in a shack.
Many things medals and awards are about;
Who is the one who can give the most out;
Never sure,
Or can endure;
In whole system we do have much doubt.
People are upset like a boiling over kettle;
May meddle with system regarding medal;
Should correct,
Need for respect,
And this subject we should start to settle.
This could also apply to gerrymandering.
A new battle has become part of the game plan.
Who can give out the most awards and medals?
My company and the commander looks the best
when he gives out the most medals and awards.
Here is what I did so I could make mockery of
the system.
I had prepared my own request for the Army
Commendation Medal for my ownself. We were
in the final formation at Annual Training. The
actual Washington Army National Guard
Adjutant General was giving out awards. He
came up to me and was in the process of giving
me my award. He started reading the narrative.
He was about half the way through with the
narrative. He stopped and with a big smile said
that no one else in the world could have written
and prepared this other than me. The whole
Battalion broke out laughing. That was the most
meaningful experience I ever had in my carreer.
This is all absolutely true and correct. I had been
preparing awards for soldiers for over 20 years,
and this was a reflectiob of it.
James Thomas Horn
Personnel Administrator
Company C 3d Battalion 161st Infantry Mechanized
Washington Army National Guard (WAARNG)
17230 NE 95th
Redmond, WA 98052-3226
It is no longer in existance. WAARNG headquarters
is about three miles away from the AMTRAK Train
crash in Dupont, Washington. This is the longest
entry I have ever made. Characters remaining are
less than 700.
Unquotable quotes – XIV
Don’t trouble trouble until trouble gobbles you ; don’t
rubble rouble until rouble rubbles you.
Don’t marry a woman out of pity ; she’ll make you
regret her lack of fidelity for a ditty.
Don’t lose your temper with any old party member ;
they are all in league licking the leader’s member.
Don’t meddle with paddles if you have never rowed on
water ; it’s not the self-same action you practice with
your partner.
Don’t run to get insurance coverage when you’re
hanging from a ledge ; better wait for the dredger to
empty the valley of sludge.
Don’t go to the cinema to rub or warm thighs and legs ;
what you’re watching is not what you see.
Don’t climb mountains only to be rescued in the public
eye ; there are other more subtle ways like making
naked love to appear on TV.
Don’t crack jokes to make others croak ; crack their
skulls open with a rebuke.
Don’t eat with your fingers noodles soup ; drink the
soup first, then slurp the noodles through fingers.
Don’t tease the neighbour’s daughter for lack of
laughter ; for all you know she may be Bob Hope’s
screen writer.
Don’t turn tables in a fight if you haven’t got the might,
unless you’re John Wayne in a Western with a
broken hind stern.
Don’t squirm in bed dreaming of Clark Gable ; his teeth
kept great actresses crying out for a gargle.
Don’t swim against the current pretending to be Tarzan,
unless you have a Jane willing to put up with any
bane.
Don’t cry for help with a mere yelp.
© T. Wignesxan – Paris, 2016
The black river mills are seen in the distance
The red skies show spiraling, gray clouds
The earth is man’s canvas
And the mills slowly mix the paint
We have seen the devastation
We have felt the desperation
Some of us wallow in our watercolor
And leave the canvas blank
The mills crush their bones to the bottom
Mixing them nicely into the paint
People are pushed in without thought
Others go in willingly
The river mills are closer to my view
And my brush is stiff and unused
Women and children walk alongside the rivers
The elderly follow and sometimes shake their heads
On a cliff, I watch them all
My brushstroke stiff and worthless
Shakily I climb down the precarious cliff
Brush in hand
Canvas in view
Watching people suffer in the paint of their mistakes
People wanting to be part of the picture
I never desired this. . .
I wanted to create a masterpiece
The women and children are gone
—except one
I see a little black boy standing alone
He is watching me curiously
Tears in his eyes
He is a watcher
He was born to suffer
He never desired this either
“I’m sorry.”
The boy smiles sadly and takes my hand
“It’s okay. I understand.”
I shed digital tears
And program some control
It is quiet, save for the sound of the river mills
It has mixed well
The colors are astounding
“Are you sure you want to stay?”
The boy nods.
“No one wants me mixed with them.”
He is a creator
He is a watcher
I dip my brush into the churning waters
I then hand it to the little black boy
“The world is your canvas now. . .” I whisper.
It was NEVER mine to meddle with. . .
And we are set apart for a reason
But together we are incomparable
There is such a chill.
I’d make use of my flesh
as a heart warmer if only
it hadn’t withered to naught.
Bone protrusions meddle with
the rags of skin that remain
to drape about them.
I feel shame board off
the windows peering into
my mind.
What does one do with their rejected help?
Where does one go to hide from the
monsters of hopelessness?
Care tries to focus beyond the boards
into the depths of my answerless pupils.
I hear pain meagerly challenge the
question deep within my heart, gingerly
prodding at the loose cloth that remains
of my physique.
When did arrogance overpower the
affect of compassion?
Tears collect around my eclipsed eyes,
drowning out faith, drowning out liberty.
My eyelashes swing profusely at the pools
of sadness, but needles of ignorance
sew them to my brow with threads of pessimism.
