Long The french Poems
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I sing the praises of Sterilite
(even Mary Poppins would tout
a plug for said company she would spout
forcing playthings scattered helter skelter
retreating into their respective bins
analogous to a defeated army
beating a hasty retreat after a major rout
against all odds fighting off
the aggressive incursion
of a trumpeting lout,
which troops use weapon of choice
namely breath issuing "Kraut"
which in German, "Kraut"
primarily means herb
or the leaves and stem
of a plant, as opposed to the root,
also used in compound nouns
to refer to various cabbage products,
most notably Sauerkraut,
which is fermented white cabbage.
Additionally, "Kraut"
can be a derogatory slang term
for Germans, similar to how "Frogs"
used for the French,
according to The Guardian).
which accolades vocalized
on behalf of a company
whose sturdy products
helped transform the wife
from a potential candidate
of Hoarders buried alive
into a rival for the Odd Couple
neatnik character Felix Unger
though room for improvement
the spouse tries to abide
by the phrase
"a place for everything
and everything in its place"
an idiom that promotes
organization and orderliness,
where maximizing the space
afforded by a one bedroom apartment
here at Highland Manor
taught us the necessity
of maintaining an ever closer approximation
to becoming the reigning queen
of spic and span
affected by the mandates of management
(reinforced by dictates
of urban housing for low income
linkedin to yearly "violations")
toward instilling acquiring
"the model tenant award"
by regular inspections
which if I ruled the world
would include a month of free rent
as an extra incentive
leaving no room
for the likes of Oscar Madison,
which objective becoming
neat and tidy truth be told
finds me relishing living
according to the gospel
of several people offering
decluttering and organization methods
similar to Marie Kondo's KonMari approach,
focusing on simplifying and creating
a more joyful living space.
Some notable figures
include Gretchen Rubin,
known for her
"Outer Order, Inner Calm"
philosophy, and The Home Edit duo,
Clea Shearer and Joanna Teplin,
who emphasize visual organization.
Other methods, like Swedish Death Cleaning
and Peter Walsh's approach,
also offer alternative strategies
for decluttering and organizing one's home.
Our dear leader
Our favorite President
President Trump
Once again
Interjected himself
Into areas that he knows nothing about
Making a fool of himself
In the process
Why does he do this?
Time after time
Talking nonsense
It is because
He is the smartest man
In the universe
Knows more than anyone else
And so he feels
He has to comment
On everything
Under the sun
And then some more
Even when he
Does not know
What he is talking about
So painful to watch such a fool
Mark Twain had sage advice
If you want people to think
You are a fool
Open your mouth
and remove all doubt
In the midst
Of the devastating Paris Norte Dame Fire
He tweeted
“So horrible to watch the massive fire
at Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris,”
“Perhaps flying water tankers
could be used to put it out.
Must act quickly!”
Later, Mr. Obvious noted,
They’re having a terrible,
terrible fire,”
Mr Trump later told reporters.
“It looks like it’s burning to the ground.”
The French were not amused
By the unwanted advice
By the fire fighter in chief
France’s civil defense agency,
Sécurité Civile, tweeted —
once in French
and once in English
— less than two hours after Mr Trump
sent his tweet
and appeared
to directly respond to the US president.
“Helicopter or aeroplane,
the weight of the water
and the intensity of the drop
at low altitude
could indeed weaken
the structure of Notre Dame
and result in collateral damage
to the buildings in the vicinity,”
the agency wrote in French.
And despite never posting updates in English,
the agency then sent out a second tweet.
Hundreds of firemen of the Paris Fire Brigade are doing everything they can to bring the terrible #NotreDame fire under control. All means are being used, except for water-bombing aircrafts which, if used, could lead to the collapse of the entire structure of the cathedral.
— Sécurité Civile Fr (@SecCivileFrance) April 15, 2019
And the French provided
This helpful advice
To the Fire Fighter in chief
When California burned
you did not seem to be a fire expert.
Please, shut up.
It is a tragic moment
for the cultural heritage of humanity.
april 17 poem for April Month of Poetry Challenge see Writers Digest, All Poetry and my blog, https://theworldaccordingtocosmos.com for the rest
Myrtle Parker
Myrtle Parker lived on the Riviera,
That’s the English one not the French.
