A facsimile of the earth stands proudly
On the savannahs of the ancient and modern.
Edifice of rustic finesse, rugged and pointed
With the glory of a pinnacle of a paradise on earth.
In your crawling presence, Termite, stand I,
Barefoot, on elevated earth for the first time —
A platform erected by the hands of gifted time,
All red-brown and royal, and under the tutelage of
Sun and Rain —two keen-eyed foremen descended from heaven.
You have reached the skies before man.
I hail you!
I have removed my open-toe footwear,
Like Moses did his in the burning bush.
Babel forbids the union of this construction,
Aiming Nimrodly upwards and towards arrowed clouds
Dispersed in blubbering tongue-lashes.
But you do not seek God’s wrath upon these grasslands
With these anthills,
Wild castles —testaments to the will of fecund grounds.
Termite, break the jinx of your muteness.
Testify, crawling soul, testify harmoniously,
Borrowing the singing heritage of the Common Cuckoo.
Testify now.
Attest
To the ruggedness and puissance of this imposing structure,
And blame it on the staccato rhythm of peevish languages.
Written: August 07, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Mark Toney
***********
Corset of steel tightens—ratified pain,
Vestigial breath trapped in ischemia thrall.
The ductile hope failed to placate
This Pyrrhic ache, this woebegone gall.
A sojourn in the squalor of soul,
Where sylphlike dreams maunder, downcast.
Ogle the embers of the miraculous nexus—
A seraphic visage lost, quickly.
Vivacious once, now virile with woe,
Panacea tastes of pabulum, slipshod, and cold.
Tinkling memories coruscate as zeugma—
Bright, yet untoward, they never hold.
Quixotic penchant for connection,
Grasping too late the nebula beneath.
What puissance is this—this throe, this tumult—
When tulle-wrapped love meets a gyre of grief?
Ululation beneath pavonine skies,
Adumbrate every glance, every sigh.
Crimson weave keeps a skirt in place,
Valuable, stained, adorned, and slain.
Drops of rain smudge the window blurring my vision,
Pouring down as my spirit drowns in omission,
The obscure moon feeding wispy light into the void's delight,
Bowing to the impalpable depths of night,
Pieces of memory struck by puissance waves undefined,
Calling your quintessence form in my mind,
Her dulcet voice masked with the susurrus pouring rain,
A seraphic purity to the melody my soul craves within the pain,
Her aureate eyes ignite a flame in the dark corners of my heart,
An eternal luminescent spirit to the grief I hold apart,
Her pellucid heart showing what could have last,
Fragments of reality shattered her frame,
Now a whisper to the wind coming from hell,
Drops of rain fall from the sky,
Washing away pieces I never got to deny,
Tea time in the desert,
a stellar hibiscus moment;
the freedom of passionate dreams
build to a crescendo amid
starlight reverie.
A release of stress and trauma,
is a sip of love from the universe;
I watch evening waves greet
the celestial spheres;
with elation.
I feel a oneness with the stars here,
my soul flies on freedom's magic carpet.
Puissance of the brew fills the
evening air, as lavender hues
invade my wandering mind.
A spirit on a mortal journey am I,
tapping the etheric bodies of swirling stars.
Nature's tiki cocktail
provides a few moments of bliss,
as my spirit swims the higher realms.
2-14-2023
A Simple Pleasure Poetry Contest
Julia Ward
Like many comrades and councilors of Moon Knight,
Daredevil, Matt Murdock, was in fight and might, bright;
Reservoir of Herculean power and strength,
He could lift thousands of pounds and punch any length...!
Gymnast! Acrobat! Olympic muscle tissues!
He could suffuse or transfuse perilous issues.
Power, born of self-will experimentation,
Fused in him mercurial mobilization...!
Rat or cat or elephant like sharp hearing sense,
Owls and eagles like radar vision effulgence;
Enabled him antidate his environs clear,
And respond and combat with vehemence severe...!
Lion-like he could fight Captain America
Superman, another puissance replica;
Moon Knight and Daredevil, though, fought a tough battle,
Merged to collaborate with warm tittle-tattle...!!!
31 October 2022
Moon Knight Friend or Foe Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
You are powerful, I see it in your walk, puissance;
proud and strong as the mighty oak.
Your words speak with the strength of our people;
your shoulders hold their plight.
You have never waivered steady, steadfast;
your strong feet which walked the uneven paths;
facing pain, knowing that you will overcome.
They whisper softly; be strong, be prideful; we are with you;
every step you take; we are with you, never looking back;
only remembering, yet, learning from the past.
Breathe, celebrate our ways; never forget them.
Rejoice in the power of our foremother, forefather.
Puissance in each footstep.
Celebrate their words; sing loud, spirited.
Sing to the moon which they saw.
Sing to the stars which were in their eyes.
Rejoice in every step, tap the earth; wake up old souls!
Let them know that we are here; willing.
Dance, laugh; tell them that you will never stop;
never stop until we dance, laugh and shout together.
Always; still today; under HIS Eyes, never parted, never will.
Sometimes
You have to
Leave that which
Puissance couldn't hold
To chance,
Trust
The rhythm
To Dance
Back
Good corollary.
The falcon
Flaps
Awhile
Seize,
And spread
Wings—
A flap—
The air
Notwithstanding
The direction
Carries
It through.
