Best Vitality Poems
God is the Lord of all humanity,
And the reason for our vitality;
When we ignore Him, there's insanity,
Volcanity, lack of morality,
Senseless brutality, profanity,
That leads mankind towards fatality;
Today, we're lacking in urbanity,
Because of no open mentality.
To trust in riches is inanity.
Believing Christ needs no formality,
He's the Way to heav'n, not mundanity,
Accept it or not, that's reality.
01-24-17
The leaf came down
it came down
it came down
from height of thinnest twig
a fated swan
a fated swan
in youth she bloomed unfurled from sprig
reborn in green esprit of Spring
supple her strength to weather storms
her skin bedewed despite the thirsty sun
and anchored she sailed the winds until
she let go
she let go
she let go
in surrender to November
a Fall star dimmed on season’s stage
a fallen star in dizzy whimsy whirl
ah… Autumn’s strawberry-blonde
a flash of fame while colored flame
but dead to a maple tree
who needs her no longer to win aging’s game
though she loses her dew
she’s alive to herself
as she muses with stream-song chanteuses
she’s alive to herself
while baring the bruises she chooses
she’s alive to herself
accepting her fate to crinkle and crepe
she’s alive to herself
— as I am a l i v e
to myself
The gold of daybreak
Casting light upon the sea
The sound of the surge
And regression of each wave
Restores life and love in me
The scent of the ocean's water
Brings vitality to my mind
How lucky are the fish
Who live there all the time
Today is Wednesday,
and the sun rises with the certainty
of a life half-lived,
a life daring to dance on the edge
without plummeting into the abyss.
I sip my hazelnut coffee,
nutty as my long-gone mother,
pondering the balance between zeal and prudence,
the knife’s edge where dreams and sanity coexist.
In the stillness of dawn,
I hear the grass groan,
pressured by the audacity of dandelions,
their yellow faces turned toward the sky,
defiant, like a heart unafraid to love.
Finite possibilities etched in my brow,
a map of roads taken,
and those feared.
I trace them in the mirror,
wondering if today I’ll find a new path,
or merely circle the familiar.
The radio sings of a world
that sometimes feels distant,
words of number one hits
lost in translation.
Do they know this dance of ours,
the tightrope walk of living fully
without the fall?
My daily poem complete,
ink still drying,
I ask the morning, what mischief shall I seek?
Perhaps I'll flirt with serendipity,
or brush against adventure's hem.
To live to the brink,
is to court the thrill
of the unknown,
to feel the pulse of life in every vein
without succumbing to the siren song
of excess.
Today, I'll waltz with wisdom,
twirl with daring,
find the sweet spot where dreams and reason
meld into a symphony
that is my life,
played out on the strings of possibility.
What mischief shall I seek?
The kind that leaves me breathless,
yet whole,
that whispers of a life lived fully,
a life danced on the brink,
with grace,
with wild, unyielding grace.
I feel and see your love—
how you tend to the world
that too often withholds return—
how even in your own storms
you reach outward,
checking the pulse of others
even as your own pain
pressures in.
Your resilience is not noise,
not the crash of waves,
but the quiet strength
of a butterfly—
purple softness catching light,
wings still fluttering
even when torn by fierce weather.
You remind me
that care is an art form—
in every animal you nurture,
in every friend you hold
from drifting away.
The poet within you,
the self you feel has dimmed,
is still alive—
strengthening others,
strengthening me.
I may not always say it,
but your presence steadies me—
your efforts do not go unseen.
You are valued—deeply—
today and always.
None of you has died—
you live yet still—
your love carried on every flower,
every heart
you land upon.
A man lives and a man dies,
A flame burns and soon flickers out,
And so goes the pattern of vitality.
-Eddie Belcher
Once you were a plundered people,
your ancient culture an excuse
for vainglorious swords to take by force
Yellow gold, Aztec Blue,
that rightfully belonged to you.
Your faces are now sometimes light,
sometimes sombre-
sombre as those hidden tombs
within which glittered eternal wealth,
and memories of doom.
Yes, your skin has the colour of life
as willingly fertile
as cultivated fields,
from which grew golden corn
nurtured, strong,
to be reaped by rights, not wrongs.
And so, they plundered what they could,
but not your hearts, or inner worth.
For here in your lives
are more treasures revealed,
forcibly stolen by strangers' eyes....