Her favourite tipple is Red Currant Cider,
Only beverage her thirst would quench.
Never did she marry no husband,
Preference for life single and free,
Though kept two doggy companions,
Twin Westies, Florence and Zebedee.
Miss Parker was a gatherer and hoarder,
Antiques, curios, lots of impractical tat.
Her catchphrase was somewhat familiar,
“I‘ll find a good use for that.”
Tumbledown Cottage name on the gate,
Aptly called for badly required repair.
The man from Devonshire Council,
Shakes his head in anguished despair.
Oh, dear Myrtle what are we to do,
I cannot see the wood for the trees,
Environment Officer is calling today,
He doesn’t like cockroach and fleas.
Myrtle lives close to Muscle shell beach,
Small cove of shingle and coarse sand,
Opposite the Cat protection league,
Where she buys new clothes second hand.
One summer had a house full of Kittens,
That grew into fully grown cats.
They left her in search of new comforts,
Plagued by visits of large rodent rats.
Myrtle decided on a radical clear out,
To make way for a new feather bed,
But could not let go of her treasures,
So continued sleeping on the sofa instead.
Seventy years old, obstinate and proud,
Devon Council man returned to her door.
“This house is making you poorly my dear,
Regretfully you cannot live here anymore.
Oh, dear Myrtle here’s what we’ll do,
Move you into a comfy town flat,
Environment Officer is calling today,
Condemn your cottage, so sorry about that.
Myrtle Parker was born in this house,
Her father he worked on the boats,
Mother stayed home baking bread,
From freshly ground buckwheat groats.
Tumbledown cottage is full of memories,
Though can’t find many for the clutter.
Diminutive rooms two up two down,
Walls dampened by broken pipe gutter.
If I have to go then take me in a box,
She chained herself to the newel post.
I’ll defend my rights for all I’m worth,
Then haunt Council man as his ghost.
Council man arrives excited with keys,
For Miss Parkers new urban home,
But Myrtle had been true to her word,
and perished on the staircase all alone.
Oh, dear Myrtle what have you done,
Your new flat was shiny and clean,
Environment Officer is calling today,
Demolition boss with bulldozer team.
A strange wind is blowing in the park,
You have to meet with me after dark,
They are planning a wedding in the
Trees and you have to get a secret gear
Before you can attend the wedding over there
They have been planning this from twenty sixteen
When the mean guy came on the scene
They invited ten thousand guests
to take part in a lifetime dream
Everything was carefully worked out
With a slate a drone and the bison horn
The day has finally come when the truth
Will be revealed under the visionless sun
And the eyes will be there
Searching for you everywhere
A strange wind is blowing over there
People are coming from everywhere
They came all the way from
Latain America, Canada, Cuba and the
Caribbean to sing eclipsical song
The Germans were there too
And the British were wooing me and you
The French are standing guard
And the Americans are cleaning the yard
The natives from African and India
are wrapped in fine threads
and yards of clothing wrapped around
their bodies and sweeping on the ground
The moon empress land on the lawan
just before the break of dawn
All the couples take up ther position in the tree
To begin the mysterious wedding ceremony,
the weddeing bells begin to ring
and the angles began to sing
The flying saucer came straight from the
Sky with the secret brides wrapped up inside
There face were hidden under the veil
Exposing their watchful eyes waiting for destiny
To transpire under the blessed sky
The cermoney begain to tell the tales of
A wedding in the middle of the tree
is the perfect irony for you and me
The couples are celebrating with thee
Look at them standing in the swaying trees
And when the ceremoney was done they left that place
In the flying saucer to romance in the burning sun
Ten thousand guest gallavanting in the breeze as the
Universe bond together to celebrate with thee
This is the biggest wedding I have ever seen
With couples dancing in the trees
Desire running up and down the place
And if your on he guest list go on over
And enjoy the wonderful bliss
Something splended is happening over there
And you can tell that destiny is drawing
The breeze is crawling on its knees and
The wedding guests are saluting thee.
