Long Silliness Poems
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Sounds of horror in the raging night
Gasps of fright
Lots of fights
I can hear your loud silent screaming prayers as I stand in this moment
Your angry, hateful, painful thoughts in my head make me shake in the dark and it
captures my soul in a careless way
Voices of others is leaking into my mind
Is it a gift from the lord?! Should I be grateful?! Should I help who I can hear?!
The despairing voices made me age quickly
The wrinkles around my eyes are growing as I grow.
And so, it begins
As I prepare to pass the valley of the nights and leave the earth behind, I give the wind a moment to touch my wrinkled face and say goodbye, with my sight frozen at the edge of my life, just a step to front will take me to an eternal sleep where no voices exist!
A drop of the rain clears my head
Parties, funerals, heart attacks, cancers, beer, drugs, running away from death, running
to death...silliness!!
Standing among all human in this world as death stand aside, waiting for me to climb above
its balmy wings, with the relentless screaming voices in my head
I try to cover my ears for the last time
with my hands reaching the hands of god
With my lips calling for help
With my eyes looking at the eye of the sky, to the lord to whatever is above me with the higher power
I pray for forgiveness which I need the most, as I stretch in the sun-as if the sun is
mine- saying goodbye
Step forward...flying an amazing feeling!
Acidic tears from the depth of some growing despair are dropping from my eyes with the falling rain
every tear feels like knives stabbing my soul though I don't know any more is it tears or
is it just the rain; no feeling...it’s all gone.
My life slips away from the day of my birth till the day I say goodbye to this world
I can see every day I lived
Every memory I have crashing at the beginning of my eternal sleep...one by one
Lots of sorrows and pain
Lots of joy and pleasure
Love and hatred
Hopes and dreams
every story should have an end and mine will finish now...
Goodbye to all gods’, human creation, to all madness, to all thoughts.
Forgive me for I couldn’t help
Wet, red ground under me, pain I can feel but not for too long
Cars, children, screams, war, and fights!!
Suddenly nothing!! Just emptiness!!
Freedom at last!
With a mag called POETRY, I spent time
Hoping to find verses sublime and sage
And for all I read, not two words that rhymed
Just chopped up prose splayed all over the page.
This left me just a little bit perplexed
So I decided to investigate
What I did find on Google left me vexed.
It seems that rhyming is so out of date!
Some academics, who think they could note
A cultural conservative leaning
By meter and rhyme: For whom I would vote
An implicit Bourgeois type of meaning!
To which I exclaimed out loud, “Shucky gee,”
‘Tis such a shameful verbal undressing.
The poems that I write are not P.C.?
Imagine the poor folks I’m oppressing!
perhaps if I wrote a bunch of random
words
and arranged them
bizarrely
on the page and didn’t
capitalize
and ensured a total lack of rhyme or rhythm
then, then some establishment of
Persuns
who make their living criticizing other people’s writings
and maybe even write themselves
would call it poetry?
I thought the idea here was to communicate?
How naive!
Oh the stuffiness
Self-important silliness
Such puffiness
Self-conscious no-frilliness
Whoops! I hate when I do that. Such a chump!
Breaking into rhyme like a “middlebrow.”
Kneeling at the poetic shrine of Trump.
Please, Mr. Self-important, show me how!
My thoughts on this are as follows: Bollocks!
This steaming pile of misinformation,
Your verbal equal of Jackson Pollock,
My heart’s best means of communication?
I want to have the “right” feelings and thoughts
And express them just like all you smarties.
Sans emperor’s new clothes, I have been caught
May I go to your frankfurter party?
3/11/16
Were it not a thing impermissible,
I'd take handfuls of all these silly bits of
Simulacra, and detritus, dross and debris:
The minutiae and impedimenta that are all these
Constricting, confining rules and bylaws, codes and regulations:
And toss them aerially, and burn them with flaming arrows.
For mine is an unfortunately anarchic style of poetry,
And undisciplined, wayward and incorrigible;
Yet free and full of the most veritable sort of life.
It moves here, it reposes and takes its leisurely ease there.
'Tis like unto the wind: variable and unknowable:
Incapable of the charting of windy cartography,
Unable to be predicted or supposed.
Unknown and unknowable, that is what my ilk of poetic oeuvre is like,
It is a free soul, yet ancient, imbued with the great power of the immortals of
Most current and archaic poetry....suffused with the life eternal surfeit in the
Breath and breadth of the words of the poets of the times past.
