Long Peripatetic Poems
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September 12th, 2019...12:00 p.m.
inspection/ emission finally possible
but...hopes dashed to smithereens
August thirty first
two thousand nineteen shortly past,
no matter 2009 Hyundai Sonata at long last
scheduled with ample funds
checking account blitzed
now back home
(Highland Manor apartments)
absolute zero money left cents lessly gassed
exhale incomplete sigh of relief
cuz necessity to dodge fast
escaping deafening police
ear splitting siren blast.
Congenial customer service
representatives at CJ's tire,
and automotive dutifully require
loose fender securely attached,
but hood latch replacement more dire,
thus postponing mechanic
to affix inspection sticker,
no matter old one did expire
once again driving on borrowed time,
cuz both driver and passenger front tire
plus rear right TPMS metal sensor
re: passenger rear tire
malfunction functionality
hoop fully explains this wire.
Your truly uber verging wreck,
no complaints regarding trained tech
very competent mechanic
even for peripatetic pluperfect prospect
reference I recommend unsolicited
advertisement plus aye inject
relieving anticipatory anxiety
oh yes, said vehicle
in good hands absolutely correct,
no matter sucker punch
to checking account
doth severely affect
mine psychological aspect.
More legal (zooming) tender
zaps lion's share of this thrifty spender
wannabe, which cruel tread full fate
unquestionably, ostensibly invariably...
every year without fail doth render
finding me in poor house
desperate to pray divine
rolling rocker alms lender
whether he.she major criminal offender,
nor no preference regarding gender.
Fat/slim chance
wishful fantasy will become true
escapist mindset bolsters
this hen pecked forlorn rue
stir standing glum within
long fostered, and winding queue,
this dirt poor dude intuitively knew
bubblegum, toothpicks and glue
holding psyche intact turned hue
man into sad sack... boo hoo
minus auto body work
undertaken by trained
heavy metal punk ken cutting crew.
What would you say
If after this time
You reawakened this day
Long out of reach, your prime?
Would you still ride the horse of your forms
Bequeathed by Poseidon forever to be
Or from your eyes
Would your reality emerge
Amidst this positivist sea?
Would it be theology you adorn
Like most of the lepers strive to see
Would you heal their eyes
With a synthetic judgment
A Kantian reprieve?
Philosophy is deceased
Or so many decree
Encumbered in Zarathustra's sleep
Like Jehovah into its blackened lungs
The breath of life -- could you breathe?
Would you still be the peripatetic mentor
Of Dante's "the master of those that know"
Or would you still wish to be the protege
The protege of he with no letters to show?
Would you defend your apology
Of a traveling heretic
A heretic for corrupting the young
With the idea that politicians and beaurocrats
Must abide by an inviolable ethical form
A form of chivalry this day much unsung.
And so this apology I must afford to you
For allowing the Sophistry
Of your age
To come anew.
Leaders still begin wars
With the flower of youth
Not their own
Petals wilted and crushed
Under the jackboots of those lacking
The concept of God or father.
Fear creates a protean enemy
As sure as the incited mob's voice
You witnessed at the ripe age of twenty-eight
Snatched your second father
And afforded him no easy choice.
Justice is not easy
Your life was about defining
Something this day has been lost
It's essence forgotten, always at a cost.
After this apology
Can we still have a hope
That you could rescue this world
Fill the holes and set it afloat.
After all of the centuries
Some forgotten
Some abhorred
Would you still be able to prove?
That all of human thought and hope
To you is indeed but a footnote?
We all have inner and outer lives.
They’re messy, hopelessly intertwined, and more
than mere mannequins to hang our word-art upon.
I’m supported, in my unwritten life, by a structure
of moods, both affine and counter-expressive. I’m,
in turns, a tightly wound vagabond, an over-busy,
fretful, unhappy liar (for what I will not share) and
a happy, truthful mess (for what I may overshare).
My outer-life is largely academic, and turned with
complete absorption to task, I plow thru the
needed assignments, like a caffeine fueled machine,
You might rightly call outer-me boring. I get it, for
nothing much happens beyond study and life’s
usual maintenances.
But my inner-life is full of action, if desires,
dreams, and internally ranting against the injustices
of youthful separations can be rightly called actions.
Of my boyfriend, the world contains not one parallel.
He overshadows the few others I’ve ever known.
His masculine elements turn me all the way up,
He knows my petty vanities and most of my weaknesses.
If he doesn’t know my every phase of feeling, or every desire
of my love starved soul, it’s because our love is peripatetic.
Most of the year, we’re a long distance, digital, practical nothingness, A near autofictional anticipation. We are separated by a sea and more. If I may simply put it, I have a fine young body that is going to waste.
