we rejoice at
His return,
but then it happens
again-and-again
6/14/22
This thick mucous essentially
the defense mechanism of a healthy
body electric to restore biz zee nose
as usual, which for this mild mannered
liberal leitmotif from the chronicle of one
matted nattering nabob of nativity attests
congested mob functioning like
a well lubricated machine, yet
for the life of me, nary a handy dandy
blues clues evident as per, how
the human entity empowered
to steamroll over
any reasonably annoying bugaboo.
Ah, now if only a similar innate
defense mechanism arose
within the mental health,
that would be a supreme testament
to thine atheistic tasty mints of miracles
minus the attendant pharmacopeia
of this, that or some other drug to aright
skewered psyche (of this contemplative,
emotive and intuitive literate outlier),
whose sixty two plus eight shades
of gray matter went awry and skewed
toward tipping point (to cope with ordinary
cares and concerns of an uncertain
whirled wide web) found the bulk
of his life riddled with a joe king,
gun slinging tub back ha chew win,
bard **** wordsmith,
who doth newt like to utter any
cryptographic crossword.
Help!
I think I’m sinking,
Into a dark hole
Again.
I don’t want to go back,
I can't take it anymore.
It’s cold and dark and lonely,
Please don’t let me go.
I want to stay close to the light,
I want to live,
Not merely exist.
Please throw me a lifeline,
There’s so much sorrow
That I’m drowning in my misery.
Help me please!
I’m sinking
Again.
My Recurrent Dream, Translation of Paul Verlaine's Sonnet : Mon Rêve Familier
I'm often subject to a strange and invasive dream
Of an elusive woman whom I love, and who loves me
And who at every encounter might not the same be
Nor altogether another be, yet forbearing in her love seem.
For knowing how my open heart laid bare will confirm
How for her alone it beats, helas ! I can breathe free
Yes, for her alone, the paleness of my brow dewy
She alone knows how to relieve, her tears stream.
Is she a brunette, blond or russet ? - I ignore.
Her name ? I recall it sounds sweet, echoes in the ear
Like those of lovers Life puts apart.
Likewise her looks, the gaze of statues,
And, as for her voice, distant and calm, and the art
Of the gravity of cherished voices long since mutes.
© T. Wignesan - Paris, December 1, 2018
Like the old songs goes,
The sun set upon the shore.
Waiting to be sang.
Lovers kissing their goodbyes
High, nigh finally aligned.
Inside a harbor inn
Where fateful voyages begin
An old man waits for me…
I enter, recklessly.
The barmaid brings the jug
And pours him out a frothy mug,
And lights a lamp for him
To read by, in the dim.
The old man wears a mask;
I hear him humorously ask
“Perhaps you care to look
Inside my ledger book?”
Instead, I flee that place—
For he unmasked a grinning face
Whose every crease and line
Was mine, was mine, was mine.
Accurately predicting disasters,
History just fights through museum glasses.
The wars gone make place for the new,
From sticks and stones to nuclear stew.
It seems so silly, so absurd
That man has still not learned.
Since when are words so powerless
That only guns can solve the mess?
No matter how high-tech we get
We can’t avoid the cruel regret,
Of not seeing previous fault.
When it comes to money and power we act by default.
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