Memories of my childhood
are Polaroids of nostalgic cards
instant colored snapshots of my every action
from the day of my birth to the day I took my first steps
from the day I first started school to the day I learnt to ride a bike
I believed my childhood days would always be unfathomable
the most colossal deception about life living
that’s the problem I have with Polaroids
Birthday number eighteen
was the most unfavorable day of my puerile life
the once flashy, picturesque Polaroids of my childhood
slowly vanished into the dark and foggy stockade of heartbreak
before my very black eyes, while drizzling
unsweetened tears of a cheerless adulthood
that’s the problem I have with Polaroids
long term thinking is a creator of appetite
but brain chemistry can play tricks
like a rattlesnake bite can play tricks
once you toss your conscience into the gutter
and the desire for being the most free
becomes last year's wavy banner fallen
venom fresh in the blood of life
parasitic feeble deprived and manacled
where free enough is free enough
leaving behind far less collateral dementia
the old school vs. the new school
which is which it's hard to tell
barking dogs from mewing cats any longer
the spilt shadows are that long
the tapping of striped canes that grim
the gullible have erected a stockade
because mama loves her babies
an accretion of idiocy by definition
it comes down to people don't know
long since sent to the evaporation pools
where permanent revolution is still a thing
and the Wurlitzer dialectic see saw
is a steam locomotive straining for traction
against the sparking anvil of the elder ironsmith
shoveling party slogans into the boiler
as if they were the color of sky
rather than a long dark gestation
now skipping and tooting down Elm St.
They gathered together thinking it’s not right
To charge for mining permits with gold in sight
So they gathered together at the Eureka Stockade
And armed themselves in their righteous crusade
Each digger stood by the Southern Cross flying true
And gave the oath vowing to defend each other too
“We swear by the Southern Cross to stand truly by each other and fight to defend our rights and liberties”
As free settlers in a free land standing together bravely
And some died defending these words sacred to them
When they stood side by side and were done in
The idea of being strong and free
Was forged in these words for all Australians to see
Since those days their sons and daughters have answered the call
When their blood was spilled so that freedom wouldn’t fall
So when there are challenges meted out to us
Remember those standing with us
honouring the Southern Cross.
© Paul Warren Poetry
The Bard stopped at Footscray
on the road to Ballarat
he was researching The Eureka Stockade
not Romeo and Juliet
he imagined the miners
manning the barricades
police bullets flying
hoisting The Southern Cross
and dying.
The heavens scent of layers varnish,
upon layers then grow and tarnish,
like a stockade wrapped with palisades.
A battlement inside playing charades;
as the volume gets louder - louder,
won't turn off or fade. Battering
turbulence that goes on for hours.
You can hear the low thrum plucking
then growing. Breeding a buzz
in your inner ears, like hornets
building a nest in your brain.
By the time you reach your limit
you tremble, shivering
like leaves in the wind.
The plucking, poisonous parrot
won't stop spinning and turning;
it hangs tightly like a ram
to smash down the door.
1/22/2019
A scientist worked hard each day
To make a time machine to work away
And he had an assistant who worked along
Happy to share the scientist’s song
He had to clock on and off each day
The scientist not missing the worker’s pay
The time machine glowered in its power
As they worked away to the wee small hours
When at last they decided that they’d try it then
Entering the chamber closing the door again
There was a high pitched noise with shuddering
And they left the present to the past time entering
They spent long hours in the past reliving history
At the Eureka Stockade and the Moon Landing’s story
When at last they finished their wandering around
They returned to their laboratory as their machine died down
But a problem came when the assistant looked to be paid
They returned to the exact moment they left on their escapade.
© Paul Warren Poetry
The stump on which I sit
Drawn to reverie each new day,
Today was wet with mist;
A trait of the mystery
Of dew on my stump.
All the tall grass
Around the foot so lovely
Like stockade in their dance.
With leaves fresh with dew,
My soul fortress of refuge.
This stump on which I sit
Today on it I can't sit
Unless I accept to get wet
With red quill ink like dew
On the stump I so much love.
And so from beside the stump
Where lay buried a precious childbirth
I stay with my head on my laps
As with emotion these lines I write
For the dew on my stump.
palings of a stockade
looking out for death
dislocation of aggression
under estimating the brutality
of wars we cry helpless
majority of democracy
brainwashed by the cruel
minority clamouring for
power to wipe out the
security of thoughts
we are praying for
them now here
on three legs
fasting
A friend is one who you can trust
To be always kind and always just.
When you are lonely or afraid,
A friend will be your colonnade.
When truth is lost in masquerade,
A friend's strong hand will be your aid.
When times are hard and hit like a gust,
A friend is one who you can trust.
When life feels like an ambuscade,
A friend's fierce love will always pervade.
When all around seems like a lonely esplanade,
A friend's loyal camaraderie shall be displayed.
A friend is one who you can trust,
To be always faithful, never unjust,
To love unconditionally and never degrade,
A friend is the one who will be your stockade.
COPLA CUARENTA Y SEIS: This Bad Guy World
Religious hate-mongers pullulate
Gullets stuffed full make laymen loathe:
Sacred totem
Even football wins dedicate
« To Country, Race and team-mates’ Faith! »:
Sport’s anathème
When prayers rise from stadium grounds
For wins against rival teams’ gods:
Holy Crusade
Who plays whom on consecrated grounds
Little gods dribble balls with swords:
Pray in stockade
© T. Wignesan -
Paris, 2014
COPLA DIEZ: This Bad Guy World
Bad Guys all organize – strengthen
To give lone Good Guys a bad time:
Their raison d’être
If Good Guys don’t resist – weaken
They’ll only be adding to crime:
World will regret
Envy cunning greed slander
Tools of the Bad Guys’ stock-in-trade:
Make them mighty
Should Good Guys stoop in ways similar
Bad Guys will leave their safe stockade:
Make world filthy.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
I go through my day
and wade through my dispair.
I put up a veiled front
for all to see.
But I am only
lying to myself.
My friends say,
through my eyes,
my book is read.
I have struggled
with this delimma,
a tug of war between
my heart and soul.
Between my heart's desire
and my duty.
How much I want to escape
this stockade that
imprisons my heart.
To be the one
who lies deep within.