It locomotes and translocates to that where it will,
And I have no hold over the little anarchist, yet lovable.
Such is my poetry, and it and I will not brook the slightest imposition of the
Lightest controlling word or binding law on us.
We do as we wish, as we must.
I do not call all people to a freeness far too free, but only do I cry out
For the manumission of their works: Of their poetry.
My poems are often without the burthen of the rhymed,
Which I, except in sparing amounts, abhor.
All rhyme schemes are a thing detestable to me,
As to all truly apt and adept poets.
There is no profit in the silliness of utterly contemptible rhyme.
Rhyme is the province and realm, the bailiwick of children, of
The simple-minded.
It is for writers simple of mind, and readers idiotic and apish.
Powerful poems do not encumber themselves with the dread onus of rhyme.
Neither do solemn, serious poems.
For a poem to be real, it must, to indulge momentarily in the hated thing,
Think and feel.
Only those poems that are free and free of rhyme are worthwhile.
All else be a tale told by idiots, full of resonance and furiousness, and in signification, naught.
Form:
Part Two
Till October comes around with its bounty
The granary stuffed to the full
Lush fruits still pulpy and juicy
Ripen to a filthy rashes on skin brashness
The greenness of innocence
Turned to an over-ageing dun-yellow
Tell-tale sickening silliness
Soon detached the firm leaves will lie
Thick on the ground spurned and trampled
Earlier than the appointed hour
No matter
Recourse to pins and stitches
Breast uplifts
Straightened nosebridges
Dead Indian women’s chevelures
High straining buttressing stilts under heels
And thick sticky chemical tasting paint
Squeezed carcasses concentrated musk
Furs of bludgeoned seals and foxes
Haute couture paid through bankers’ loots
Or the easy secret service paid trysts
Through hard-earned tax payers’ sweat
In five-star deluxe hotels
Will lengthen the hour
Yet
In the boudoir
Yes
Pity the woman
She has but a score years
from teen to thirty-five
Before men take her
for a whore
Some women know this well
And cleverly work to use this sell
She’ll kick and thrust her lolly chops
from bum to cheek
In the later Heaven’s southwest sky
Fascination oozing from her loins
The sacred portals of propagation
Bruised all over under fire-dragon skies
Bloody a limb or two out of joint
and the gnawing ignominy
Of having relented in June
Sowing your wild oats
with the blessings of 13.7 billion years
The trained and disciplined chromosomes
Without the company on whom to work her wiles
and sap nourishing energy to continue
She’ll seek the riotousness of her ilk
and at autumn’s summit
At the height of smoldering flesh
When worms and germs
will make a merry feast
Of the beast in her meat
Let her fade away with her booty
Seek not to set right wrongs
You have only yourself to blame
For thinking easily entered gamboling
Will not be made out to be your aim
For weren’t you then the spirit consoling
© T. Wignesan, May 10, 1987 (rev. 2012, from the collection: Lessons of Change, 1987)
Written: December 27, 2024 For Contest Sponsored by: Hilo Poet
_________________________________
At dawn of a place cocooned once in avarice
silver-haired savvy savor sweetness
serene symphony of silliness...
Each echo is adorned
in mirrors of moments whilom
Still, the illness remains a threat
Silhouettes shaped by streetlight gloom.
Luigi Mangione delivers an arcane calix
crestfallen at awe-in junction of cathartic pain,
mark of jeopardy, spirits who stumbled
amid intricate twists of a complex web
where wellness waltzs whimsically as demon
sibylline, errorless, and suave
flimsy fusion of flux and mellifluous maunder.
Let us linger in lurched odds of yeender,
covenant, of concept, and courtesy
firm freedom fetching fairness for all.
seeking serenity in the scripts of statutes.
Yet we wonder, wrapped in a
whirlwind of wearying red tape
frailty of fitness, a puzzling paradox
where reviews reverberate as an epiphany
as doctors and designs decide the merit
yesterday's valiant victors,
confront morrow's troubling disregard.
Oh, the convoluted challenges of continuing!
a clock clicks constantly in the foreground
each tick teases the transience of time
whilst systems swirl swiftly shift and shape
to the tempo of transition, a thrum of turmoil
In a society that shuns, or selects to shun,
figures featuring fervent faces, fates at stake.
We stand strong, side by side, in such a struggle
amid a wave of apathy and regulations
the price of wellness is presented plainly
a burden of broad-based break bears our back
yet, we discover dynamism in togetherness
a steadfast strength of souls have survived storms
in chuckles of cherished seniors, once more liberated.
