Long Nothing doing Poems
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YESTERDAY WHEN I WAS DUMB - A Benign Parody
(with sincere enough apologies and more to those who made the original composition an all-time great. T. Wignesan)
Refrain :
Yesterday when I was dumb
I couldn't tell a song from any sore thumb
All the tunes I hummed with my silent tongue
Were but tinnitus on my ear-drums sweet songs I sung
All the pretty frisky girls passed me quickly by
Yet I don't know why I couldn't even cry
I couldn't remember the sounds made by warbling birds
Nor the thunderous laughter I heard bursting from the clouds
All the songs I learnt line by line by heart
Kept mocking me in the stillness of my thoughts
(Refrain)
The wintry winds I weathered in my feathered bed
Warmed by lilting melodies in my love-sick head
All the words of songs lame casualties on my tongue
I could not sleep nights heaving on one lone lung
In my dreams I tussled with girls sticking out their tongues
I lisped some sounds like grunts to appease their wrongs
But I'd as lief be made a clown sans papier-mâché crown
Than be mocked by childhood girls I rolled atop meadow down
(Refrain)
Each full day I prayed for the right word to come to mind
Nothing doing ! I always mixed and twisted words on the line
Then I always drop shut the shutters, drew the curtains tight
Shut myself up in the shower to croon some line just right
" No bloody use " the misted mirror said : " You cannot win a Grammy "
" Oh ! What use is a tongue if it cannot taste the kiss of melody ! "
I've lived so long to know there's only one way to say : " Goodbye ! "
No words on lines nor tunes, just a look, a wave of a hand and a sigh !
(Refrain)
Yesterday I was dumb but today I have my own pounding tom-tom
With signs and signals to speak the language of the drum
And the orchestra sweeps over strings and the smiling moon
And I no longer seek to put words on line to croon
Oooh ! Yesterday ! I felt the stings in the cockles of my heart
Yet today I sing blood red the sounds surging through the chart
Oooooh Oooooh…. Yesterdaaay….
© T. Wignesan - Paris, May 3, 2019
Some serious religious sophomores claim Christ ('Witness' Bluff)
Almost like Columbus: to hit the Other, take their STUFF
Nothing Doing here; I am a Minister of Jesus' Gospel
For the same Reason they fled HERE to Native Indian lands
Catholics to Lord Baltimore's Maryland, Puritans to Massachusetts;
Persecuted Quakers to Penn's America - for debts Kings owed the Admiral
(Indentured white servants came in thousands, here and in the Islands
There's no shame; we are all sinners, or erstwhile peasants, made Kings)
Don't dare preach to me to abandon my dress, language, culture
While you want nothing of Jesus, and His Gospel that saves sinners like us
THE SECOND COMING WILL NOT BE TELEVISED, OR ON FACEBOOK
NOR WILL IT BE APPROVED BY THE MILITARY, UN, OR the WHITE HOUSE
This world has enough of such CHRIST claimants
Even Jehovah's Witnesses tell me to forget my ancestors
So she can rest assured, make the world safer for Imperialism
No, Sir. No Ma'am. Jesus never asked me to lose my language, wisdom ...
To become akin to POPES, priests, Luther, Calvin, Puritans of Boston
Who killed four Quakers before 1660; just 40 years post-Mayflower arrival!
THE SECOND COMING WILL NOT BE TELEVISED, OR ON FACEBOOK
NOR WILL IT BE APPROVED BY THE MILITARY, UN, OR the WHITE HOUSE
That was not all; Roger Williams fled Boston, for fear of forced deportation
Was fair to Natives, now America's first Baptist. Not so for Anne Hutchinson
She was expelled from MBC (Massachusetts) when pregnant with child #8
She never survived the flight, but did open up Portsmouth (Rhode Island)
So when we think those South Africans of Indian descent must change ...
I ask, As Columbus wanted change? As the Puritans? Those slaveowners?
Thank God the Slaves kept their African culture in America
And made Christianity BETTER than ever, gifting us such SAINTS as Dr. King!
So there!
