For all the tolls of the war dead,
for those who starve for bread,
for persecuted martyrs dying in the Lord,
for young and old victims of domestic discord,
I live in grief and sleep in gnashes,
yet, children born are hope for humanity's masses,
precious Jesus, You know many are not moneyed,
though small alms in Your eyes are honeyed. ~
deposed dictators’ club
they sit there in their comfort
each in his moneyed retreat
maybe each reflecting
on unexpected defeat
unprosecuted criminals
guarded wherever they go
protected maybe in silence
for not telling what they know
the remaining world leaders
mouth off about their end
no position quite as transient
as that of political friend
and they push and the jostle
for a share of the spoils
particularly when
it’s a country rich in oil
back in the liberated places
where the worm finally turned
the mess is sorted out
maybe lessons learned
and for a little while
new alliances are cemented
the diplomats return and
credentials are presented
good will rules for the present
until that time comes when
power breeds corruption
and it all starts off again
they sit there in their comfort
waiting for revolution to end
and the deposed dictators’ club
welcomes the newly deposed friend
The undertaker anticipates a better day
His plans include some needed lawnmowing,
He winds up two ne'er-do-wells stowing
Without resources their expenses to pay
The mere cost for a proper putting-away,
While his grass continues to grow knee high
As he waits for a moneyed man to die
Someone to keep his creditors at bay,
Such a day does make for sleepless nights
Hoping for the best, needing the worse
To make the payment on his brand new hearse.
Written September 8, 2022
Banana trees
Most of the jungles of Sumatra are uprooted
to plant banana trees the orangutans have been made homeless.
They try to sit in the banana trees, but it is too brittle for the animals
besides, they don´t care for this type of fruit, which gives them the runs.
It reminds me of Lisbon the Portuguese are proud of.
Moneyed people are coming from abroad to settle in the city,
a wonderful place to live.
The poor cannot afford the high rent when flats are modernized
to suit newcomers.
The unfortunates are pushed out to find a shack, if they are lucky
or failing that, live in tents;
many tents, in parks and sideroads while waiting to be housed.
There are many pretty banana trees in Lisbon, but they are expensive.
It has always been like this, the poor and the uncommunicative
must take the brunt when a town goes upmarket.
A hankering for a well-of life,
Reminds me to focus on my dreams.
And assiduous itself, is my caliber -
That relies its origin from dedication;
Because nothing rules my mind, but the words,
I will, pursue my dreams.
Being intense about a well-to-do lifestyle,
Enthuses me to ponder on my goals.
And industrious is what reveals my progress and productivity;
Which is brought by tireless all day long day!
Because nothing encourages me, but the words,
I will, pursue my dreams.
Being ardent about that moneyed life!
Engenders me to contemplate on my professions.
And hardworking itself, is my best friend;
That keeps me me unremitting and single-minded.
Because nothing lies deep in my heart, but the words,
I will, pursue my dreams.
Heather
A dream, shimmering, mirage like,
But never completely gone.
Honey hair,
Comfortable where she had come from.
Moneyed, but she wore it well.
Artistic-long fingers,
Creative gauzy eyes—dreamy.
Art at high end, very private women’s college.
Maybe I should have known -
Maybe I didn’t want to -
Shades into the future drawn closed.
Days exploring the fringes of youth and desire,
And dreams before the fracture
Of differences –upper end New York society,
raw earnest naïve Midwest.
Unable to connect the dots.
Saw her once again, outside of dreams,
That spring afternoon,
In St Patrick’s Cathedral.
As I stood in the right hand side, aisle 48
Supported by alcohol and the fluted pillar,
I watched her glide by, in her veil
To the nave where her father had laid before her.
There to join another.
And when I tried to call out,
“objection”!
Nothing came out.
Named Heather,
she is now carried
only in my mind.
IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY…
IX
If ever I had a country
And if ever I were not robbed of my barrister's degree
I'd set up shop on a perch at Hyde Park Corner
For a chance to plead for the Damnés de la Terre at Old Bailey
Receive the eternally forlorn under a tree for no fee
And rally all victims of pleadings under my barrister's wig free
That is, if ever I were not robbed of that Call to the Bar duty
And this, even if I never had no country
X
If ever I had a country
And if ever I were not robbed of the chance to plead for the unfree
The poor who tremble helpless at the Law's ermine garb decree
The innocent wretched who let fall their inalienable rights and flee
The defenceless cowed by the moneyed clients' Big-Time lawyer crap
Claim and Counter-claim Summons for Disclosure trap
That is, if ever I were not robbed of my self-taught Inns of Court degree
And this, even if I never had no country
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2018
Brexit Sonnet No.2
‘Precious Time’
One Billion earned takes patience, faith and years.
To calculate it out on goodly pay,
It’s twenty thousand years of sweat and tears,
Twenty thousand years with little say.
Yet glibly do we quote this awesome sum;
To use an average wage it’s even more.
Thirty seven thousand years ‘till done.
Beware this sum; it’s more for rich than poor.
One hundred millennia for Brexit’s wayward turn;
So grab that trunk, shake that moneyed tree,
To gullibly pay again for what we burn.
So please don’t spend or trade this time for me.
Disgorge your Pounds and Euros by all means,
But waste not my precious time on useless dreams.
©Keith Murphy
No more sleazy temptress,
no more groupies,
you’re lock-stock out of luck
if you think you’ll
get you claws in me.
No more easy riders,
no more floozies,
you’re down-out in the dark
if you want to
take a piece of me.
No more black-out nights,
no more STDs,
played with fire too many times
to think that it’s
good for me.