A Chinese girl I took to a nunnery
I
I led her
Her silent leg-irons cutting into my shins
That day when the air stood still
Dry as the day perhaps on the hill
when he spoke standing still
Drier still my words today
of a redundant ransom of flesh:
I’ll take you to the stopping place
Where the quiet cowled nuns make lace
They run a school for well-bred girls
In a cloistered fenced-in arbour
There where you’d have no need for curls
She turned just then seven and ten
Me barely two more when
She said in a breathless moan:
Take me to the French Convent
Here my road has come to an end
I want to learn
I want to gain
As much knowledge as my brain
Will strive to contain
I had no choice
I had no voice
In a Chinese school which stopped midways
She was the best of forty times five
Where I was hoarse from English and Science
She sat so close in the front row
She must have felt my breath at home
Her cowlick hand stretched crooked
Brushed my thoughts down my mane
Something about her dragging gait
Spoke of late hours as a kitchen mate
Or as the matron of squabbling squawking siblings
When the mother scrubbed and ironed
the landlord’s lingerie and loins
A saddened face she kept awake
All through the hours at stake
II
It took me days and days of doubting pains
To ring at last the nunnery bell
And to stare aghast at a pallid face
Not quite white and not quite couched in cowl
To register my request
The novice drew and barred the door
As though I would break down the wall
And as the minutes raced in anguish by
And I heard the rusted pig-iron latch click open
Two forbidding eyes contemplated my plight
Under strictly starched and stretched folds a-sail:
“Is she Catho…” she made to ask
Then as urgently withdrew her demand.
“Bring her tomorrow at eight,” she let her words
escape.
“Ring the bell at the gate.”
I never saw the demure girl again.
Her schoolmates thought she worked for the nuns.
Others: “ She took some vows!”
A sibling: “ She took no clothes for a change!”
Just before her silhouette effaced itself
Under the porch of creepers dense
She turned to give me a look:
Was it a look of despair
Or a well-thought-out
farewell fair?
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
We drove in two separate cars a few miles along the ocean shore
I am not afraid, life has been depressing, I just don’t care anymore
We turn down a pebbled driveway, with lion statues guarding the gate
I am shocked when I see us approaching an old Victorian mansion estate
Frank gets out of his car, his blue eyes bright and with a smile on his face
He tells me he just inherited this mansion and is busy renovating the place
He takes my hand as he leads me up the granite steps and into the foyer
He tells me he has a case in town, and has also been working as a lawyer
We walk through a marbled living room and into a nautical themed den
He tells me he has lived here since May as he inherited the mansion then
He then tells me that he has known about me and is distant cousin of my ex
I start to let my guard down, even though I am not sure what will happen next
He looks into my eyes and smiles, takes my hands and gently kisses me
I enjoy his kisses and let him embrace me closer, not feeling afraid only free
He leads me upstairs to his master bedroom with a view of crashing waves
I am so amazed and elated, but I need to slow down and not give in and cave
He takes my hand and leads me out through the French doors to the balcony
We sit in antique wrought iron chairs while sipping wine, just like a fantasy
I suddenly start to feel very sleepy, woozy and faint, not sure what is going on
He then carries me to his large bed, lays me down and the curtains are drawn
I wake up the next morning, realizing I am naked under the covers in his bed
Trying to remember last night, as I start to worry with some feelings of dread
Relieved, I hear Frank coming up the stairs as I start to relax and calm down
But instead an older woman walks in and stops and stares at me with a frown
I am shocked, I ask her who she is and if Frank is here somewhere downstairs?