THE SECOND COMING WILL NOT BE TELEVISED, OR ON FACEBOOK
NOR WILL IT BE APPROVED BY THE MILITARY, UN, OR the WHITE HOUSE
Complete Dependence
“God, the Master, The Holy of Israel, has this solemn counsel: "Your salvation requires you to turn back to me and stop your silly efforts to save yourselves. Your strength will come from settling down in complete dependence on me— The very thing you've been unwilling to do. You've said, 'Nothing doing! We'll rush off on horseback!' You'll rush off, all right! Just not far enough! You've said, 'We'll ride off on fast horses!' Do you think your pursuers ride old nags? Think again: A thousand of you will scatter before one attacker. Before a mere five you'll all run off. There'll be nothing left of you— a flagpole on a hill with no flag, a signpost on a roadside with the sign torn off." Isa 30:15-17 The Message
There are many who profess to serve God,
But rely on their own efforts to obey,
To form a right character
And secure salvation in their own way.
There’s no deep love of Christ in their hearts,
But they perform Christian duties anyway,
Thinking that by doing so they’ll gain heaven,
Because they’ve done the same always.
When Christ dwells in the heart
The heart is filled with His love;
There’s a joy of communion
With the Savior up above.
Self is forgotten in this communion;
The will of the Lord reigns.
Profession of Christ comes joyfully,
Without any formality or contrains.
Christ is trusted to change the character,
And repentance is sweet;
Pleadings for His work in the heart,
Each sincere soul does entreat.
Prayer and communion come naturally
And a song in the heart does stay,
Regardless of the circumstances,
That for most would dismay.
There’s sincerity of purpose
And upon Christ Complete Dependence.
Obedience comes naturally,
Rather than thoughts of compliance.
There’s no fear of failure
To reach the standards of heaven,
But faith in Christ’s robe of righteousness,
And salvation by Christ alone given.
© Copyright 2012 Maureen LeFanue
www.maureenlefanue.com
The madman chalked red X’s
on the sidewalks of the houses
if he suspected
or had evidence
that people there
were unkind to each other,
or their dogs.
When he was a young man,
he studied hobo signs
chalked on railroad cars, mailboxes, fences,
buildings in barn yards,
in towns he probed.
Signs that said “doubtful”, “mean dog”,
“be ready to defend yourself”,
“dirty jail”, or “nothing doing here”
sent him away
or might draw him closer
to investigate.
He was a harvest hobo,
following the crops in the West.
Once beaten senseless, and left to die in a Fresno alley.
They laughed when they punched and kicked him,
stealing his knapsack and his kit.
The beating injured his brain.
He was never the same.
He lost all inhibitions and good judgment.
He couldn’t remember what rows to pick
when he picked grapes in Visalia
and oranges in Porterville.
He lost track of time, and had to write everything down.
He made little sketches so he could find his way
back to his box under the railroad bridge.
At night, he played his harmonica
until he dropped into dreams of his days as a boy
or his job with the city.
He dreamt of the beautiful woman that gave him
a whole pie when he begged for food at her door.
He dreamt of the old, black man that looked into his eyes for a long time before tears
came.
The old man saw himself in his eyes.
He saw a man with even less than himself,
and it was more than he could endure.
The hobo impressed the dirt path
in front of the man’s simple cottage
with a new mark – a mark never seen before.
It was an austere eye,
a large tear in both corners,
made with polished pebbles
and shells he carried in his pack.
I miss when he calls me duchess
I miss when he screams out Bambi
I miss when he softly says babe
I miss when he whispers babim
I miss when they swing kisses on my ears then my neck slightly moves to have me say I miss all of you.
the reason I left I remember not.
but deep in my heart I know you all tried your best to put a smile on my face.
it's just one man standing
it's more tiring cos I have no one to Lean on when he chooses work over me.
yeah! he's mad at me.
why?
because the only spare time he has to see me, I create work for myself .
it doesn't make me happy
it doesn't mean I don't miss him as much,
it means if he’s always busy during weekdays.
I get busy too during weekends.
so we are both busy and cannot make love.
when he's free I’m not
and when I am, he's not.
definitely not my fault.
if he cannot create time to see me during weekdays because of his work.
I just have to make myself busy here,
even though I have nothing doing.
hello! am busy sleeping.
it shouldn't seem like I’m the only one begging to see.
I’m not the only one in the ship.
I don't give a damn...
the part that would get me so crazy is when we fail to see,
and I head back to school, then he indulges in any immoral act and tries to justify himself by saying.
"when I needed you, you weren't they"
Then I'll ask him, so you created time to F.. k a pussy that's not mine?
That's it... it's over.