When I complained to my older sister, a surgeon who long delayed her own personal life for her career, she shruggingly and unsympathetically said,
“You only have to suffer a few more years.”
“Oh, mon Dieu!” I replied.
.
.
Alabama Song by Ralph Schuckett & Richard Butler
positions by Ariana Grande [E]
34+35 (Remix) by [feat. Doja Cat & Megan Thee Stallion] [E]
Prevarication permits pretend perception, presenting
piquantly piqued, pimply pimping playboy, plucky
pulchritudinous previously pusillanimous, prevalently
puckish, psychic packman, pokemon playing proletarian
puppeteer pygmy, peevishly punky, plummy, plumy,
pompously pushy, pampered, prefabricated pinchbeck,
pokily plying plowshear, plodding peregrination, pied
piper pitifully peppy pornographic potato pealing,
parsimonious paradoxical protagonist, proposing
preposterous panicky pacification plots, prioritization
pertinent penultimate peroration, perhaps perceiving
perjuring, perplexing, perverting puzzling pronouncements
projecting pulsating pixelated pulpy pinball pinging
packets prompting pacific, poetic, phlegmatic purplish
psoriasis plagued, plumbum pallor pallid, Paleolithic
protuberance pronounced, psychosomatic prohibitionist,
polarizing perfunctory peculiarly progressive, patriotic
postmodern pathologically proud paternal panache,
peripatetic panaceas portraying prescient perfidious
puerile president, predominantly proposing parochial
principles, plenty public parking, purposefully
promoting pharisee phalanxes, pilates practicing
paragons, perennially peaceably proficient protesters,
profitable polygamy, pugnacious pitbull powerball
players, pandering polyandry, propagating professional
palindrome pensive peeping people, peddling,
proselytizing predicating prostitution, proliferating
phenomenally, populist persona promulgated peyote
phased physicians pioneering prescription promoting
paradisiacal pricey photographic pictures, placating
phrenetic physical perturbation partaking place
purchased (paid paltry pennies) por palatial piazza.
the robin hops from the tips of the rose bush
spilling snow dust
sprinkling skeins of early dew
dusting with its uppity tail fan
a caterpillar
softly dousing concertina
then it trips up the clothesline
stops and grips it in its claws
sways and balances with its tail fanning out
chirps clucks tweets
and repeats itself
all the way down again
and up the scale
comes back once more to skip a note or two
and tumbles
sweeps past the old toy bicycle leaning against the wire fence
the claw marks hardly visible on the spray of frost-like snow on the balustrade
light ephemeral peripatetic
the dulcet flexions rising and falling on the tympana without breath of motion
or vibration
crisp colliding notes rising and falling
as the first tentative drops of drizzle before the rain
the robin gone to sing full throttle on wing
© T. Wignesan, Paris, 1997; from the collection: “Poems Omega-Plus”, Paris, 2005.
The last mile of the way
It is a matter of must
To all and sundry,
Each and every man-jack
Has to walk it.
It is the real moment in deed
For one has to say, “Goodbye”
To those he loves.
One has to put down all his loads
And face the reality of time.
Blessed is the man
Who walks on camino real with the Lord.
Cursed is the peregrinator who peregrinate alone,
Who promenade Lordlessly.
The rich man blundered
To hell he was taken
For his life has been peripatetic and perfidious.
Confessions he tried
But confessions failed.
Remember, longest is the night
That is not followed by the day.
No matter how long the night
The day is sure to come.
With His cross on His shoulders
This mile the Lamb travelled,
Sinless and spotless the teacher was
And God the Almighty on His side He stood.
The impenitent Judas also travelled it
The mile was tough and dolorous
For his sins were accompanying him,
Suicide and sheol were his penultimate end.
Fight panophobia and euphorbia
With rectitude and optimism for heavenly opulence,
With clear conscience and faith in Him
Walk through the narrow door
Before the Master closes.
The writing is on the wall
“God shows no favouritism”
Let us travel this mile
With no wrinkle and spot
For this mile takes us
Into the hands of the Omniscious One.
Where our tears will be removed by Him,
Where there is eternal rest
Where there is no sorrows,
Neither death nor sicknesses.
