Long Record(a) Poems
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May it not be uttered and may my lips be sealed. I don't like how it makes me feel. It gives no thrill. It has no appeal. So often, it does not heal and seldom closes the deal. Early this morning, I took the time to record a few lines of muse about a word I don't like to use.
I have often thought about the people I have met and the places I have roamed and made my home over the last 50 years. Many are the things, people, and places that have proven to be most disappointing and have wearied, worn me out, and caused me doubts. There've Been dejections, rejections, and questions, but as I look back, I see no regrets.
I have used a 7-letter word so often that it has become a dreadful thing to consider its usefulness. I should think that heaven is the only place such a word is forever forbidden. Presently, that word is NOT WHAT I'M SAYING to you, you, or anyone else and hope to never find it necessary. But if by chance or providence it should be used relative to anyon9 Ie, it would be among the hardest words I ever uttered to living mortals. I've been as far east as the Big Apple but not to stay; and forty years ago, I came with my wife and kids to live in the City by the Bay. I hasten to say that I've never lived longer nor loved stronger than here in the River City where I only want to say the the 2 lettered word 'Hi' but never the 7 lettered
woord, "Goodbye". I can say "Hi" with a smile, but "Goodbye" only makes me cry.
People say that home is where your story begins, but I've never been one to be bound by what others might say. I only know that the place where I was born was never home to me. I tell you, I did not have to look long and far nor think Hard and deep to figure out whom I might blame for the calm, peace, and poise that I am feeling where I live today. Yes, there is something very special about the people and this place where I'm living today that feels like home to me, and I suspect that The Lord has everything to do with it.
042620PS
Paint me blue like the sky
rainbow's smile; thunder's cry
clouded curtains rife with rain
till shroud is lanced and bluebirds fly again
Wistful moods in mahogany frames
melancholy painters with undiscovered names
rearrange reveries in pastel hues
decorating lonely walls with brooding blues
Paint me emerald like the sea
feeling caged; rolling free
stormy rage; morning calm
who knows where swelling waves come from?
Which shades best record a personality?
Which side of the coin is preserved for history?
Shall I smile or appear dignified?
Do I show my true self, or try to hide?
Paint me tawny like a lark
as the sky dissolves to dark
flying free but not for long
a gloomy gloaming swallows up its song
What do you see as I hold this pose?
Will you reveal or conceal my imperfect nose?
Will you paint scars and wrinkles or leave no trace?
Will your biography in oils show lines on my face?
Paint me crystalline like a wine glass
for you somehow see right through
the paintbrush captures the epidermis
but the painter overlays the spirit
Superimposing your style, passions, heartbreaks, joie de vivre
onto my facets, form, features, and flaws
with love, you labor on
transforming my brief life into a lasting work of art
Paint me gold like a sunrise
as it marks the dark's demise
background wash of faith, hope, love;
the colors life's palette is made of.
When bones are one with graveyard soils
these memories preserved in oils
are saved for those who later come
that they may know where they've come from
written 1 Sep 2022
...with gratitude for all the inspired artists who
carry forward the grand tradition of portraiture.
Reflecting on the broken past,
All I see is smoke and flames.
The million bridges I left burning,
This house of matches that I made.
An obvious flaw in the design,
The blueprints were drawn to fail.
Sketched with a ink,
A shade called failure.
On a boat named "Going Nowhere" with no sail.
Sailing sea's of the blackest emptiness,
A perfect disaster I did create.
The can of gas now empty,
I constructed this great blaze.
My life, my loss, my loneliness.
The ashes poured in empty graves.
The coffins held no bodies,
Rather the world I could not save.
They followed me to failure,
Not a leader but a slave.
Marching to someone else's drum,
I lost myself along the way.
I forgot the meaning found in deep blue skies!
That the sun would rise to fight the shade,
And in the process it would kill the pain.
The demons fled from sight.
Destroying the shadows darkness made.
How the trees would dance in the perfect breeze,
And that flowers smiled as they prayed.
Thank God for the lonely Moon,
Who did record a promise that I made.
"I will fight throughout the darkest night,
Restoring order with my sword.
Uproot the seeds that sorrow sowed,
When peace an torment went to war.
I will be a voice for the voiceless.
A sign of hope for those who cannot see.
A vision of triumph to symbolize Death's,
For the ones who cannot dream.
A beacon in the night,
For all who remain lost.
A knight to fight the war for you,
No matter what it costs.
A pillar of strength,
To stabilize the shaken.
From blooming Spring to Winters frost."
I swear I will find you in that darkened forrest,
Beneath the dying leaves.
A shoulder for you to lean upon,
And I swear I'll never leave.
Form:
Thousands of people know us, but we don’t know them.
