The other day I read a Facebook post,
where they asked this silly question again.
Find a word that starts with the letter O,
but that word must end with the letter N.
Of course, I know it’s just my opinion,
and taken from my own observation.
That it would not take much of an optician,
to see this as open ostentation.
Now I feel I have an obligation,
to sit on the octagon ottoman,
Where I often eat an Oregon onion,
while petting my baby orangutan.
His name is Owen Odin Orion,
his occupation is just an oarsman,
But he has joined an organization,
to help an orphan find his origin.
He had a small organ operation,
with an option to open an obstruction.
They had to keep him on some oxygen,
while they blasted it to oblivion.
I wonder if I have an obsession,
for words that start with O and end in N.
My opposition says it’s an omen,
I say it’s an overreaction again.
Raise your gaze and mind to the flag,
And there see all that we bear to this land –
A looking glass it is of our hopes and deeds.
Stars and stripes are all I ever see:
Stars that make my heart hop with glee
And stripes, bloody stripes, that make it drop.
Some stripes are the lash marks of the whip
And some the slash marks of the sword
That foes in citizen skin inflict on the realm
Whenever it defies their morbid will.
They’re creatures of the dark, these sorts:
When duty calls, duty that they must shirk,
Off goes the lights and on comes their rights,
Their rights, false rights, that squirm under lights.
But they fly too low to touch the stars,
And so their light they cannot snuff.
Thank God for all who hold the stars high,
And keep the flag aflutter, the better to shake off her wounds.
They’re the nation’s designated driver,
Her steady oarsman, when greed and hate derange the rest.
When her bulk teeters in a muddle,
Out comes the hulk in them
To take firm hold of her wreckage
And steer her ashore for time and care to mend.
he woke up early so as
to play with the mates on the beach
as he did the previous evening
alas! no one' there to
accompany him
he walked from one hut to another
but there're no signs of his soul mates
at all
disappointed
he walked towards the beach
but no one was there
got confused
no woman or man could also be seen
usual oarsman wasn't there either
a flock of crows flying over the
huts looked for dried fish
fishing nets had also been left behind
fishing boats rested on the beach
in isolation
he walked here & there
he was shivering & full of fear
he couldn't control himself
tears gushed out
Aman's televison was inside his house
so was his bicycle
neither his clothes nor those shoes
nothing had been taken away
Where've you been all?
he yelled, he yelled as loud as he could again & again
but he's irresponsive
he walked along the sandy beach
Saumya Aloysius
- The poem is based on a refugee boy who was just fourteen years of age lived in the Northern part of Sri Lanka during the war-time. He happened to tell me the story of his own.
Oh! oarsman
Take me home
Yonder lies
My cuddled dreams
My sweatheart and everything
I have been away
Too long
Eons and scores sway
Too small to hum their song....
Cant bear the ripples
And the whirls ...
The known waters
Seem so strange now
Calmness above water
But turmoiled under
Just like
My yearning heart
Oh! oarsman
Row me faster to the weeping shore
I dont ever want to do this anymore
Oh! oarsman
Take me home..
A true creator of words
puts everything he's got
in poems that aren't songs;
if only music could bring them to light,
the mine that has no gold
would be found in each written word!
Some leave their wonderful dream
to pursue the bumpy road of reality;
they'll make money with their hands
by forfeiting their chance at success...
quietly slipping through the back door!
The others stay and, with a look of dismay, see them
tossing away the scepter of creativity...
every oarsman knows that oars speed the calm water!
The best minds are here, planting their seeds;
their loyalty started with the first stone
laid at its foundation, and to grow it needs
a thousand more to become a whole!
We have built the wonder of wonders,
a strong tower made of dazzling jewels;
let's add some more and they will become stars,
then this monument will have no obscure names!
Limerick crochet: The Saga of Sea Anne-Anne
Once the Captain of the good ship Anne-Anne
Took to the waves to conquer the main.
Slept round the clock mid-ship
Towed his women aft-ship:
Yet women and ship turned on him in pain.
The Flying Oarsman won America gain
And tamed the raging waters Sea Anne-Anne.
One cup he never won
Was the Darling fourth one:
A touching tale this: the tears shed by Jane!
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Moments upon the loom of time woven
Eternally imprinted 'pon the print
Memories cling, never spent, now frozen
Operate the loom, change design's intent
Reverse the hands of time memories change
Invert the negative read love's design
Everlasting His perfect will's plan
Slipped, falling into sin man was resigned
Offer life up as a living sacrifice
Follow Him away from sins' tangling lure
Let love reign over heart, flee avarice
Oarsman of my craft let me in thee moor
Values of this life now become peace, love
Eternally woven threads draw close my Dove
Finis'
“ So It Shall Be ”
Aye... then so it shall be...
as faire lass doth so request now o'me.
A'holler so 'twas that o'which she'd asked...
