She rummaged in the children's toy box, with a grin,
Found a little tube where sunshine tumbled in.
She spun the colored glass through to amber, gold and bright,
To let every broken feeling borrow some light.
As she turned the tube, dark blue was the hue.
Then yellow skipped and giggled by, changing the view.
Red sulked a while, then orange set it aflame,
And green forgot the reason it felt the same.
She shook the stars; they tumbled into the light.
A little mess of confetti became a small delight.
The gloomy shapes still waited in their place.
But sunshine found a laughing crease across their face.
Some hurts were sharp, as worries rolled around.
Yet every twist showed a different pattern to astound.
With golden surprises dancing through the blue-grays,
As the glass taught her new ways to brighten her days.
So suffering stayed—no trick could make it cease.
But the playful whirl of colors brought some peace.
As she watched, the whole room seemed to brightly glow,
With a child-like spectrum only the children know.
Glory be to God
Who created this beauty ~
yellow coat of fur!
Sometimes the weight of need,
Is just to close my full eyes,
to sit still, outside the storm!
And be washed in secret silence.
in haste for ever boisterous friend in grey coat tapped on my door
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Morning light finds the cracks first~
those rivers mapped by laughter,
by squinting at horizons now behind me.
My knees complain like rusty hinges,
but they still bend.
My hands, spotted with time,
still remember how to write shorthand,
how to cradle a newborn’s head.
I collect aches like souvenirs,
each one a receipt for living~
the hip that remembers the fall,
the shoulder that recalls the weight
of carrying someone else.
The young sprint past me,
their bodies loud with urgency.
I linger by the lilacs,
learning the art of standing still,
the slow art of gathering shadows,
and knowing which ones to lean into,
which ones to outrun.
Aging is marvelous.
Aging is strange.
Aging is wearing a coat
that can’t be returned.
We waited for the coat check
Since our winter garb is bulky
And schlepping it around could make
Us feel a little sulky.
The Met was far from crowded
Yet the line was barely crawling.
We inched along impatiently;
As members, it was galling.
At last we made it to the front;
No claim checks were presented.
Instead, you tapped your number
On a keypad; none dissented.
When we were set to leave,
After a lovely afternoon,
We lined up once again,
Our crawl repeating much too soon.
But as we zipped our jackets up,
I noticed that adjacent
To the line we left was one where
Not one person was impatient.
For it was meant for members,
Which describes our situation.
Had we known about it sooner,
We’d have saved some aggravation.
The Coat of Skins — we borrow here
To keep our Ember warm —
A borrowed House of Breath and Bone
Against the Cosmic Storm —
The Gnostics whisper — not aloud —
For Truth prefers the Shade —
That Light was first — and Matter next —
A Captive — poorly made —
They say the World was wrought by Hands
That never knew the Whole —
A Craftsman blind to Origin —
Who netted up the Soul —
And we — the Spark — in Earthen Wool —
Remember — by a Pain —
A Distant Home — a Purer Air —
Where Knowing is truth Gained —
Salvation is not wrought by Deed —
Nor bought with Dust or Gold —
But waked — when Inner Lamps are lit —
And Secret Names are told —
The Coat will fall — as all things do —
When Light recalls its Own —
And Skin — no longer necessary —
Is gently laid — like Stone.
???MY COAT OF MANY COLOURS???
My coats of many colours,
Drips lots of stripped honours.
Vibrant hues upon my shoulders bright,
A rainbow's splendor, woven with delight.
Each strip is a story, each thread a dream;
A symphony of colours, a heart's theme
In every fold, a memory is inside,
A kaleidoscope of love, side by side.
???VICK MANUEL POETRY???
{VMP}
Copyright ©? 24th September 2025.
(In the opera "La Bohème", the four friends
need money for a medical emergency, so
each is selling-off something precious.)
Listen to me, old friend
of sixteen years, and counting:
it's you who must ascend
- alone - the sacred mountain,
while I stay on the plain.
You know you have my thanks:
whether we'll meet again,
triumphant in the ranks
of the righteous, I don't know.
You never bent your back
to any rich man, though
we often felt the lack
of life-sustaining sous.
These pockets, gaping, worn,
have borne their fill of booze
when we caroused till dawn.
Poets and thinking men
found shelter from the storm
in here. I don't know when
you failed to keep me warm.
Our hands abrade and age
the very book they cherish:
it's time to turn the page,
for even love must perish.
Farewell, you care-worn sleeves,
buttons, I know by heart.
And see, your master grieves,
for now the teardrops start.
dad said buy thick coat
son bought gun so now dad says ~
wear gun and milk cows
Patterning in, bathe in silhouettes of panes,
Vicinate high and low, the yellow gold.
Scrupulating in curtains' gleaming gold,
Freeze the sun in infinitum on floor.
Cold, not so cold, stir the winds - The soul.
Breathe in, my eyes the winds of Oxford.
Freeze, cease to sprint, the time in vicinity
A hop, skip and jump plunge well, to hardcore.
Silences of the grandest melodies, subtle down
There - where is the scholarly cloak inside,
Where - there is a scholar hidden in asylum,
Gleams my dreams in great coat of Oxford.
do you want a dog hair coat
will six pounds a day be enough?
my giant dog sheds so much
you can come to my house and vaccuum
and collect enough to make yourself wall-to-wall carpet
a couch throw, a coat, and a sweater
There will be times that are gloomy
cloud covered in grey
when days are looking dingy
nothings going your way.
Do you rise to the occasion
or fold under the weight
feels like walls are closing in
a psychological state.
Break free from the darkness
and the joy that it taints
better days can appear
with a fresh coat of paint.
The bright sunshine signalled a new
dawn,
Lazily, I stretched and yawned,
Not truly ready to face the day,
As I looked out of my window, my
neighbour shouted, it’s beautiful
today.
On a thin and fragile branch,
I noticed a Robin was resting his
feet,
A charmer he was , and to my eyes,
he was a treat,
His colourful coat was white, brown
and red,
Seeing him made me feel glad I had
gotten out of bed.
With his melodiously sweet trill,
the leaves on the trees seem to
flutter with his song,
Notes rise and fall and with the
gentle breeze, the branches swayed
in a rhythmic dance,
His tune filled the Spring air, and
not long, a female came along,
Witnessing their interactions was a
beautiful moment for me. Sometimes
in life, unexpectedly beautiful things
do happen by chance.
by Zyrool
A silver shield—
not polished,
but burnished with time,
like moonlight caught in stone.
This is not a banner of conquest,
but of endurance.
At its center: a fox,
mid-step, not snarling—
alert, alive,
the patron saint of disappearing
without being lost.
She knows the back ways,
the soft ground,
the difference between retreat
and wisdom.
Beneath her paws:
wild thyme and yarrow,
not roses—never roses.
I want the plants that heal quietly,
that grow in stubborn places,
whose roots remember drought
and bloom anyway.
Two crossed quills above her head:
one black,
one gold.
Words as weapons,
words as balm.
My shield is etched with stories
that cut and comfort both.
Colors?
Deep forest green—
for stillness.
Ink blue—
for the sea I never stop carrying in my chest.
And a single streak of ember orange—
foxfire,
the moment just before change,
or flight,
or truth.
And the motto, curling beneath in worn script:
“Not loud, but lasting.”
Let them come with their noise.
This is the crest of the patient,
the watchers,
the ones who survive
by becoming
exactly themselves.
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