????CROWN THE MAJESTIC KING MITCHY????
Sitting at a quaint corner, I instantly viewed Instagram
Seeing a beautiful benevolent babe looking glam.
She's the only true Queen that's crowned King,
Her attitude bling, radiating like a golden spring,
Life's a better place bcos King Mitchy's kindness arose,
Magnificent maiden with a heart that glows.
Kind inquiries kindle her gentle gaze,
Mirthful melodies meet her golden days.
Compassion cascades in her charitable call,
Helping hands heal, alarmingly answering all.
Laughter layers love upon lofty longing lands,
Hopeful hearts hold her outstretched hands.
Philanthropic passion, a persistent plea,
Mitchy is as a melody, a merciful spree.
Blessings bestowed with a boundless beam,
Her golden gestures are a glistening dream.
Youthful yet wise, yielding to your needs,
Wholeheartedly weaving warm-hearted deeds.
Her tale of tenderness is truly a trove.
King Mitchy mirrors merciful & majestic love.
????VICK MANUEL POETRY????
{VMP}
FORM: Rhymes/Alliteration
Copyright ©? 20th August 2025.
My three-year-old son stood next to me
as I watered our garden of flowers
The zinnias nodded their blossoms
As if grateful for garden hose showers
A firework array, was that garden display
Of pinks, yellows, orange,
Purple, red
When my son asked the cutest of
Questions to me
In the darlingest way ever said
As he eyed that large bumbling bee
That he found alarmingly too close to me
Not quite in fear, as its buzzing drew near
And it sampled of pollens so dear
But at his first sight of that yellow bright fuzz
And the loud droning volume of that giant bee's buzz
He just needed to know all was right
He asked
"Mommy? Do humming bee's bite?"
I wake up in a room full of mirrors,
a funhouse of distortion
where reality is blurred.
I gasp, for in one of the mirrors,
I see a young version of me—
rocking and singing a lullaby
to my newborn baby girl,
with a full head of dark hair.
By my side, a little boy with blue eyes and blond hair—
a million-dollar family.
Sighing contently, I hold them close to me.
A muffled sound—sobbing—is heard in the distance,
the sound alarmingly familiar.
The mother sobs uncontrollably,
her graying hair and lines on her face
reveal a much older version of myself,
clutching to her heart
a picture of a beautiful, brown-eyed girl with dimples.
In the mirror, she reads: RIP.
The mirror doesn’t lie.
When something cataclysmic
occurs in our life
when that curved ball is thrown
when belief is suspended
when reality gets warped
when normality
the everyday
is thrown out the window
when it feels
alarmingly
that we have
at a molecular level
been altered
that we are no longer who we were
mere seconds ago
it is then
that we must dig deep
find those hidden reserves
engage that coping mechanism
grit ones teeth
and soldier on
is it not fortuitous
that we come with these skills
this reserve 'chute
granted
our skills are honed and sharpened
by the mere process of being alive
but the seed
that potential to cope
comes standard
it is not an optional extra
an add-on
we are born with the ability
to cope with the cataclysmic
the question is
did the cataclysmic exist
before we strolled into the picture
like wind and rain
growth and decay
or have we created it
all by our very own little selves.
Said the Palestinians
to their Israeli neighbors
singing and dancing
karaoke on the Strip
I wish I knew
how to pursue
dual citizenship
as readily
as you
To which Israelis
responded to their Muslim neighbors
dancing in sacred dervish spirals
with songs of 40 year journeys
into We Haven't a Clue
So what shall we do?
Let's all apply
for dual citizenship
on this EarthTribal Strip
What could our governments say
to deny this sacred integral Way?
Both together
and apart
we know our governors
are not here to be our keepers
of narcissistic
nationalistic
and alarmingly ballistic
defense.
Our empowering folksongs
empathically resonate
with peace and love demands
for compassionate EarthTribal dance
Better religiously together
than disintegrating apart
from our karaoke on the Strip
song and dance togatherers
Descended
from ancient shepherds
dancing through inhaling
and exhaling monthly moonlight
singing under shared story stars
Sacred EarthMothers
unexpectedly
miraculously
emerged from Black Holy Matters
with singing children
and inspirating Sabbath men.
