illusion of a palmful of pills and confirmation clicks for the make-believe bliss
leave a mocking kiss on my delusional cheeks
smile for the lover's hiss because everybody sleeps
at the point the lies will blow out of your lips
then he stopped caring without an early notice
dry drawn hearts and unpaid fees
forever comes a long road, difficult to accomplish
if you are to stay, your soul's to be vanished.
Joan Miro of Brcelona
a very individual personna
His 'Red Disk' * from ninteen-sixty
saturated poetic symbolist artistry
The tired soul,
that exerts energy like wildfire,
preempting dark truths of this world,
God questioned of His fairness
The one that lives in assured hope,
Who sees the world's beauty
Beyond its messy evils—
She sings the Father's dreams!
And the moderators—
The ones in the middle—
They can taste the dark and light,
Always chasing infallibility
We need all of these souls,
To unite in their perspectives,
Growing and rising for the other,
To learn to love each other
2.19.20
Note: In this world, we may very well know or run into people with altogether different perspectives - we can find beauty in our differences. For those that don't believe in God or higher power for instance, we can learn how to question things more, and from those that do, we can learn the beauty and value of hope...and to those who are in the middle, we can learn how to be more open minded and levelheaded. Just some thoughts going through my mind... Thank you for taking the time out of your day/evening to read this poem.
Love,
Laura
sometimes punctured passion's bruised blank:
bounty biddings could trace torn tracks
syllabic silhouettes sighing
dark dribbles - spelled sway of motive
fostered feelings foiling
porous pledges poring fractures
perforated pencil moaning
voluptuous sketches sans vying
masticated mind's tamed template
confetti of canvas cruise crave
gaunt geulgram eerie actions etched
moistened mosaic crumbling down crest
passion ain't plea for addiction:
It's a page you sketch choiced motion.
'20:06:12:10:33
Note: of pored passion.
Dreams,
There you were again
in front of me, or was it behind
pressing in, I pressing back
no drifting off this time
we were still but still not still
I stirred, you drank
we bled, then sank
me into to you
a kaleidescope of colour
caressing each tiny bit
you bit and I chewed
on ever daring thought
I pressed deeper and pursued
you whispered
I love you
there was no need to go much further
for we were here
not frightened by the bear
or by the wolf
thru the forest we disappeared
eating morels and making love
IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE : Part XIX
IF you pull a long plucky face
Even when I-Ee-You let you have your way
Placed no impediment for the divorce
Let you keep key to backstop exit doorway
You yet keep pulling that long stubborn face
Yes you want out when I want you to stay
House in utter disorder your comeuppance
Mary Queen of Scots no tough Liz will obey
If you keep pulling that long war-weary face
What must I do or say your fears to allay
The fault lies squarely on Henry the VIII's mace
Even Papal Borgias did male heirs coolly lay
Yet you keep pulling that long staunch face
Again and again for you Excommunication I delay
You want both : eat cake while pulling a long face
Even Luther would think twice such customs waylay
So if you must pull a long navel face
Build yourself a Wall right round : call it Isles of May
Expel your Blacks and Asians born with jus soli grace
Turn Old Vic plays into Tower Terror bloody display
© T. Wignesan - Paris, January 17, 2019
IF ever I had a country : XIX - XX
XIX
If ever I had a country
And if ever I were the Minister of Industry
I'd put a stop to the production of machines that disturb the peace
Electric-drillers motor-bikes clanking street-cars trains infested with fleas
Exile all Formula One champions to Singapore and Monaco
Where only the reeking rich besides you-know-who go
That is, if ever I were the Minister of Industry
And even if I never ever had no country
XX
If ever I had a country
And if ever I were the Minister of Technology
I'd clamp huge fines on manufacturers of machines without silencers
Banish all noise-making inventors wifeless to the Antartica's fastnesses
Lock-up for life all architects and engineers who build tenement-flat cities
With walls and floors so paper-thin to permit all kinds of sleepless atrocities
That is, if ever I were the Minister of Technology
And even if I never ever had no country
© T. Wignesan - Paris, July 8, 2018
SONNET XIX
In You I’ve Come to Thrive
Into the Race of Life
Innocent we came, Pure was our Heart
But I’ve found Myself on this Track
Track so Crooked and Compromised, the Vices of Nations
All over My Dreams are the G8s and 20s, the World Powers
Indeed, the Grass looks greener on the other side
But on this Track Lord, Why Me, Why Here?
The Potter, we are told the Clay doesn’t question
Vile is our Track, the Country of Our Birth
But, Like the Rose, the Cactus and the Crown of thorns
My Character I’ll uphold, to Dignity I’ll cling and to Prosper I’m Resolved
I Pledge to Nigeria My Country
In You I’ve Come to Thrive
So help Me Lord.
@APRIL 2017/©M.H.O.G Unveiled
This is meant to be read with a French accent to aid the rhyme scheme:
WikiLeaks has tapes with Assange
Where Donald asks Vlad to arrange
More Russian hookers
Who are the best lookers
To pee and tint Trump’s hair orange
Author's note: His die hard supporters should be required to die their hair orange too. At least that would be funny.
IF I were
a broken soul
who could mend me?
The cobbler down the road?
With his crafty skills and many tools,
the awl or maybe stretching tool?
He surely would know
-- and should I go?
My shoes, so worn but my soul so full
of these empty holes!
My Cobbler, sir!
Repair my soul,insufferably
i plead!
:: ~~ ::
IF I were
a broken soul
who could mend me?
The cobbler down the road?
With his crafty skills and many tools,
the awl or maybe stretching tool?
He surely would know
-- and should I go?
My shoes, so worn but my soul so full
of these empty holes!
My Cobbler, sir!
Repair my soul,insufferably.
I plead!
::12-24-2013::
An array of flavor
Paints our summer scene
With the striking colours
That in time the two of us
Like fawns had grown to cherish
Aristocratic and original
Was the infinite portrait
A stony gut mi come from
Long march through the bruising night
Vex in mi soul without rum
Me in dis Morant Bay bright
Deh yah since broad day mek it lights
To seh me is man fe mi rights
A stony gut mi come from
Dry dust and parched pass of bush
Hungry gut and idle thumb
Custos and Governor crush
Big dream of freedom from wi doubt
Nobody nuh hear so-so mouth
A stony gut mi come from
God boned and God hearted mad
Load wi up like Abraham
Nah tun back long faced nor sad
Every man must tek him place
In de fight dest'ny cum face.
A stony gut mi come from
Mi only want de queen know
No more thicket full wid ram
Nuh suffice de wicked blow
De colony a deal wi
De colony a steal wi
Heng mi good and heng mi high
Dis country gwine bruk weh sah
Independent like the sky
Stony gut blood nah guh dry
Till crown and colony gone
Bring Jamaica betta dawn
Sir –
More epistles are waiting:
Redress the truck-pusher first
Before speeching at the truck!
Sir –
Excursions are forced for a lull
Into further excursions
Coaxed by the vicar’s levity!
More epistles are waiting:
Addressed to the strong sister
Whose redsear in a nurture crypt
Marked a new devotion to the deity.