Rich thoughts unsold, unbought.
Here is the Blue of the sky,
eternal, untouched.
Here is the colour Blood Red,
precious lives, sacrificed.
Here is bright Yellow of corn, of Inca Gold.
Here is the Green of tiered fields,
yielding life from long ago.
Here is Black of night, protected sleep.
Here is White of eyes, of clouds and cloth.
Here is Pink of sunrise, babies' tongues.
And here is Purple, but where from?
Perhaps it is the colour of Anger, and Passion?
Or the colour of rain clouds,
glazed by the rays of Crimson sun?
Perhaps it is the colour
of victorious hearts-
Rich Red, Royal Blue,
that are now one, have won?
Today, you plunder people's thoughts,
with a heart- held wealth
that can't be bought....
And I must sit here, wistfully
begging for alms from history...
Posted 2017.
VITALITY OF TONGUE
papillae lyrics
sweet, salty, and bitter odes
grammy’s victrola
6/8/2017
Merriam-Webster's definition of "papillae"
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/papilla
Pronounced pa-pill-lee
small bumps on tongue often containing taste buds
MOURNING VITALITY
umbrellas open
black multitudinous sea
dark glasses mask tears
vitality drained too soon
whispers of a well-lived life
could not keep - her smile,
her radiant eyes, cocooned
time still found her tomb
sublime red roses rush in
covering-blush of coffin
8/3/2017
God be praised and thanked for Sis. Vita de Leon's testimony.
Vitality of life everlasting, verily vibrant
Indeed God's gift freely received and imparted
Thankful to optimize gladly, sharing with triumph
Affirming assurance of the Lord, praise-filled always.
Devoted servant* of Christ, trusting Him Daily
Eager to fulfill the Master's will by His enabling
Loving wife, mother, sister, teacher...virtuous lady
Enthusiastic through the Holy Spirit's empowerment
Obedient to the Almighty midst stewardship opportunities
Nurturing along faith-ministry roles, Scripturally nourished.
*Only fear the Lord, and serve him in truth with all your heart: for consider how great things he hath done for you.
Dear Ate Vita,
A very blessed birthday to you. We thank the Lord for your life.
June 15, 2022
VANISHED VITALITY
Vibrant villa then, uninhabited now stands squalid with locked rusted gate
9th November 2016
For One Liner Contest
Sponsored by Rick Parise
Theme- The Rusted Gate
after "Nothing Gold Can Stay" by Robert Frost
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down today.
Nothing gold can stay.
after poem: A Pulse Is Bound To Wane
A pulse is bound to wane,
red rhythm vibes in vein.
A stream-bed’s liquid power
still stirs when mood turns dour.
But beats do follow beats,
like cleats on city streets,
‘til red sun siphons west
throb beneath my breast.
Awakened, I returned. A stream in Spring
to flow and grow on nature’s snow-melt milk.
I came to be of earth and sky; a fling.
My sire, a winter storm. Like liquid silk
emerging, I was born; a water child.
Between two banks I nestled with my dreams
and bloomed a gangly creek ‘til solstice. Wild
I played, not meek but sleek. I crested seams,
a juvenile with snaky curves and speed.
Mid June rebellion, ripples bared, I’d run
as sweet as rum and swelled with rain, (a)greed;
the gasoline with which my wish was spun.
By August dusk, a river woman reigned!
Oh, stars—those studs—did rise, as if ordained.
I don’t know how to negotiate the long steep trail
with hidden scorpions under loose rocks
at home with human muck in a valley existence
strolling upward through a thicket of TV images
politics of glory, garbage and god
the odd arts of money, hierarchy and control
nobody knows who unmakes whom
I don’t know how to follow the ridges
back to the trail and the dead river
but stand for a moment to rub the sand from my feet
before worrying about the lost vitality and fear
of the approaching night and rising smoke
dissolving in the sky or conspiring with elements
hardly in balance but contorting the psyche
I don’t know what is there for me to hope
when the rains rejuvenate and flood both
the repulsive stench and the loss of pathways
linger longer than the flavor of the first drops
under the tree the puddle feeds no sparrows
but algae that couldn’t dry now trap tiny souls
that fail to swell with heaven’s breath
R K Singh
God’s great humility
Drains my mind from worry
Ah, God’s grand modesty
Restrains my poor fury
Is this reality?