Like art, hope is the cradle of life
with zeal, this cruel world
from frustration, our haunting zones
ours' are tormenting chapters untold
when tomorrow has nothing to offer
while soothing music shadow all the misery
And alarmingly ours to perish
mother nature's angry fumes
her rage great and highly infectious
without hope, fading of tomorrow's blossom
despair in rise....clued
into tomorrow's uncertainty
such haunting, I reluctantly quit
In finality, my pen bleeds
I shall feign the smile...you purport
as I ponder of a blank future, I dare quit
I've heard,
but never experienced,
that cleanliness
performs next to godliness.
I'm looking into a game theory
that mental health
hygiene is also
not not spiritual wealth
co-mediation
Sharing
caring
riding a daily journey
from sacred newborn ideation
to ancient
dusk driven
remediation
of all self-righteousness
other-leftoutedness
felt unclean
unseen
alarmingly mean
Lack of prolifically spiritual
soul-filling
hygiene.
Shakespeare found nothing esthetic about peripatetic
Kazantzakis and Joyce found it maudlin, bathetic
Dickens and Dickinson thought it alarmingly phrenetic
I’d use the word in my poems, frankly it’s asyndetic*
_______________________________________________
*denoting the omission of a conjunction between two parts
of a sentence.
I know, it's going to happen.
Life is going much too smoothly.
The waters are alarmingly calm.
I know white water is just up ahead.
There always has been, always will be.
Then the gray eye of the frothy brink.
I've been through all of this before.
No panic; I have a life-preserving ring.
It'll guide me out of any burning thing.
Into that cool, sapphire pool of tranquility.
Business As Usual
LeftBrain dominance
is fully over-invested
in the highly suspect theory
That Patriarchal/Capitalist monocultural
monotheistic intent
is fundamental to gospel
good news creation stories
and messianic anthro/divine nondualistic narratives
In which Spiritual StraightMen protagonists
outflank
and dualistically outrank
unnatural wicked EarthFeminists.
Have a great birthday, Sister Nitz,
Views alarmingly disappear;
Time to make multimedia blitz
Of teasers for the entire year.
Topic: Birthday of Nitz Antiojo (March 28)
The Munro and Corbett mountain peaks contest
Current events dictates social distancing
Squire Cavendish was expecting some protest
Twenty four paired challengers were competing
Marshalls prepared alerting the contestants
(Isolation bubbles strictly adhered to)
Reiterating the rules and enforcements
Alarmingly, a small protest did ensue
Squire’s bombastic tone and presence did inflame
As an incendiary device would exploded
Worldwide interest in the media game
Above newsworthy helicopters hovered
Now eagerly awaiting developments
Protesters in numbers increasingly spread
Mainly due to many safety infringements
Disappointed challengers away were led
9/28/20
Five words Mountain. Squire. Current. Events. Exploded.
Does
The White People's Republic of America
sound alarmingly familiar
yet utterly
undemocratically wrong
for the United States of Earth?
Constrained by the sober exercise of judgment,
And dignified by deliberation and privacy.
I yanked my soul out of its secret chamber,
And held it to the mirror of my eye.
To see it like a star or moon against the sky,
But it dwindled to alarmingly small dimensions.
Fate had turned and twisted a thousand ways,
From the standpoint of expediency.
Fumbling and stumbling in helpless incapacity,
I'm greeted with an alloyed chagrin and gloom.
Then I heard a wordless voice,
In language terse yet familiar.
It wasn't a loose and otiose statement,
Unaccustomed tears threatened my seared vision,
I'm overshadowed by a fretful anxiety,
By this innocuous thought, I'm skulking beneath life.
But if I shine brighter in life,
Reexamine fate, destiny and my artistic aptitude,
If I fail, die and remain forgotten,
Study the agonies of my conscious failure,
And remember me with this poem.
My eighteen yeared daughter
living and dreaming with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome,
As she grows up and out
hopes to become
"An old princess
with long purple hair
living in a GroupHome."
I'm not sure if this indicates
I did a shockingly good
or alarmingly bad
job as a thirteen-year dad
with positive therapeutic intent.
Until she smiles,
looks up at the blue-grey sky
with unimagined delight.
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