You are become a dodge of love, My Dearest…
Or there are arrows other than my own,
That would entendril you once they have pierced,
That will deprive you of a higher throne…
Yet, I'll not Queen you yet, before time bends,
And you are sought by sots who drink perfume,
For I will know, before, what are your ends
And I will read the threads upon your loom.
There is no other, better man than me!
And yet, you dodge my arrows all the while,
And tell me you do stay while then you flee
Or come these paradoxes to beguile?
There is no better arrow at the ends
Than tells that we be lovers and not friends.
When the world is cross and dreary
There’s a place to calm the weary
I find the secret door down under
To seek the land of purple thunder
On sands of time, the beach does lie
With ponds and castle frogs near by
Who serve the queen of hourglass
She chirps to let each hour pass
I see a harpsichord that sings
Just as I come upon my wings
A gliding sail on silver seas
I scale the mountain tops with ease
I’m greeted by some Flutterflies
And Stumblebees who grace the skies
I watch out for the flower sots
With whom a Tipsymoth now plots
I dine on Angel cake delight
As Psalm trees sway and chant good night
With Puffydogs, I join the crowds
Who ate too many puffy clouds
Then to rest with Maids of grass
In silken shade of summer sass
To dream of how I’ve spent my day
Inside this imagery parfait
My town nicknamed, ‘Mini Dubai’, burgeoned and branched
on the bank of Kanoli canal like a tamarind seed.
Now the silvered canal sprawls on its death bed.
Busy pedestrians walk down
an ancient bridge built by the British.
As the traffic light has lost its eye balls,
a potbellied policeman dances and controls.
Jalopies groan, and modern cars whiz.
A long whistle: an ambulance with the wounded
and a van with the wedding party halt side by side
as the southern and northern hemispheres
of emotions meet at a single point.
Nostalgic smell of the canal sops in the sizzling tang from a cafeteria.
The splurging women whirl in the hurry wind among the concrete
buildings seething under the tanning rays. The stink of sweat and
the aroma of the Arabian perfumes choke the air in shops, where,
sometimes, the chicanery peeks through the glassed. The
applications drafted in blood and salt scurry to the offices nearby –
only to get the obsequies in the waste baskets. The sots creep like
snakes in the yard of Snadra Bar.
A crow sits on an electric post and watches all beneath
with a smile of wisdom
You left me when I was small
I felt you didn't care at all
You sold your love like a cheap whore
And turned into a fat bellied bore
You betrayed my childhood trust
Exchanging it for Alcoholic Lust.
And now that you've no values left
Just pissed them away,like all the rest
Of the filthy lonely sad old sots
With ragged clothes and holes in your socks
And now that I'll not play your game
you cannot admit to any shame , so lame.
So 40 years on here I stand
Fists of rage and hatred , both hands
Punching out the light of my pride , my truth ,
myself still denied.
You lied and you cheated
so now fat and depleted,eyes a shallow grey pit
a lonely old git , in a deeper pit.
Don't ask for my passion , nor fret for my love
you've no worries now Dad
I'm free as the dove.
I hold no resentment
Nurture no pain
I never needed your respect there was nothing to gain
I stopped caring how,stopped caring why
stopped bothering to cry
no more pretend,no more love lie.
I stepped on your memory,then pissed on your name,
Then it rained on that stain and washed it all away.
Father Oh Father
You've finally,everlastingly, made my day.
COPLA VEINTIOCHO : This Bad Guy World
Bad Guys with bad girls squirt at will
Since sexual revolution:
Plague emotion
The intellectual love kill
Learn from Left-drilled safe permission:
Drug-filled Dick-tion
Kids who rampage on exposed thighs
Quote Beauvoir and Sartre as of right:
Leak-minded sots
They who let babies suck on lies
Heroic mothers out-of-sight:
Who rock the cots
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Once a man of steel,
cuckolded by foreigners,
made to bear a rusty belt
And belch hapless smoke in shame.
Once a spiderweb of commerce-
now a conglomerate of strangers,
united by dementia-ridden streets
frayed and cracked by Erie’s buffets-
but the breakwall soldiers still hold the line.
As do the masses, when they can stand
the agony of Sundays as crying sots,
drenching the gutters in saltwater
beers, burying the despair behind
frozen, grim, angry brows.
On they fight, under the evergaze
of endlessly winking red guardians
who still believe, as the men below,
that Cleveland still rocks, on and on.
sea shells survive
some souvenir seeking sots...
searching sandy shore
written 3/1/2011
for contest"Alliterative Haiku"
sponsored by Chris D. Aechtner
Today, all day, my Irish leprechaun
We get our chance to catch you if we can.
You hold the secrets of hidden treasures.
This time we will use successful measures.
For most, we’ll sit in pubs all day and hunt
for you in greenish stout from favorite haunts
Along the way. What fools we mortals be
That think at rainbows end we’ll find the key
To gold and sundry riches in a pot.
Hah! All that’s found are fractured dreams and sots.
From time immemorial fools have tried
In vain to follow dreams of gold worldwide.
Thus, chasing dreams and dodgy rainbows
Makes one lose sight of what’s under your nose.
An old church stands with a spired steeple
Amidst the townspeople at Fox and Main
Where the hypocrites pray for sinful souls
And clergy holds sermons that entertain.
Within this sanctuary lined with pews
And opalescent glass and glittering gold
Odoriferous breaths of morning booze
Betray inebriants among the fold.
The Sunday sermon lectures temperance
Its message they heard many times before
The spoken words make no difference
Because people don’t heed them anymore.
The pimps and sots, sinners all congregate
Buying forgiveness while passing the plate.