Even when everything shines
I still feel the tension as it grows
Living your life on the sidelines
Your heart and your soul closed
For he who whings and whines
Heaven forbbid one should impose
Perhaps just a sign of the times
I am asked but who really knows
Though still the tell tale signs
And boy that now really shows
Living within your own confines
What one has then chose
Yet another introspection some bits wete used for poem chances written 2020
FIXATION
Eager eyes and a hopeful heart
of innocent and pure intent.
Just to be in close proximity
gives smitten eyes their glint.
Clouds beneath infatuated feet,
lost in daydreams through the night.
Weakened knees and butterflies,
the tell tale signs of loves first bite
Who's not traversed that winding road,
whose ups and downs are not yet shown?
Each twist a chance to turn romance
into love, loss, or the friend zone.
It's a tight rope walk on eggshells,
drama traps made to anger or please.
Perchance you reach the other side,
and the juice just ain't worth the squeeze.
The lesson here, though all too clear,
is lost to infatuation.
Loyal and steadfast makes love last,
sparks are frivolous fixations.
Mom, I see your hands shaking, the tell-tale signs,
Not eating, not showering, lost in the TV’s confines,
Drinking all day long, consumed by the bottle’s sway,
It breaks my heart to see alcohol consuming you every day.
Memories of dad, many years ago, flood my mind,
As I watch you follow down the same painful bind,
The grip of addiction tightening its hold,
Leaving behind a life once bright, once bold.
I long to reach you, to pull you back from the brink,
To help you break free, to help you rethink,
The choices you make, the path you tread,
To pull you away from the darkness that spreads.
Mom, I see your pain, I feel your despair,
I know deep down, you’re still in there,
Behind the mask of alcohol’s disguise,
Is the woman I love, with tears in her eyes.
I hold onto hope, a flicker in the night,
That one day, you’ll emerge into the light,
Breaking free from the chains that bind,
Mom, I’ll be here for you, loving and kind.
Inspiring, crescendo ... the ascension,
of myth and legend as Yaguara,
or "Death in one leap" the sleek frame, Jaguar
as if it's from another dimension.
Leopards bit spotty, but Jaguars take
a rosette form, tell-tale signs like water
that natures them. As a jungle squatter,
prey, and time of hunt, don't discriminate
their mettle. Domains--mine alone; moms play
dads too, tongues play teeth too, cubs play adult
as hunt molds age. Overcast shades result
in a Black Panther coexist display.
Imperil: human expansion collide,
... imagine our continental divide.
The empty swing
swings gently
in the gentle
breeze that wafts
across the empty
playground park.
The dust in the foot-pans
beneath the swings
lifts up in the breeze,
swirls and curls in
a spiral willy-nilly, willy-willy.
The town has all but died.
A tardy few die-hard's remain,
as they have no where else to go.
The salty groundwater,
which rose up in the soil
due to over zealous irrigation,
scalded the landscape and sucked
the life out of everything alive.
Even the birds and bees departed
as the vegetation was parched to
dry, shriveled brown, littering
the stark parched brown earth,
dotted with snow white blotches
and scabby scolds.
The residents were given fair warning.
They failed to heed the tell-tale signs
and reduce their wasteful
excessive irrigation,
as the salty water rose.
The call to change was such an irritation.
Like everyone, everywhere,
the people here, only took up a tardy reaction
when it was too late,
or almost too late,
which blind fate swung to
far, far too late.
Their fate was sealed.
This time the gauge
had swung far right down
to empty.
Tell tale signs linger in the void,
of unvoiced emotions destroyed,
yet embraced by the universe,
thereby shaping destiny’s verse,
replaying as our life’s refrain,
until mindful eye does ingrain
each flicker and nuance within
bleeding hearts, thus exhuming sin
from the very core of our soul,
that womb of existence feels whole.
03-August-2022
MENOPAUSE MOMENT
It comes on uninvited and it does not make you excited
Heart flutters ensue
To an almighty hue
Of crimson red
Lighting up your face and head
Next comes the tsunami of sweat
Accompanied by an almighty dread
Will anyone see the tell-tale signs
Will they think I have been on the wine?
Doctors scratch their chins and ponder
While you garble questions and just wonder Will your brain capsize? Will you stay alive? Beneath the bluster and blunder
Which is now your life
Thank God your no one’s wife!
So, there is no womb prayer
Just you, pulling out your hair No soft voice
In the middle of the night
Telling you it will be alright?
A shadow runs across a meadow
a hawk above me on a cloudless day.
A high prescience
for a moment
overhanging a far heaven.
It is not stooping or diving,
not reaching or snatching,
it is not bent to the wind like an arrow,
nor hunting.
When Goshawks hunt
they trace small circles,
seeking a rustle and bustle,
tell-tale signs of scurry.
For now it is not compelled or held
by any thought or sight,
lithely it sails,
nonchalantly counting coup,
jousting with the sun on lancing wings.
A raptor cleaving its authority.
Swift winged conqueror!
