Short 1957 Poems

Me.
Unique,

Strong,
Fragile old girl, gentle questioner,
unshakeable hand,
Curious eye, quiet ear....

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red
stop sign
ruby gem
scarlet apple
crimson satin gown
maraschino cherry
delicious strawberry pie
1957 lipstick
pop needed in every piece of art
mamie’s petticoat from gone with the wind...

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Surviving in this kind of weather,
with a man made from chicken feather
causes me to sometimes wonder,
"Why does that dang fool hear thunder?"
I think we'd be better off instead
if that guy would come home dead....

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drops of river or ice patches;
all of this without your notice
            but tough and half eternal

the lemon tree grows
            cool and silent;
            this makes you remain.

(for Klara Grünzweig 1957-2016)...

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in the fifties, back in my school days, we hid under desks
anticipating the nuclear bomb we thought Russians were sending
not all of our body fit under there, but we still had to do it
Because if that bomb was coming, we wanted to be ready...

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enduring memory 

It was in New York
on the pavement
outside
Radio City Music Hall
I saw Jack Dempsey
and Alan Ladd
I had not seen a famous
people before
Jack wore brown pants
a loud sports jacket
Alan was in a tan suit  
It was a warm evening
in 1957 

...

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Jabbering in his mind
Unclear thoughts, non-cohesive, renegade,
Running wildly with a 1957 Chevy truck, 
Honking with a gaggle of winter geese.
Fuzzy dendrite connections, 
Brain overload, grabbing out-of-control ideas,
Hoisting them into cyberspace with his unicorn monkey pals....

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here’stuh
the girls of Woostuh
the ones we usetuh
get closetuh
and pretendtuh
dancetuh 
the Sambuh

The girls of Worcester Mass.,
making our short training tour
in 1957 Fort Devens bearable.
There was a dance hall there.    
Public formal dancing is almost 
unknown in the South....

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The Malay Pantun:  The Non-Party Communal Triumvirate

Ursidae carnivora hug and hibernate
   Hypolais polyglottes trill without triumph
Alliance Party* wins and vituperate
   Opposition parties coagulate without lymph

•	The ruling Malaysian communal triumvirate – 
since Independence in 1957.

© T. Wignesan, Paris - 2013...

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Christmas catalog 1957
We fought over it,
It was our way to heaven

Dreaming of this, that and the other.
Arguing until we were separated 
by our mother

We circled the things we wanted,
we two,
The whole toy catalog was circled
when we were through

Christmas catalog 1957,
it was a step closer
to Christmas heaven….....

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For Ananga

        On that day when all is dark

When I wake on that blackened day
Though I wake to find no day
I will burn a flower on my tiny finger
And cipher the heart of the yelp

 © T. Wignesan - Paris, 1957 (from Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961; first pub. in "Forum Academicum", University of Heidelberg, 1957)...

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Unusual for a boy of just fourteen to
Roam in dreams through outer space then
After some two billion miles to glimpse 
Nearby a wondrous blue-green orb.
Up close now, and he clearly saw a
Set of rings, unknown to all who ever gazed.

A dream I had in 1957. The rings were not 
observed by astronomers  
until twenty years later in 1977....

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In search of long lost orchards
where apple blossoms bloom;
an ole white ashen farmhouse
and corncrib-playhouse rooms.

Searching for the scent of pine
where lingering laughter lies,
for the summer days gone by
and seashells on the tide.

Hungering for spruce gum chaw
we dug from crooks of trees
for the tart and bittersweet
memories of childhood deeds....

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the 1957 Chevy Bel Air was fine in every way
Full of chrome, her sassiness gave her enormous sway
Some people like red autos, but turquoise was so fine
At the age of eight, I wished this car was mine!

I understood cars like the boys did in town
This beauty pranced and danced, she was heaven bound
I still love this car to this very day
I wish all cars were built and chromed this way...

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I want ice cream cone shoes
You mean like Neapolitan ice cream?
No, I mean like turquoise ice cream.
The color of Daddy’s 1957 Chevy.

But ice cream cones shoes have not been invented yet.
Neither has turquoise ice cream, grandma chimed in.
Then I will invent them, the optimistic girl said.
It took her fifty years, but she created ice cream shoes.
They were turquoise, and they were a hit!...

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Paint ponies by the lodge
White manes

Turned silver in the moon’s glow
Taste of Mother Earth

Burden baskets hang at the door
They hold many seasons

Of worries & fears
The night owl comes

He sings the death song
Your time here has ended

The West door beckons you
Night Owl grows silent

© March 1984



In Memory of Jacob Michael MacCallister
March 18, 1957 ~ January 26, 1983...

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A dirty old sidewalk
runs in front of grandma's house
with bumps and cracks from the roots
of ancient white-oak

Armed with cane poles and sack lunches
crickets and freshly dug earth worms
we meander down to the levee
barefoot in careless summers

One low spot beneath
a straggly Chinaberry
filled with pitch-black delta dirt
washed in by summer rains
We shuffle through and dig down
cooling our toes...

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Dancing and hopping in a robin-like way
The medium sized bird gives happiness a swift play
I watch him in wonder, loving his tweet tweet tweet
He looks like a rock-and-roll dancer, he’s simply up beat.

The song from my childhood comes quickly to mind
As I see this darling birdie, he is so clever and kind.
Rock’n’Robbin sung in 1957 by the keen Bobby Day.
The branch is bobbing in time with this robin at play!...

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Mythical wizard hag sits on her haughty throne
Who is she? Some whisper, perhaps thinking crone.
Magical and mystical, she is rarely sitting alone.
Her power animals surround her, hoping for a bone.

She gets to make all their decisions, she is in charge.
Her ideas and ideals are incredibly worthy and large.
We know her as grandma, our grandpa calls her the Sarge.
She is the most magical creature we know, our grandma Marge....

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Today is my mom’s 107th birthday
She’s been gone for sixty-five years
Everyday, with love, I think of her,
And, I fight back those tears often.
She was a gem, a treasure, you see,
The finest mom any boy could’ve had
She was always thinking of me. 

Written September 4, 2022
[tribute to Elizabeth Agnes
Allport (1915-1957)]

THIRD PLACE WINNER
Submitted to "Remember September" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Andrea Dietrich...

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You died twenty years ago today.
On February 7, 1998, you passed away.
You were born in 1910 and died at the age of eighty-seven.
Twenty years ago, you left this Earth and went to Heaven.

You became a widower in 1957 and had your kids to finish raising.
You finished raising your kids by yourself and that was amazing.
When you died, it was something that I hated.
You were my Papaw and you were appreciated.

(Dedicated to Burkette Greene who died on February 7, 1998.)...

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What kind of car is that? My eleven grandchildren scream.
It has driven by slowly, and it is my childhood dream.
a 1957 Chevy, sleek, black, full of chrome, I say.
Coveting the red leather seats as it drives slowly away.

It doesn’t look like any contraption we have ever seen!
I know this is true, I wave to the driver as if she is the queen.
She is driving my dream and I am out of words as I watch her go.
Adding this much chrome is something today’s car designers do not know....

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