No more endless nightfall,
no more moneyed hearts,
it’s rock-bottom taking toll
on a man who’s
already pushed too far.
No more fake award shows,
no more bastard art
it’s rot-gut soulless stuff
fully deserving
of those single stars.
No more mindless chatter,
no more watching charts
it’s fool’s gold draining soul
from a man
with little left to start.
It’s time to go.
The greatest hustler we will ever know
Is our wishful thinking
For something holy.
The deal on the table never really changes.
It has long grown old
And curdled.
But we all take it as new.
And
How can I find my balance on the legal apparatus
Of a rat eat rat city
Which will always take the form’
Of a moneyed home.
Those of us who honed our craft
Have become exhibits in
museums of all our spent years
isolated
while the moneyed children
beautiful in their designer skin
and expensive shoes.
But their souls were left behind
On the cutting floor somewhere
Where the rats
The ones mentioned before
are free to collect all scattered things
For their unseen nests.
That is the price of advertising:
To
plant your heart under the floor boards
Like just another roach
Another lost
Or discarded thing
all
To avoid the pain
Knowing what it is
To turn into just another house cat
Peering out the same window
As yesterday
Knowing you will never
truly be part of the world below
Only living just behind
Drawn shades and
Dark clubs.
And me?
I continue to wait for you
To return from finality's
unforgiving sea.
Hear the muttered snivel of our kids
Puked away to gloom, twinge and disease
Wrecked by creeds
To fulfill an antique mores
Whose ruin is beyond scientific darn
See the boulevards and the creeks
Before sight are male Mal-nourished toddlers
In rag togs, blistered feet, beseeching alms
And ingesting the remnants
From the poorest buffet
They toil in tackle capacity
Inversely allied to their weight
From sun rise to sunset
To earn much less than you
See the boulevards
How they stir; bunched
On the trot to any kind of dub
To good and to evil
Death becomes a familiar friend
At first light and at dark
From toil, food, water and sleep
Such a despicable way of live
But then the espoused antique mores, woes
Regenerated by ills of the society
To the blanketed vision of the moneyed
To plunge empathy and impious reliance of all
Can this be our way of life?
Trouncing fortunes to antique mores?
Reticence to rascality?
And nationhood to meanness?
The greatest hustler we will ever know
Is wishful thinking
For something holy.
The deal on the table never really changes.
It has long grown old
And curdled.
But we all take it as new.
And
How can I find my balance on the legal apparatuses
Of a rat eat rat city
Which will always take the form’
Of a moneyed home.
Those of us who honed our craft
Have become exhibits in
museums of all our spent years
isolated
while the moneyed children
beautiful in their designer skin
and expensive shoes.
But their souls were left behind
On the cutting floor somewhere
Where the rats
The ones mentioned before
are free to collect all scattered things
For their unseen nests.
That is the price of advertising:
To
plant your heart under the floor boards
Like just another roach
Another lost
Or discarded thing
all
To avoid the pain
Knowing what it is
To turn into just another house cat
Peering out the same window
As yesterday
Knowing you will never
truly be part of the world below
Only living just behind
Drawn shades and
Dark clubs.
And me?
I continue to wait for you
To return from desperation’s
unforgiving sea.
Numero Un:
To have and to hold,
A Midas,
Replete with gold.
Lord of mountain hideaway,
In Aspen,
For family play.
Manhattan penthouse
Zooming Ferrari,
Moneyed clout.
Powerful and homely,
Spawning ground,
Socially comely.
Numero Deux:
To have and to hold,
A Casanova,
The force behold.
Sleepless nights,
Expel,
Monotonous rites.
Playful fun,
Two bodies,
Orgasmically one.
Always game,
For another round,
Of the same.
Numero Trois:
To have and to hold,
An Aristotle,
Intellectually bold.
Philosophy spewing,
Questioning,
Tradition chewing.
Brainwork overtime,
Soaking,
Prose and rhyme.
Original mind,
Prejudices, immorality,
Left far behind.
3 husbands,
Heroes all 3,
All with virtuous qualities.
Ahh……………. fantasy,
3 rolled into 1
Can it ever be?
Vehicle Island
While the owners of parked cars at the seaside
sat in overcrowded restaurants and was served
by sweat dripping waiters the cars started and
drove in a neat formation into the sea.
A mass suicide that lit up the sea for hours, but
more cars came and they became an island
and when there were no more cars left, motorbikes
were used as top soil.
Up from this mess grew traffic cones filling the space
with stop signs and pelican crossings.
A bike, a fortune for a bike, the moneyed class said
and there were the street fights; “it is my bike no I saw it first”
the veneer of civility broke down.
When the populace stole the horses of the Gypsies
undelaying social hatred broke out; it was their right
to steal to defend their country and the Gypsies
horseless now had to live behind tall walls this because
prisoners don’t need cars.
Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent – 34
If only the tired masses had time to think
If only they knew leaders were prisoners too
Would not security forces with us link
The rocks some throw will into proper heads sink
Even leaders will no longer be taboo
If only the tired masses had time to think
The real Enemy makes money to clink
In the ears of leaders who’ll join their ranks too
Would not then security forces with us link
Though this less-than-one-per-cent makes the World drink
Dance drunk much material progress to woo
If only the tired masses had time to think
Masses choose leaders who need moneyed-class wink
These mafia-made leaders dupe masses even more
If only security forces would with us link
In the end little use if masses could think
What leaders want more of is the vote or two
If only the tired masses had time to think
Would not security forces with us link
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
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