Broods Poems | Examples

Time was when

Words vouched for my good
Made me sulk, feel very bad
In days of childhood.
Today, things do make me sad
Which, in cool silence I brood.

We call it old age
When we subtract more than add
Things on life’s last page,
Dwell on few days we feel glad,
Days not, in muted hush mad.
_______________________
Tanka (Senryu + couplet) |06.09.2025| childhood, life, old age, brood, bad, good,
Note: An old man broods…

bloodline

bloodline broods begotten bots - banefully believing in brainwashed fibs

an unheard melody

the orphaned child gazed at the moon
consoled not by love from afar
he sat alone, holding a spoon
stark solitude was his soul’s scar

the lamp in the sky has its moods
the orphaned child gazed the moon
when it is pitch dark, his heart broods
callous too seems, the sun at noon

“if God’s real, grant me love’s boon
that tender touch of mother’s kiss”
the orphaned child gazed the moon
“get me out of this dark abyss”

choosing to take all life along
with God he began to commune
his spirit then sang a love song
the orphaned child gazed at the moon

Daffodils

It's the 20th March again, 
The clouds can't hold crystals to rain.

The old well that dwells in woods,
Peacefully humming all broods.

Turning up the level of fears,
Filling itself again with  bitter tears.

Echos of despairing souls that reside,
wretched air that spreads deep in void.

Yet, trying to bury all demons that swells,
And finds a blooming self in gleeful daffodils.

It were you

Wiping own tears who made me smile were you,
Who never let my sorrows pile were you.

In a house haunting where I lived alone,
Who even made loneliness smile were you.  

Few bother broods like me in busy world,
To my life’s lamp who supplied oil were you.

I recall playing as children long back, 
One that let me win with a guile were you. 

And to untidy and dishevelled me,
Tutoring long who gave some style were you.
_________________________
Ghazal |05.03.2025| remember, love

Fickle March

The month of March has many moods;
its days are varied as she broods
which day is warm, which one is cold.
Tween Winter-Spring, she can be bold.

Some days she brings snow full and deep,
and others, like she's fast asleep;
with the warm sun, we are consoled.
Tween Winter-Spring, she can be bold.

She's stuck between two season's clime,
and so to each, she gives her time;
One fading soon, one to unfold.
Tween Winter-Spring, she can be bold.

So we are patient with her whims-
while Winter's ways she slowly trims,
till brand new April joins the fold.
 Tween Winter-Spring, she can be bold.

Life is a window of being

Was, nor will be,
Life, a window is of being,
Perhaps,
One is never sure.

A window,
When looked out, the world unfolds,
Perhaps,
World’s what you make of it.
I look and see a Kadamb tree,
Her leaves flutter
And bathe in winter’s golden sun.
Her lemon-size fruits look inviting,
Which, not but monkeys are biting
Even after they ripen,
Once the bees have enjoyed
Its buds-like flowers. 

I also see a Saptaparni,
A bird on it sings her loneliness
Hiding under its branch
Whilst my old age broods mine. 

All this vision is
Long as you see, no more when not,
The view on this window
Was, nor will be.
Life’s a window of being,
Perhaps,
One is never sure.
________________
Musings |15.01.2025|life, window

WOODY THE PIGEON

Woody the pigeon
Lives in the tree
Can you imagine
Such a glee

A lifetime partner
To share his days
With eggs to father
That his girl layed

Woody the pigeon 
Shared his tree
With beautiful imogen
The girl he needs

The little eggs hatch
Out pops thier chicks
Hunting worms to catch
For his broods fix

Woodys family nest
Up in the tree
Is simply the best
Lifetime for he

Almighty God’s Son

He visited Simon's mother-in-law, who had a fever.
Did he do so because she was kin of his disciple?
The elderly needed care. He knew this as a healer.
Wasn't their psyche more than their physique what made them ill?

A lesion in reason and logic rots the mind, like rust.
Depression, delirium, dementia, and rifts in moods
Loss of autonomy, grief, loneliness, and lack of trust
Optimism fades like a waning moon, and pessimism broods.

He knew these puddled muddles. Was he a psychoanalyst?
How was he able to read each mind like a telepath?
Wasn't he, for-bye, a universal philanthropist?
Was he not the zenith of extraterrestrial math?