It’s kind of nice to be known, but not quite recognized.
We have the kind of job that keeps us well hidden.
When people see us is in person, they may be surprised.
Early in the morning is the most fun for us.
That’s when we tend to be at our absolute best.
Several donuts and lots of coffee are a must.
With so much to prepare, it’s hard to get any rest.
The first thing to do in turn on the microphone,
Then run through the checklist of the day’s events.
We record a few promos while we’re in here alone.
It’s good the days of clear tape were way back when.
We make a few mistakes…no one said this was easy.
But once we lay it down, no one will ever know.
When we open up the phone lines, it gets quite busy.
We’re still not sure why people listen to our show.
We may forget that there are listeners out there.
Most of the things we talk about are just for us.
It’s amazing what people will say when on the air.
We have our hand on the buzzer in case they cuss.
Every now and then, we’ll give you a traffic report,
Or maybe tell you a little bit about the weather.
Some people call us to see what’s up with sports,
But most of the time, it’s just me and my partner.
Some days we go out and about through the town
For a chance to give away prizes and meet our fans.
Most of you people are either stalkers or clowns.
You scare the hell out of us, so we hide in the van.
Back in the studio, we’re safe from your point of view.
We’re here mostly for our own enjoyment and fun.
Just listen to our witty banter and be amused.
We know you’re a prize pig and you’re not the only one.
Translation of Eric Mottram’s “Fortieth Legal” by T. Wignesan
(From: The Legal Poems. Colne: Pub. by Robert Bank at the Arrowspire Press, 1985, 39p.
Here’s an extract from the blurb by Allen Fisher, dated December 1985:
“They record a cultural malaise where unjust, intolerant and exploitative power confronts the confidence of each personal movement. In this effort to stave off entropy, Mottram energises his scholarship into poetry through a constructed presentation that risks the frailty from its own breaking. Building and breaking paradigms become essential qualities to this art, and it is here, in the processes of uncompetitive action without interest in games, that his creative play reveals the ordering he presents for the reader to produce.”)
Gatsby convertit à la poussière infecte
laquelle lui tourmenta
dans un rêve éveillé
les yeux braquaient loins des tristesses accablantes
la joie qui ne perdure que peu du temps
sur la lumière verte du sexe
au musoir des voiliers
des voitures garées partout dans l’allée
stocké dans la bibliothèque le barzoï néfaste*
les coureurs plus rapides
les amants plus accomplis
un ciel de satellites
une vie un processus au délabrement
la rue-légale
ne vous efforcez pas de vous comporter bien
juste normalement
adorez quelques martyrs
massacrez les autres
autant que vous pouviez
regardez en haut
toujours vers le haut
de l’espace dense
une espace où les géants peuvent balader
au-dessus de l’institution totale
ils font du théâtre en eux-mêmes
(* this line could also be interpreted as:
dans la bibliothèque la saleté de barzoï )
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
The ideal time to record a citing is when you see it,
Because it seems that everything out there in God's
vast domain is on the move and never waits for the mood.
But it's better to share something later than nothing at all.
Some three hours ago, around the 4 AM hour, I looked
out the windows. Facing the West, there was only DARKNESS.
I then proceeded to my Southern window and saw plenty of STARS.
The BLACKENED SKY waved at me, and the host of stars shouted, "Hello!"
But what captures me most both day and night is the SOUND of the WIND.
The site of pure darkness, back-grounding a host of stars, is not a trivial matter. Moreover, when heaven's art museum opens your eyes, your ears require a melody. In this rural land of beans, corn, cotton and rice, the songs are nice and varied. Incased within a Meca of TREES, WETLANDS, and a few SWAMPS, this area of trees provides plenty of fuel that encourages the wind to sing songs to me.
She sings what and when she wants to, and allows my heart to blend with her melody. She's pure and natural, requiring no assistance from chimes. She replaces with great taste the cites of big city lights, and the dreadful sounds of sirens. And when she sings, unlike city sirens, no one is hurting. And unlike sirens, she's healing me.
When I consider this day's DAWNING, I am reminded again of the great balance of NATURE. The darkness, the starry night, and the whispering sounds, all felt right at home. And so did I.
050622PSCtest, Your Favorite Poem From The First Half Of 2022, Julia Ward
And I quote" Just for laughs" end of quote. Laughter is medicine to your soul:
Imagine taking a village girl to the hotel and in the morning, you find her sweeping the all hotel ground.
When I was young I used to think that Egypt and Israel are in heaven.
One Sunday, I nearly took holy communion twice because of hunger but was caught by the alert usher.
One Sunday, I went to church wearing a blue suit, only to find Juliet nowhere to be seen. I was deeply brokenhearted.