I’m put upon to ponder the problem of poetry
& thus, I proudly or, perhaps, perfunctorily,
Ponderously pronounce with a preponderance,
Even a plethora, of p’s:
Poetry is pithy, prankish and perky,
Pertinent and impertinent, too
It’s prophetic, pathetic, pragmatic and proud
Poetry pretends, preaches, points out,
Points to, and down, and under
Poetry’s petals promise purity and peace
Poetry’s pristine, picky and pale
Poetry is practical, prudent, is pregnant,
Gives pause
Poetry’s precise, prayerful, powerful
Poetry’s presence is portentious and playful
Poetry’s a mosaic portrayal, a
Painted portraiture, perfect, profane
Prosaic, it is not,
Preposterous, it is
It is ponderous, political, porous, pontifical
Peripatetic and perennial,
Prescient, pedantic, possessive and puerile
Perfidious, perceptible, perplexing, perfectible
Poetry perseverates, preserves, perseveres
Sometimes perplexing, never perishable,
It pulses it prowls, it probes and it pries
Poetry is a perverse, precocious, pubescent prankster
It prances, and preens periwinkle plumage
In place of deep purple prose
A persuasive, peculiarly pleasant peacock,
Poetry promulgates poems!
Poetry, dear poet, exists
Poetry, dear poet, persists
Poetry, dear poet, persists and preoccupies
Poetry can never desist
Poetry perpetually propagates poems
And that
is the problem
with poetry…
Phew!!!
Choked by the incense of poetic justice,
I volunteered to be slain for the betterment of humanity.
The paintings of my ink on white sheet were witnesses,
When in Abuja, I drew my poetic daggers,
Against a twin bomb blast that left separated Limbs of men bleed with acrimony.
Eyes wept with sympathy crawling down their cheeks
While our crown boast of a thousand solutions with no one in sight.
Poetic justice shall reign in Nigeria, I prayed
I handshake my communication god when it rang
And cling firmly my peripatetic poetic spirit,
To Didier's motherland, under the cloud of French stimulated Ivory,
I saw a goat-bearded-god mimic the suit of the stars and stripes.
And commands pagan's adoration of the sun upon his throne.
When scions of termites spit at the sight of our dead flesh.
I wept when hunger-lashed beggars’ union
Cling on my feet for one CFA franc.
Poetic justice shall reign in Ivory Coast, I prayed
Under strong loyalty to tyrannical whipping with merciless rod.
I saw my brothers drip blood from the scars of yesterday.
Should religious fundamentalists be blamed?
When a star, firmly crucified on a sickle moon,
Grind the 'holy cross' people of the south.
While the big brother stood akimbo and watch vultures poke our intestines.
The referendum at hand smells secession success on my screen.
I pray for poetic justice in Sudan, Africa and the whole world.
There comes a time,
in the early, but
not so early, morn
when, and this is key,
if a portion of an instant
rationed a morsel of a moment -
but a crumb of that fell free
and it cast a deep shadow
whose depths made mockeries
of spelunk;
which you may remember
you'd dreamt of in some past
life and, if from this minusculity
sprang, the littlest offspring,
a hint of a glance of,
a coup d'oeil
the last of day,
the half-remembered,
prior life
when, if you glimpse
the newborn gold,
your heart'll still,
your mind'll still
and yes, your stillness
be distilled into
stiller still
if your heart and eyes
don't again conspire
to draw your mind
to your routine
of first and, perhaps
only, taking in the
most of things
the highlights and the
canopy's myriad meanderings
the rootings at their footings
supposed but rarely seen
in dark, in secret but
carrying no wrong
rather though
in the tree trunks'
simple middle
for a briefest, gilted
eternity, the trees
will burn not from
their crown
nor from their feet
and, despite the ice,
the sparkless space,
the cold steel
darts of insistent
slanting rains,
the trees will burn,
the trees will burn,
and all-at-once
the peripatetic sun,
its whims having won,
will dance along
and share its breath
with everyone
Stages of life - Part 1
Begin with thinking !
Begin with thinking - there is no other way,
as it meanders along in that self-induced sway.
Go with the flow and resist not a moment,
staking doer-ship and onus, spares only a lament.
A journey that commenced without thy knowledge or will,
bloomed and blossomed in 'that' tranquil calm and still!
Emerges with a squeal, - perhaps a way to announce,
"here I am" hoping on my way out - I don't denounce!
'Institutional indoctrination' seems an order of the day,
attempts are made to learn on what to think on, in "time's way"!
Rarely does one stumble upon, "how to think on 'think'?"
Can inherited or borrowed knowledge sustain life in the pink?
Burden of imposed likes and dislikes - unabated as I grow,
laden weight - nudges and pushes for or against the flow.
If I think in the right course, I surge from past and ahead,
if allowed to dwell in - I will be drowning and by now 'dead'.
Mindless and thoughtless - first quarter of my life goes past!
Helpless and gasping to grasp some sense of all that was lost.
It's time to bury them as memories and to get down to gather,
peripatetic endless search, in this self-induced smother.
....Contd....as Part 2