Form:
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake : Part Thirty-Three
Just then out of the arboured portals of the hotel emerged the wily woman
Clad head through bent back to toes in black silk bulging gown
She thread her way through free-flying curses to reach Darling Dears
There the Arabic she picked up through sucking Maghreb rivers overflown
Now stood her in secret stead to hoodwink jasmine band of Dears :
The Chief had to warn Robo-Cops not to succumb to their lures
For such sacrilege could in an instant flare Jihadi fires
So he bade Robo-Cops to keep to the rear with their gears
The Chief of Staff (CS) took things into own hands to set up SCCOO :
Supreme Crisis Council of Operations to lead succour
Moved relief Robo-Cop contingents on to the playing fields
Along the swimming pool and sealed off the hillock’s back door
Moved heavy artillery on Prefecture hump overlooking mosque
Authorized overlake Bastille Day practice flights at dusk :
Fighter planes’ red-white-blue smoke streaks drew gasps from assembled crowds
And gave the Franquist woman in chador chance to sneak in mosque
While some Faithful steeped in Maghreb prayers shook in fear inside
The wily woman murmured under burqa state of the mosque divide
The Chief (C ) wanted her to approach the muezzin’s tower steps :
« Nothing doing ! » she spoke into micro : « All sealed cordon-tied ! »
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Moi Royale
If I call you thousand times daily doesn't mean I have enough airtime to waste, its just that I love hearing your sweet voice,
If I visit you countless times doesn't mean I have nothing doing at home , its just that I love looking into your pretty little eyes,
Any time I argue with you doesn't mean I have difficulty in understanding, its just that you look more beautiful when angry,
Those times I stole kisses from you doesn't mean I was shy to ask, its just that kisses stolen from you tastes better,
You are worth thinking of,you are worth loving. That's why you always run through my mind,the thought of you brings joy to my heart,
A minute spent with you is like decades. Too much of everything is bad but too much of your love is the best thing that ever happened to me,
I might not be the most handsome guy on earth but believe me I am the one for you till death do us part,
I don't have much, but since you are my Princess am ever ready to sign in your name all my wills and assets.
Poet: Isaac Asante
Tittle: Moi Royale (My Royal)
Date: 7/2/19
https://www.poetrysoup.com/me/isaacasantepoems
@Fb: Trapking Tales
Here I sit, the screen is blank
Nothing is coming to mind
I search and search my tiny brain
For a theme of any kind
Nothing doing, my brain is numb
It's happened to me before
When it happens panic takes over
I pace up and down the floor
Wait a minute something's coming
A brain fart is on it's way
I know the feeling all too well
Cataclysmic, I'd have to say
I frantically type as verses flow
Don't stop me I'm in the zone
It's a weird creative frenzy I'm in
My brain is functioning all on my own
As words begin to fill the screen
Can't believe what my eyes do see
A poem appears just like bloody magic
And it's signed by little old me
Now tell me how this happens I beg
This brain fart phenomenon
Wish I could really get control of it
It's appears and then it's gone!
© Jack Ellison 2014
Here I sit, the screen is blank
Nothing is coming to mind
I search and search my tiny brain
For a theme of any kind
Nothing doing, my brain is numb
It's happened to me before
When it happens panic takes over
I pace up and down the floor
Wait a minute something's coming
A brain fart is on it's way
I know the feeling all too well
Cataclysmic, I'd have to say
I frantically type as verses flow
Don't stop me I'm in the zone
It's a weird creative frenzy I'm in
My brain is functioning on my own
As words begin to fill the screen
Can't believe what my eyes do see
A poem appears just like bloody magic
And it's signed by little old me
Now tell me how this happens I beg
This brain fart phenomenon
Wish I could really get control of it
It's appears and then it's gone!
© Jack Ellison 2015
He goes through each day
obsessing over how to
increase his earnings.
Times are hard.
He's drowning in debt;
his bills gradually piling up.
Creditors bug him so much,
he feels like screaming;
soon landlord will come knocking.
He consolidated his loans;
it hasn't made much of a difference
He asked his boss for overtime,
nothing doing.
He applied for a second job,
no dice. He's still waiting for a call back.
He wants to start a home business,
but doesn't enough start up cash.
Desperation is gradually setting in.
He's put unneeded clothes
on consignment,
he's holding garage sale,
rationing food,
clipping coupons,
exercising for free,
shopping in thrift stores,
bicycling to work
and he's cut cable television
down to basic. Anything...
to decrease his spending.
Date written: 03/09/2021