I went to the studio to record a song about my life story, since morning we are still crying with the producer.
Madam take off your sunglasses when you are eating, to see the T- bone clearly without obstruction.
Somebody mistakenly called my phone today thinking I am his boss. He begged for two days off work but I gave him 1 month off work. I am a good boss.
The first time I deposited 10 k in a bank, I used to walk around the bank every morning to ensure the bank is there intact.
No one has a good eye sight than a married man coming out of Lodge with his side chick, he can even see like a telescope.
I remember my primary school teacher. He always forced me to sit between two girls. I wish I knew the logic.
A man who marries a beautiful woman shares the common problems with a farmer who grows corn along the roadside.
When I was a baby, I used to cry in the night. Because I missed heaven every night, we used to eat holy communion and there was no mosquitoes.
Inspired by Zambia Comedians( Zambia is a comedy channel).
Poetry by Chipepo Lwele
SUNDAY
by Sandi Hoot
Sunday
A DAY TO REFLECT
all excited newness to be planted with our creators love
like a sponge absorbing energy from above
reflections of light twinkles in eyes
with roots connected in our humanly ties
A DAY TO CONNECT
cooking outdoors on the grill
kites in the air oh what a glorious thrill
smile is the language spoke on this day
souls connecting in such inwardly ways
A DAY TO RELAX
friends and family gather with full hearts and rumbling tummies
kids outside playing and acting funny
loud laughter fills the delicious warm air
this kind of happiness there is no compare
A DAY TO ENTERTAIN
trying to sing along to the bible hymns
but daydreaming of which football team wins
high five cheers in ears
such tradition through the years
A DAY TO REMEMBER
The snap shots of those that have departed
they are the reason these gatherings started
grandpa and grandma would be so thrilled
if only they were here still
A DAY TO CONSIDER
what happen last week is no longer the target
letting mistakes go not sweeping them under the carpet
for Sundays set the record a new
hopes that blessed will be the view
A DAY FOR GOALS
Setting higher standards from the past
asking God to let our lives last
for the falls are part of the crawl that leads to a closer goal
and makes that in you a better soul
A DAY FOR PEACE
Sunday helps us plug into that eternal peace
So let your light shine fully this upcoming week
HAPPY SUNDAY
Buster had traveled the rodeo circuit fer nigh on twenty years,
Bull ridin', bareback ridin' and ropin' them frisky steers!
He wuz a lanky feller wearin' chaps, jeans slung low on his hips,
With a Bull Durham roll-yer-own a-danglin' frum his lips.
He drove his battered pickup towin' an air conditioned van,
In which traveled in style his cuttin' hoss, old faithful Dan.
This wuz to be his final rodeo, his final cross-country trip,
Vyin' once agin fer a few bucks and a national championship.
In the bull ridin' event he straddled a brute called Dynamite.
That old cuss did all kinds uv gyrations to the crowd's delight!
But Buster hung on as Dynamite tried to unseat him frum his back.
He'd rode him before and knew he wouldn't cut him any slack!
In the bareback ridin' contest he drew a bronc called Killer.
He twisted ever' which way - that ride shore was a thriller!
Buster and old Dan wuz amazin' when it come to ropin' steers.
They broke the standin' record, a-bestin' all their peers!
Buster'd had more'n his share uv broken bones and sprawls,
And uv dust, mud and the mind numbin' overnight hauls.
He retired to a little spread in Colorady to enjoy his leisure.
Old Dan was retired as well to frolic in the pasture!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Ollie Hynd MBE is a first class swimmer,
And has neuromuscular myopathy et all,
He broke his brother Sam’s WR skimmer,
Which was set in Beijing 2008, his gaul.
Ollie debuted in 2011 at the IPC Euros,
Where he won the 200m individual medley,
Setting a new European Record, a new pose,
And also taking a silver in the 400m spray.
He got gold in the 200m SM8 in London,
At the Paras in the individual medley again,
And silver again in the freestyle 400m photon,
And a bronze at the backstroke 100m men.
In 2015 at the IPCs, Glasgow, he did win,
Gold in the 200m individual medley mix,
And a bronze in the 100m backstroke to grin,
And another gold in the 400m freestyle pix.
In the Euros 2016 at the IPC championships,
Ollie won 5 gold: the 400m freestyle and relay,
The 200m individual medley, and with his hips,
The 100m backstroke: the boards he did array.
And he struck gold again, just as he does,
At Rio 2016, where he won the 400m freestyle:
Another gold for team GB, strong as its foes,
So that prowess at sports we do meatily tile.
He swims in the S8 category and in 2015,
He became the year’s Disabled Spokesperson,
At the Nottinghamshire Sports Awards preen.
He was born on 27 October 1995 quite a son.