An ascendency unmatched
by anything else this day.
either look or see
what you will become and be
sure you will agree
We are definitely the product
of our environment. Maybe that
is why DC is so miserable.
will sew what they breed
so should plant the proper seed
separate from weed
arrived at third floor
thanked God that there are no more
my feet sure are sore
Tell tale signs of a Brother Rat
rat friend had been a brother
was always like no other
still lousy lover
From birth to middle age
Tell tale signs sending us into a rage
Not knowing what to expect
Slowly approaching wondering what comes next
Hot flushes to mood swings
I wish someone would have told me these things
Trying to find a way to cope
Visits to the doctor for a glimmer of hope
Feelings of anxiety and despair
Searching for remedies it’s so unfair
Balancing hormones to reach a safe place
Tiredness constantly it shows on our face
Family life disrupted on a daily basis
Looking for normality researching cases
Always saying sorry to the ones, we love
Will it work out is it enough
SITTING HERE ON WOODEN PIER
Sitting here on wooden pier,
Watching waves roll in
Sea-weed on the drift to shore,
The tide is on the turn,
A pelican floating by;
Searching,
Searching,
Forever searching,
Looking for another feed.
As Pandanus abound frequently,
Summer is nearly here;
The warmth from Sol above,
Is indictive suggestive feeling
Of long days around the corner.
As small crustacean abounds about
Leaving tracks and tell-tale signs;
Of whereabouts in sand.
Lonely sea-shell on tidal reach;
Existence of feeling
Of being all washed-up alone,
Far from depths, it came,
Maybe on another surge
Carried far back out to sea.
Faraway from home
And on the beach,
Corked in a bottle wrote;
Message from another place,
Message from another time.
As seagulls squawk and squawk;
Funny way they talk
To one another when on the scrounge
For any titbits found.
And sitting here on wooden pier;
I am in my element
Enjoying what is here,
Of sun, surf, and sand….
Francis Cooper – Mac © Feb 2019
I pricked my ears to follow the sound,
As did my son and our puppy hound,
delight of violin in full tune,
Played to setting sun and rising moon!
Winter evening was well underway,
Christmas carol singers in full sway,
Violin was playing the church psalms,
And Beethoven,Elgar, Berg and Brahms.
Mystery player hidden from view,
Three ardent followers, wish he knew,
Our quest to trace the source was in vain,
The flow of music was unrestrained!
A bright full moon but it was still dark,
couple in romance strolling the park,
sound of violin has come to stop,
If not for ducks one can hear pin drop.
In corner of park a wooden bench,
the maestro was here, was my hunch,
Some tell tale signs of food and foot prints,
Other than these there were no more hints!
We returned next week for an encore,
A Christmas cake with thank you decor,
There was no music but silence all the way.
Near the bench, a note:-
“ RIP, In heaven you shall play!”
MM
Menopause Moment
It comes on uninvited
And it doesn't make you excited
Heart flutters ensue
To an almighty hue
Of crimson red
Lighting up your face and head
Next comes the tsunami of sweat
Accompanied by an almighty dread
Will anyone see the tell tale signs
Will they think l’ve been on the wine?
Doctors’ scratch their chins and ponder
While you garble questions and just wonder
Will your brain capsize?
Will you stay alive?
Beneath the bluster and blunder
Which is now your life
Thank God your no ones wife!
So, there is no womb prayer
Just you, pulling out your hair
No soft voice
In the middle of the night
Telling you it will be alright?
Copyright Sinead Looby.
MM
Menopause Moment
It comes on uninvited
And it doesn't make you excited
Heart flutters ensue
To an almighty hue
Of crimson red
Lighting up your face and head
Next comes the tsunami of sweat
Accompanied by an almighty dread
Will anyone see the tell tale signs
Will they think l’ve been on the wine?
Doctors’ scratch their chins and ponder
While you garble questions and just wonder
Will your brain capsize?
Will you stay alive?
Beneath the bluster and blunder
Which is now your life
Thank God your no ones wife!
So, there is no womb prayer
Just you, pulling out your hair
No soft voice
In the middle of the night
Telling you it will be alright?
Copyright
IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE : Part XXXV
IF you pull a long croquet face
While picking your teeth index and thumb over molar
Canines will drip corrosive acids on knuckles and nails
E'en if you lose anonymous self in a crowded alley
If you pull a long twisted itching face
All through childhood while making hay
You risk being stung by bluebottles and fleas
Right where you may not much like 'em to stay
If you pull a long self-conscious face
Guilt straining your under-your-wear during play
Tell-tale signs beyond control those stains on lace
Parents by Law only keep teens so long as they obey
If you pull a long pre-maturé face
E'en a Mahatma Gandhi married at puberté
At 36 assumes Brahmacharya celibate sacrifice
To libido's extra-marital experience falls prey
If you must pull a long pedo-de-filed priestly face
Pull it not on homeless orphan or pious nun gone astray
Tussle all alone the Devil in you from pantry to pillow-case
Or else the Man in Hu-Man would drive the Wo-Man gay
© T. Wignesan - Paris, February 21, 2019
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