In a where and a how thus thrice deftly masked.
'Tis no need ye'd wont worry...
if'n or not I'd been a bit poorly...
Fer time a'me ownsake moves with a'pace...
only in wait... another well drawn ace.
'Tis this if naught other, that which has been found...
as time for us all doth spin 'round.
A'back to there from whence it began...
'tis all can we encompass in one o'life's span.
Once a'stroll back through time's encapsulated stills...
test, trial or mayhap notion o'will...
as if watched from a'far mine own time's skill.
As oft as not... yet surely at best...
'tis all but to do a'such fondness in jest.
'Twas life that go-round oh so thought merry...
'twas we were those guided by myth sung her fairy.
Yet so 'tis then true as last o'words do be spoken...
'twas all but naught other than token.
For must well be he paid that oarsman o'dread...
When 'tis time for me dreams to be gone o'me head.
SeaWolf
©
SILENCE
You must expose your inner self again,
Must codify in words your pleasure or pain:
This poem will extract a part of your life,
Will cut experience free like a knife.
No past, no future; there is only now.
Now you try to write a poem, but how?
Glasses steamed up with nervous breath,
And the thunder if your pencil drops: death
Of your thought train - your oar falling in a pond,
Rippling for ever in your mind.
The silence is choking, you cannot call
For help. You sink or swim alone. No help at all.
Even clock-ticks would be a welcome measure
Of your time left, but there is no time, no pain, no pleasure
As the white paper yawns before your pencil.
You must learn to resolve this stress - no one to counsel.
Time crawls for you, races for another: inner strife.
You are the sole oarsman on this journey - your life.
………………………………………………………………………………………..
Written for Paula Swanson’s competition BREATHE IN THE SILENCE
Rough seas, brimmed with foam, shall rage in silent shadows now
Inconsolable love, the great oarsman is no more
Corridors of power heed this dying! void's the bow;
Helmsman gone, gone suddenly the statesman, and bleak oar
Against the breakers, parody of tyrants dooming
Reason and concord. All our weaving, our fortressing
Dented and denied, the bright unprophetic building
Canticles of prayers and praise here balmless falls
America has lost a true son whose life enthralls
Humanity around the world, the bells are pealing
Our man in the shadows had his heart ripped away
Loyalty was not enough, the white salt entered him
Broke the mast, and docked the ship amidst the far away
Rocks, call the lighthouse home, death fogs the signal, and dim
Outlook makes us take note, his task was no easy one
Ousted sanity and trust, cry now! Watch at the brink,
King ego has no friend to solace fear or atone
Embattled words and world, Richard is gone, and dreams sink.
A FEBRUARY TESTING
Distant voices through a window
Steamed up with thirty nervous breaths
And the thunder of a pencil dropped
Like a twig falling in a pond
The silence is choking, a penalty
Awaits the boy who dares call
His friends for help. You pass or fail alone.
clock ticks are a measure of
the time left to prove your worth
The pens scratch in controlled fever
As the white paper yawns before
And the ink is squeezed unwillingly
From a pen tip wet with sweat.
The exam drowns everything for a moment
You must pass the testing.
Fifty years on another test
May depend more or less
On the way you handle this stress
But far off horizons cannot intrude
At the moment in youth when
The date of Napoleon’s death is crucial
Time crawls for you, races for another.
You are the sole oarsman in this
boat: which is all
Your life -
For now
Each artist stroke created an illusion of depth, color, and placement by contasting colors,
lights and darks the picture comes alive...A life that carries on into hearts and minds as long
as that picture lives...It seems as though one know this person through the eyes of the
artist...In pictures where one knows just knows that someone else is there...One's
imagination can run wild with ideas of who this person is and what relationship to others in
the painting...As in "Summertime" 1894-1895 Mary Cassatt (1845-1926) Oil on Canvas..Who
is rowing the boat? He must really love this lovely delicate woman and precious child to row
the boat for their enjoyment...He must look at her with eyes of love that says I would do
anything for you even lay down my life if necessary..
not a captain or a first mate
but an oarsman was to be their fate
the oarsman row the ship along
either one , two or hundreds strong
one small part of a large ship
but surly the tool that carries it
from sea to sea
an oarsman must have rhythm
and his back must be strong
his work is heavy laden
and his toil is all day long
sometimes when they falter
they feel the lash of the whip
the weakness of an oarsman
may alter the course of the ship
the life of a slave. an intelegent animal
a God forsaken trade,
reserved for the damnedable
the oarsman and his fate
though terrible and long
they did the work
and sang the oarsman song
they pulled the oars
moving the ship along
and all they get for thanks
was the lash of the whip
places were discovered
empires were built
the sea's goods were delivered
from oarsman driven ships
but still ; no thanks for the oarsman
or slave.
Has America ever thanked the slaves?
or the lowly who work the hardest and are
paid the least
are we still yet oarsmen
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