To Chance
Sometimes
Some things
But with faith.
Morning brews sunrise colors-
yolk yellow seeping over
edges; light sterling silver
strung; rubbed linens ironed
across the rim. The creatural
world-a lime olive, sea blue
cup- has a view from space:
mottled tints- mud grey, green. Deep.
Sienna red flames bedewed.
Aged worn cotton tinctures-
the crumpled fabrics' wrinkles
are mountains, hills, cliffs ingrained.
Threads netted- the indigenous
lives captive-evolution.
They tat the stretched skies, royal.
From beats the animus- birth;
sprouting; feathery gardens
open to the sun. Roots plow.
Volcanic lands thrust- beryl
hues are the telluric gloss
of... diamonds. Hope. Pearl flushes-
scents of the wash of Summers.
Peach -brown malts- inebriation
of puissance. Grains reaped, ablaze
in Autumn afternoons. Stoked,
ground into mealy givings.
Marl nectare, fertility.
Corollas of heaven- O'Keefe.
A sketch of cimarron
shades: an appollyon emerges,
her spectre arms reach
like the charcoal bones
of the wild, the webbed trees.
Their silhouette absorbed
into the night clasp
the edge of the curved
slice of moon, cocaine
colored and as potent.
For ancient stories are spun
within its orbit.
It is a black and
white rock that once had oceans,
the orb created
by a long ago
planet colliding with Earth.
A diabolical
world pushes against
our mortal microcosm, in which
molded flesh is a cloak
shaped to kill, and shed.
Stripped of this armour, we meld
into death, a viscous
void of the sublime
intense beating, of puissance,
zoetic. Tincture
of a collapsed white
dwarf, the distant plum red throb
that emits heat, burns.
Earthly demon world
nabs; chalk rubbed into pores.
Human colors drown.
A full total solar eclipse occurred on July 2, 2019,
In only Chile and Argentina.
I was informed about it and told my scoffing, daughter dear:
"There is something destructive that will result from this, I fear. "
Surely, enough it did, in the Mojave Desert on July 4, 2019
with such great puissance!
People hurriedly fell to their knees in fear,
asking God for His help and Divine Guidance.
The moon and sun, such powerful bodies!
Effect the firmament and all waters.
Who knows all the happenstances that the sun and moon alter?
July 8, 2019
8:30am PST
When you wake up from your slumber,
And the problems place at your front;
They are truly tough to resolve,
As they are like a typhoon's brunt.
When the darkness is tenacious,
Choosing to spread on your ambient;
Close your both eyes and pray to God,
Asking to have no strength descent.
When your puissance comes from the Lord,
He's your refuge during distress;
God will answer your earnest cry,
Turning your tears into success.
The peace of mind and redemption
Erase the woes, anguish, and fret;
Let the Father clean up your hands,
You're God's servant so fortunate.
Translated by Bernard F.
Asuncion from Jez Rico Cuenta's
MAPALAD
Many mistakes I've made; yet always seeking You in that place, our place.
This old soul is not worthy; Your Mercy is most forgiven.
Battles, I fight, forgetting that YOU have won them all.
In all ways, YOU take my hand, but at times I slip through.
I feel Your never-ending puissance; but my fears are known to me.
Knowing that YOU will forever guide me, my battles are still within me.
Worries are few yet quickly remembered.
Praying that I will never question YOU, I know that I am weak.
Your Strength, a gentle breeze that blows into me, I need.
I stumble but never fall out of your sight.
Your Eyes are on me, I know they are, I try to hide, but
You know me, your mercy comes once again as it finds me
as I seek that place, our place.
Catherine Johnson Broussard
At eventide light slowly fades
A curtain of darkness descends
Pensively I reflect on our enduring ardency
Wonderstruck still at the miracle of reuniting
A veritable lifetime thereafter
That fleeting relation in our minority
Enamoured by your gentle comportment
Exuding puissance and love eternal
Virtues countless as the stars aloft
Omnipresent tenderness from your supple lips
My love for you forever bounteous
The universe has bestowed your being upon me
So together we may flourish as one
My gratitude shan’t ever diminish
La Paix et le Désert – Translation of Kevin Gilbert’s « Peace and the Desert » by T. Wignesan
Pendant que la braise du campement de feu scintille
J’entendis l’appel
du courlis annonçant la naissance
ou la mort de quelques uns
le vent du désert calmait durant la nuit
et dans une voix
tremblante poussa un soupire à l’entrée interdite des pas
quand on entend le battement des tambours lointain
le petit matin arrive en ne faisant pas trop de bruit
la nuit des premiers âges est en fuite
laissant l’impression frémissante des bruits
du carnage et la puissance des carnivores
immobile, malgré l’espoir d’un roitelet gazouillant
un lézarde qui survive bougeant sur un roché
un émeu, deux cherchant de l’eau dans une source d’eau
les aigles fixent leur regarde en toute intensité
heureux du fait de ce que la nuit pourrait les apporter
les tourbillons s’élèvent inaperçus en remuant
les arènes en convulsions
par les pas d’une danse macabre
s’abandonnant à l’ivresse des derviches
aiguilles qui piquent mes joues mon front
puis lance des cris de rage sur cette mer maintenant morte.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
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