She tells me she’s the owner, Frank was a contractor hired to do some repairs
She’s been scammed, the job’s not done and Frank's gone with all his tools
I feel a tear run down my face, as I realize I was played and now a gullible fool
11/2/19 The last and 4th part of The Distant Shores Series
Anything You Want Contest
Judged and NA'd on 11/2/19
Writing Challenge - December - Any poem NA'd in November 2019
Sponsor, Dear Heart- Wiishkobi Ode
for Prithwin
first
left downstroke
start from the top
plane out
let the long anchor tip roof-line curve sharply upwards
at the stern down-end
pile it in stuffed in the centre
leave the bottom open
that’s where the studded boot rightly fits
Over billowing transmuted waters
the haze lifts now and then
winds amber green waft and skim
with the late light caught shimmering
no albatross circles the mast
guilt is pure guilt without wanton arrows
there are no signs of land
but the proffered hand
the wanderer knows no words of his own
Reach - disgorge with your nails
Walls that concuss entrails
Can he yet placate asylum
echo the cluck of a poaching North American coot
nestling amidst Eurasian breeding reeds
taut bunching yarrow rushes
an embattled haven
against majestic swan ships
sleek velvety rich drake
peacockish barnacle goose
come in early from the cold
Let the dards of Orion spell syllables of ease
through the congested smudge of yore
contorted fantizi ideograms
cursory calligraphic long dripping brush strokes
pale to pinyin
Simplified
the exile gasps for instant phonemic breath
under choppy waves of stuttering tongues
racy blades
extirpate langue crucify parole
mix meaning into heady synaesthesiac brew
loss of face is a loss of noodles
develop equals hair
Could René Char’s Zeit Geist
have diagnosed the myna’s Kâla-Purusha
Reach – disgorge with your nails
Walls that concuss entrails
Resources
1. This poem has to do with a Bengali translator’s first encounter with René Char at his residence The French poet questioned his translator on the meaning of “le dard d’Orion” in
his poem: “Jeu muet”. The translator interpreted the phrase as having to do with
astronomy and thus rendered it as “kâla Purusha” (Zeit Geist or literally as in
Hindu mythology: the Primal Being at the beginning of time). René Char then
picked a certain variety of the cactus flower in his garden and said that the
French “phrase” applied to that particular flower.
2. The imagery in the poem also relates to the simplification of classical Chinese
characters (fantizi) by the Peoples Republic of China in the early fifties and the
alphabetisation of Chinese characters, known as “pinyin” as opposed to the Wade and Yale systems. The simplified characters produced certain semantic anomalies.
©T. Wignesan, Paris – May 3, 2009
Its sundown, the day’s been reduced to a crack of lavender and fiery pinks along the Massif des Maures mountains. This evening we’re sipping cocktails at “Les Toits,” the Hôtel de Paris’ rooftop restaurant. The French would call this a lounge.
Les toits translates as ‘the roofs’ and its stunning view overlooks the provincial rooftops that slope down the foothills to the gulf of Saint-Tropez and it’s world-famous beaches. The well lit boats are settling down and dropping anchor for the night as we complete our orders and get our second round of drinks.
This has been the best vacation. I think we’ve all reclaimed our calm after a tense freshman year. We’ve been at the beach for 10 days. Leong and Sunny are actually tan, Lisa and my hair are half a tone lighter and Bili’s black skin has taken on gorgeous, purple-ish highlights.
I’ve known Lisa now for ten months, but we share a deep connection that seems older. Lisa’s lovely, brazen, and naturally flashy, without trying. Unfortunately, though, Lisa draws men like a keig-light draws moths - whether she’s looking for them or not - I don’t envy her that. Young men, middle aged men, old men.
Lisa said it started when she was 13. She’d be in a store or restaurant with her mom or dad and a lady would introduce herself, “Hi, I’m with the Ford, or Elite, or IMG, or DNA modeling agency, has your daughter done any modeling?” And another business card would be wasted. Her mom nodded as she recalled this sordid past.
Attention just shifts to her, the party comes to her, she can’t seem to avoid it. About every 30 minutes some man comes over and introduces himself to us (to her). This man owns a local night club, would we (she) be his guest? (He’s looking at her like desert) This guy owns a yacht - “that one, there,” he points it out, in his Russian oligarch voice - he clicks a fob on his keychain and the lights blink. Oh, sure, join a strange foreign man on his yacht, what could go wrong?
There are 8 of us girls at the table with Charles, our escort and confidant. He’s a 50-ish, red headed ex-NYC-cop who just sits there quietly and sips his drink like James Bond. He seldom says anything. I lean in to him and say, “Maybe they think you're her pimp?!” Leong coughs in her drink and Charles gives me the same, serious, “behave yourself” look I’ve gotten since I was 9.