I try to watch through the sorrow.
How can such barbaric norms exist amongst
one’s mind?
Slander poisons the air my lungs rely on,
dirtying the words that exit my mouth.
I feel my throat close.
Slander is poisoning my air.
My throat is tight.
Slander.
Tight.
As my eyelids become heavy I have but
one thing left, the fold of serenity in my brain.
Poisoning slander.
Throat closed.
Serenity.
I feel the air carving prejudices into my voice box.
I restrict.
Choke.
Restrict.
Choke.
The only segregation I allow is between my mind and the slander.
The choking is done.
I am done.
Serenity prevails and
I am done.
I am done, but serenity prevails.
Form:
Hey you, dear reader!
You over there
immersed in this fairy world
lost in this wonderland!
"Mon semblable, mon frère"!
What if
life goes awry
and plans do stray
from the intended course
from the traced way
without a cause?
Won't you crave to have a say?
What if
your hopes
your wishes
are all the day
despicably belittled
and thrown away
without a cause?
Won't you ache to have a say?
What if
such a dissonant fray
you're written away
and told to stick to
the puppet's part
in a sham play
without a cause?
Won't you die to have a say?
But what if
your feet of clay
your cherished memories
all that to which you tenderly cling
refuse to yield in low obeisance
to the whims of those that pre-emptively seek
to clip your wings and blockade the way
for fear that you may
believe in your ambitions
and dare follow a dream you're not meant to have
or God forbid
you even may
strive to stand tall in a place you're not meant to tread
?
Out of defiance or out of ennui
believe it or not
You'll end up having a say
And with good intentions
you'll pave the way
to hell for those who meanly pray
to see you fail day after day
to heaven for those who like you pray
to reach their goals
without obliging souls for that to pay.
Yet, pay attention!
Complexes will always be a part of who we are
inferior, superior, sceptic, naively optimistic ...
Just do not let them out of boredom
hypocritically meddle with the others' life!
Oh, you reader! "Mon semblable, mon frère"!
The time has come to give some joy
To this sad and depressed world
To bring some happiness into hearts
Alike to young and old
Soft music to lift up the mood
And fragrant candles to light up darkness
The deep and impenetrable darkness
Will light up with joy
Bringing lightness to every mood
And the spirit of giving to this world
Caring for those persons old
With the trueness of heart
The spirit of this season in the hearts
Will demolish all darkness
The cheer felt by young and old
Will be seen by the passing joy
As it spread its cheer in this world
Uplifting everyone’s mood
This uplifted merry mood
Will cheer and brighten every heart
Happiness will reign in this world
No time for evil darkness
To meddle with supreme joy
When it shines brightly in the eyes of the old
Together we young and old
Will cheer away the sad mood
Dancing hand in hand with joy
With laughter brimming in our hearts
Forging away in darkness
To diminish it in this world
The brighter and better world
A safe haven for young and old
Life free of all darkness
Cheery and merry mood
Mellowness and kindness in every heart
Bringing to this universe some joy
To bring into hearts of this world some cheer
The mood out of darkness being uplifted
And into life of old some joy is given
Unending lines, vast voids, shapes
meddle with my mind
and ghost an odd geometry,
the same that sometimes
twitch when a sudden waking
decapitates a dream.
Time dilates or shrinks
to a tiny dot pulling all
into its orbit then ruptures
into a rainbow, each strand
of color winding tighter
and tighter around my head.
It's the sense
of not being able to fit back
into the space where I belong,
when I become either too small
or too big or somehow
utterly change in shape.
Such disorientation lingers,
never quite forming into a coherent
thought but floats the boundaries
like a mist clouding
the fevered brain of a child who,
emerging from hallucination,
cannot give form to the terror.
A part of me remains there
held in the thick webs of a dream,
at times breaking through the surface
of sleep into where my waking mind
holds me, fearful,
frothed in the real.
Note.
This poem takes “geometric nightmares
and/or dreams” as its subject. I have had
these most of my life and what I once thought to be rare are apparently experienced by many.
The poem probably won't make much sense without having a little knowledge
of the phenomenon. Almost impossible to
describe the dream experience in words
and the residual distortions that linger
after waking.
How much I pride this wreath of gold,
now vanquished in my war-torn soul
asunder from that once lost flesh,
receiving veil and fashioned mesh.
Oh God, you’ve heard my numerous rhymes.
my prayers in verse for wedded time.
On that day I’d danced to you.
For all my hopes have now come due.
One dance to him who gave himself,
a him for me, as no one else.
And then to God, I’d strip my gown.
With Holy Spirit then throw down.
Like David when the ark was bought
from foreign holders bravely sought,
a rhythm dance to African beat
on fresh bare soil with shoeless feet.
You might ask “What crazy fool?
A lovesick woman. Not too cool.”
These words be spoken, if you dare.
To God above my dance is prayer.
“In truth, my husband and I were persons of “quite different construction, different bent, completely dissimilar views.” But we always remained ourselves, in no way echoing nor currying favor with one another, neither of us trying to meddle with the other’s soul, neither I with his psyche nor he with mine. And in this way my good husband and I, both of us, felt ourselves free in spirit” Anna Dostoyevsky
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