As we ascend from the abyssal katabatic,
let us linger on the lessons learned
a frailty of life, a grace of guardianship
and let Luigi’s manifesto heard an odyssey
a clarion call for a fairer future
where the weak are warmly welcomed
and the whispers of a wretched world
weave a wondrous wave of wellness.
No wonder why she was envied for her shiny hair
not for her agility, beauty and whim;
her name was Wilderness Flower...
how could her mother have given her such a name?
Unique and beautiful was her superb dancing,
friends made fun of her...humming,
" Wilderness Flower, why do you hide your laugh?
Are you impersonating someone else? "
She ignored those silly remarks,
by gently landing on her feet,
" Can you dance, not leap like foxes? "
she responded with a voice so meek.
" Surely we can and much better than you, of course! "
They challenged with a cowardly threat,
Wilderness Flower replied, " Why do you sweat? "
They stared at her and shouted with voices too coarse,
" Prove to us how talented you are! "
" we are better trained than you by far! "
She defiantly yelled at them performing with laughter on her tongue
and would they let her get away with it, or prove her wrong?
On stage she performed for a bunch of fools
who didn't think she was the very best...
and would Wilderness Flower set them loose? "
" Why spoil it with hastiness? Let them wait and guess! "
Was her murmur that not even a soul could hear,
so why they acted so immaturely and allowed fear?
On the shining floor she intentionally slipped screaming,
" I broke my knee...drive me to the emergency room,
I may not make at all and die on the way over! "
" Don't die on us, Wilderness Flower...we are sorry for our bullying!"
And pledging they cried and swore seeing their guilt loom.
" You fanatics played with my emotions with convincing flair! "
She attacked them with loud scolding words.
" But since you admitted your foolishness, I will forgive you all,
if you let me make fun of your silliness and die a sweet death
by laughing as hard as I can! Wilderness Flower exclaimed.
" Please do, we can accept that, but promise not to return as a mad bull! "
They all crossed their fingers as she went into deep sleep...
did she really give up her soul for some silly dancers who did more than leap?
Entered in Natalie the Rouge Rhymer's contest,
" Die A ' Fun ' Death Contest "
Happy Birthday Grandma, we are celebrating another year
You may not know it’s your birthday, but we do and we cheer
We get to spend some more valuable time before the dreaded day draws near
A truly inspirational woman that forever I will hold dear.
You may not know our names or what you mean to us
And if you could communicate you would tell us not to make a fuss
You have always put everyone else first, without a thought for yourself
Joining in with all the silliness and even dressing as an elf
All the costume making and carnivals raising money for charity
And all the happy memories I can still see with clarity
I hope they never fade away as I become aging too
It’s so cruel Grandma what Alzheimer’s has done to you
An extremely clever lady, who never gave up learning
Joining the U3A, for that knowledge you never ceased yearning.
Reminiscing about the games we played, in particular Blackfeet
And all your special “shortcuts” as you’d walk with us round the street.
You’ve taught me the kind of woman I would like to be
The reason that I went onto study and complete my degree
Although my first ever career option was to be retired like you
It seemed a splendid option, which I hope one day I will enjoy too
Spending time with grandchildren, canal side walks we would take
Sitting around your fishpond and all the activities in which we would partake
Teaching us about nature, plants and generally helping us to learn
The cookery lessons you gave me too, although food I still tend to burn
The times tables tapes that were continually on repeat
and dressing up with material, inventing new outfits with just a sheet
The endless fashion shows you put up with, and the enthusiasm you did show
There will never be any kind of doubt how much you helped us grow.
So thank you Grandma for everything, I hope you have a special day
a wonderful woman, who forever in everyone’s hearts will stay.
Happy Birthday Grandma!
oh, let me tell you a twisted tale . . .
of robin hood and a merry band of followers
but my story does not take place in folklore but in reality
todays story is of an archer, a person skilled with swords and words
skilled in disguise, taking many false faces
and like robin hood of ancient tales, draped in green but this green is jealousy
like the saying goes, birds of a feather flock together
blanketed in secrecy, having no moral compass to guide the evil
oh the hate is a cancer on my poems and beautiful words
my poetry a garden ravaged by this outlaw with a sharp arrow
devious, crafty, sly, calculating, deceitful, fake, scheming, shifty
we know each false disguise you hide behind
every fraudulent name and game
oh, back to the story . .