Where would I live if I were richest, and had all the money in the world?
Outside the square box, where no doors exist, and locks will never block
My entrance or exit, without four walls or framed bricked structure this
Is where I’d live and do now!
Again I’m asked where this address is, what fancy abode or country,
This location the French Rivera, or maybe even the city of romance Paris?
Nope none of these places will do for the likes of me, my substance
Is worth more than glitz’s and glamour allow, after all am I not
The richest person in the world?
I live within the valley of the thunder storms heartbeat, where flesh
And bone melt together as one unit, here passions lightning collide
Against the rocky torrent of desires epic flame,
Never to be extinguished or dowsed, by emotions ocean of doubt
Or regret!
But again these outsiders ask me once more but where, we’d like
To know, for we’ve never heard of such a place, give us the answer
To this riddle of yours Madame, for you are the richest person on
Earth the world must have the answer, as the paparazzi flash
Their gossiping, chattering, Cameras!
But these hungry mongers will never know the truth of the matter
At hand, for they’ve never experienced truth wealth of feeling,
Or valued anything but the almighty dollars golden card, of worthlessness!
Oh what an empty world, do these poor souls exist upon, a baron plain of
Dancing dollar signs, where false illusions seem real or tangible to the
Touch, but in reality are delusions images melting away, as time fades
The fame to the beauty factor unto nothing remains at all!
Nay I’m here in reality’s penthouse on high, beyond the fake staining of the
Smoke and mirrors game being played below, in this devotional residence
Without numbers!
For again the question was and is where would I live, if I had all the money
In the world, I’d live within the heart of this man whom dwells beside me,
He who’s sacrificed all for me, loved me always through thick and thin,
My shoulder of endurance and tenderness!
For what is true wealth my friend, but love itself my world begins
As his eyes open in the morning light, and ends when his close at night’s
Final twilight hour, where do I live within this man whom loves me!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
NOVEMBER 11, 2015
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY BABY OF 55 THOMAS
Armadilly Billy the Sling Shot Kidster, was the Sheriff of our town.
When mangy rustlers went into action, he was wont to hunt them down.
‘The Buzzard’ and his surly gang of rustlers of epically, bad renown…
Had picked Texas and other states clean, and were on the move, NOW!
A terrible dust storm, dumped them smack dab, into our piece of territory.
The evil buzzard leader sat, now contemplating, upon the hangman’s tree.
His gang was ready to rustle, as he sat scoping out, many a nefarious deed.
Their base camp was an Old Box canyon, not far, and full of tumbleweeds.
Now, snail rustling’s a crime, so word got out, of where they’d be found.
As they’d gleaned, every single snail, grazing in all the creeks, all around.
The outlaws were expecting soon, to get away quite clean, with them all.
But the sheriff of our town, Billy was steamed, and he was standing tall.
Billy went on the move, and he meant business, if you know, what I mean.
Yep! He’s tough! He’s mean! He’s focused! His eyes were hard and lean!
While ‘The Buzzard’s’ head was bald, eyes cruel, his stance was cold as ice.
In the box canyon they’d be snail kabobs, by sundown, if Billy didn’t strike.
The snails were easy to follow, just had to follow their trail of yucky slime.
With Billy’s trusty stead Jalopy, they were at the boxed canyon by noontime.
Now, No One, and I mean NO ONE, steals, while Billy’s Sheriff in any town.
That no good, low down, Buzzard better watch out, for he’d now been found.
When Billy arrived they were loading snails into a boxcar to ship for Escargot.
The French black market in Quebec would offer a price, beyond compare so…
To bring them buzzards down, Billy’s slingshot clipped each wing and tail.
Without their feathers they couldn’t fly so they couldn’t remotely prevail.
But not without looking each one in the eye, for he was the good guy, after all.
There was neigh a feather left, as they were buzzard bait, way before nightfall.
But who can tell on a buzzard, for they don’t have much to start with, anyway.
Now they were the one’s loaded on a train set to Yuma, to prison all the way.
The moral to my story is that: Crime never EVER pays. Besides…
Snail rustling is just plain dumb! They’re so slow, that it's a pain!
To the music: The Good The Bad and the Ugly.