Innocence, like crystal clear streams, flooded from his person.
Wasn't he, after all, the Almighty God's precious son?

Lagniappe Of Expression

Evocative lines bring tears to the eyes.
Plethora of metaphors makes men think.
Emollient words soothe someone in his cries.
Furtive reading lets not mind quit and blink.
As the brain broods the troubles that arise,
No way will confidence dwindle or shrink.
Ineffable happiness of the heart
Allows not the sad soul to fall apart.

©? bfa 021024

Go sing should ye savour

Go sing if ye enjoy,
No use your soul to destroy.

River flows as suits her moods,
Sea leaps with waves, never broods, 
None of them ever feels coy,
Go sing if ye enjoy…

Trees sway on wings of fancy,
Dance in utter ecstasy,
Leap, lift up all restrained buoy,
Go sing if ye enjoy…

No use, much walked ways to walk,
Nor in same tired ways to talk,
Watch a child lost with her toy,
Go sing if ye enjoy…

Till ye be in touch with bliss,
Which, a perennial stream is, 
Just find your own mundane joy,  
Go sing if ye enjoy…
_______________________________
Musing |20.01.2024| sing, mood
Poet’s note: One likes it or not, man has to do many things suppressing his inner voice, his mind’s mood. And he often feels like unburdening himself from all such social and practical commitments. Yet, it is not so easy, what so the mood might command. From such predicament is born this poem.

The Loneliest Road Not Traveled

The loneliest road, a path unknown,
Where footprints fade, the seeds unsown.
Amidst the woods, in silent grace,
A solitary journey we all must face.

Beneath the moon's pale, silver light,
The stars above, a quiet night.
In solitude, we find our way,
A road less traveled, come what may.

Through winding lanes and darkened woods,
The loneliest road, where silence broods.
But in this solitude, we will find,
A deeper self, an awakened mind.

The loneliest road, it's not in vain,
For in its silence, we attain,
A strength to tread where others fear,
The road less traveled, crystal clear.

So let us walk with hearts held high,
The loneliest road, beneath the sky.
Embrace the journey, bold and true,
For in its solitude, we are renewed.

Between First Love and True Love

BETWEEN FIRST LOVE & TRUE LOVE
 
They said FIRST LOVE never dies in real life
but TRUE LOVE will undoubtedly bury it alive.
Heart is thorn between Devil & the Deep Bluesea,
Cast out into reality from her world of fancy;
Broods in seclusion without the invitation of brain,
yet maintain status quo & sentiments she'll abstain.
Heart is the stage, platform for lovers & haters; 
First love & True love are the debaters.
The later & former inquire about their deal breakers.
First love or True love, which is better & caters? 

What is true can either come first or last, 
cos true love blosom more than the blast of the past
despite being the initial, genesis, or first,
true love everlastingly quenches the past thirst. 

First love will probably disflower you 
and yet still end-up making you feel blue.
But true love will always stay real & true, 
despite all the turbulence around you, 
y'all will still definitely come through.
First love will never die, and that's true,
but True love will bury it alive regardless of who. 

Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
FORM: Rhymes 
Copyright ©?August 2023.

Tropic Skies

Trouble travels far.
Of its dark cloud
Not one sign, however
Broods here. Ever!

All but wraps and warm
Our minds around
For sea haze, does enhance
Dreamy romance.

The Pontiff and I

The pontiff and I

Finally, the pope left, I saw him leave in a helicopter, dressed
in fetching white, his bishops wore black dresses with red stripes like the Norwegian Gestapo wore during the war.
They say 1.5 million people came to his venues, where did 
pilgrims go for a pee?
It has been hot today, the sun knowing it has nothing to lose
shines with the utmost brutality not taking any prisoner.
Bodies under the trees, in the avenue, neglected old people dying in their beds, their broods, have gone to the beach
The heat makes people egocentric.
The pope said, when in a lyrical mood “he is a surfer riding on a wave of love.” Not bad for an old man about my age.
The vicar of Christ doesn't worry about breakfast tomorrow
still, I think it is a hard life living in a golden fish bowl.

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