lets raise the curtain to this ancient tale
this robin hood and a merry band of followers
pretend to be good and kind but shoot arrows
trying to murder my words
from dark hidden places, mingling joyfully
shifty and crooked, shady but quite artful in ways of destruction
a shining star shaped shield of silliness
the way is dangerous in this spider web of lies
bloods seeps from my broken heart like red tears
leaf-strewn gales utter low wails like violins on my murdered poems
robin hood and the merry band of followers
spit them out like stones
and when I read their words, the words squirm like snakes
robin hood of ancient lore stole from the rich to give to the poor
this robin hood steals our poetic muse
not quite the hero of old
but be assured your swords and sharp arrows are nothing to me
because my poems will sail like swans on quiet waters long after you
are burning down below for your deceitful ways
______________________________
January 21, 2016
Poetry/Free Verse/twisted
Copyright Protected, ID 16-747-746-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Twisted Robin Hood
Sponsor, C.T.
Third Place
Homey eyes of peasant stew
A cozy-colored mossy mew
Stony cottage, snowcheeks bleu
The forest fins for frosted fruits.
The warmest thought speaks crumbly bread
A partridge purr puffs through my head
That grants the grunkest grue a ‘Get!’
To packrat out the paquerettes.
Don’t see the speech I say with sneer
As something to be had with beer
Don’t bucker bricks of buttered bleers
And sift strunk talk through quandarous weirs.
The clothes and shelter of your mouth
Has cleaned my frame as cold as south
For queeks are quay, oh when you quoth
And yokel twirls are yaws of youth.
Clearings clean, as cream is crisp
With cluffs of clementine in risp
The grout of your cuts, freed of lisps
Your watch turns wandering whelks to whisps.
Sweet as sneezes from a lamb
As cozy as a Christmas ham
To jaunt with you with bread and jam
Is all I am, is all I am…
A blanket for the rawest nerve
A babe beyond the laws of earth
A smile sways the swooping surf
And gifts sweet goods of grinning girths.
Your hair? An electric guitar!
With sprinkles of suburban stars
Might smell of smelting lemon bars
Each strand a sacred seminar.
That hark the realms of Everfar!
And halt the helms of Neverare!
That licks the lich that leavens scars!
Screams “Non septimo, sempris quar!”
I believe you’re Good, I mean you’re blessed
With holy elks that guard your breast
Whose rumps remain on royal chests
And watch for wendigos out West.
A soul of Greyhound bus views darkly
Hushed in cornfields crumps so starkly
With windmills waning wicks so barky
Olive Garden oligarchies.
Clearings clean, as cream is crisp
With cluffs of clementine in risp
The grout of your cuts, freed of lisps
Your watch turns wandering whelks to whisps.
Sweet as sneezes from a lamb
As cozy as a Christmas ham
To jaunt and jibe with you with bread and jam,
Is all I am, is all I am.
Twinkly bunch with loaded school bags
Ambition injustice and itching their backs,
Cunning those faces in front of the gate
Heedful pupils well-chosen apparently late.
A fistful primary breeziness
Shared with smiles, tears and silliness,
Together they brawled, together they fiddled
At times they often complained to be differentiated.
Kiddo little minds and parents appeared unjustified
They cried, they blamed and they lazed,
Loaded by books and rat raced tutelage
They pass by a very dignified teen-age.
Out from the custody of cynosure
Together they stepped towards Lyceum liberty,
Few were classed and few remained united
The formers became edified and rests were unidentified.
A masked – small compliments and the evening aloha
The river side sunset appeared to be ambiguous –
A fiesta time boogie and the overnight cockeyed
At times such occasions made them to blab out their twinkly time.
Grown up as buddies and with time they rationalized
Affairs, status and outlook made them more gratified,
Traits made them parted and one cried in solitary
The formers humiliated the frailer and the frailer remained solely.
Lost in their computations, explores and technological justifications
Few carried out degree uprightly and few were abased shamefully,
Bucketed with knowledge, numbers, meetings and self-worth
They neglected those twinkly smiles who were grown up with assorted life.
Few became responsible and few got hold of ménage
Few were invited and rests seemed out of the sight.
Hearsays few get together known to be friendly trinity
Yet there also they lived with different hierarchy.
Left away life they sacrificed the age of assorted life
One who lived with it can now front the barbarous life.
They lost themselves to their twinkly buddies’ mobilization
Upcoming in their lives they will surly come by friendly exoneration.
Dated: 18/01/2010