Easeful Poems

Ladies of the Field

I’ve known these ladies of the field as long
as I’ve known the fields and walls of my childhood.
And yet they never did much to turn my head,
maybe once or twice. I never understood

my lack of interest. That was then. This year,
they got my full attention, if only by sheer
force of growth and presence – double in height,
robust and vigorous, nothing like the slight

frail frames they usually show off, and yet
not without that feminine sway and guile that set
them off like well-to-do beach ladies, tall
and easeful in their stride, wearing hats that fall

wide-brimmed like parasols over white faces
and cast down shadows clear to their feet.
So this summer’s growth of Queen-Anne’s lace –
still not my type, but sweet nonetheless.

Raise a Glass to Despair

I am drawn to you as an alcoholic to a glass of whiskey, 
I lift you to my lips taking a simple sip, 
I pour you from the bottle I’ve enclosed you within, 
Without fail,
Another day,
Another drink, 
Why can’t I stop pouring,
Pouring and drinking from your glass?,
I put you in the bottle, 
I expected you to stay there, 
My selfish ways inscribe within, 
Tip the bottle, 
Unscrew the flask, 
Giving hopelessly into your misery, 
You comfort me while you take my life,
You steal me from my body, 
You disconnect me from my conscious mind, 
Who might I call upon to save me from the nothingness?,
No, I am not an alcoholic, 
But as I tip the glass further, 
Your solace becoming my pain,
Raise a glass to despair!,
Raise a glass to easeful torture!, 
No, I am not an alcoholic, 
But I am addicted to the ideals you present, 
Please,
I beg, 
Save me from myself, 
Save me from inside,
Please, 
I beg, 
I do not want to be okay if this is what it means, 
I do not want to be okay if okay belongs in your arms, 
I do not want to be okay, 
I want to survive,
Let me survive.

Glory of God

Sunlight dissolves the shadows, so peaceful
Echoing across the meadows and hills
Singing to the twilight edges who stills
Revealing gentle, silence so easeful

Winds expose the secrets of the morning
As autumn’s glow colors the world in calm
Gifting the whisper of stars through a psalm
Poetries rise from the heart’s adorning

Seekers of grace rush toward light’s soft flow
Listening in earnest to nature’s song
Descants of leaves whose waltz is never wrong
As winds sing and laugh in a voice so slow

Wild impressions who lulling love conveys
Glories of God who will always amaze

Luna Vines

I want a drunk moon
one entirely at home
in a glass of golden wine.

Let evil be forever sober,
wine hydrates reality,
a dead moon bloom's
in small cups of tipsy poetry.

I want to rest my eyes
in a winding river of moonlight,
let the madmen thunder and rail,
my peace booms above
their loudest shouts.

I used to be a tomcat,
I made love to my animal nature,
I used to spit at the moon,
that grey orb so utterly buried
under trash heaps of saccharine lyrics.

Now I am drunk,
for love drinks me down.

Within the velvet closets
of moonlit nights
love comes to me,

then we drink,
to all the easeful drunks,
here on the rim and lip
of paradise.

Tendai - be thankful to God

Concealed within a wistful smile
a mother’s tender tears
fall softly as the dawn appears 
again, across an alien land, so distant
from the soothing comfort
of family and familiar things.
And yet, her sometimes tired eyes
will twinkle oft with mischief and delight
and unexpected laughter.
Tendai’s caring role she sees
within the common plight
of suffering humanity,
with words of comfort,
hope and reassurance.
At testing times of tribulation,
a shining light, her kindly eyes,
bring easeful consolation 
and the possibility 
of dreams come true.

Power Tussle

Would you take a chance with coarse anomy:
A folk with dreams like yours tag an enemy?
A partaker does hurt vibrant economy,
Dropped farms for power: Poorest Agronomy…

Rivals to get rid of with shameful hustles,
Paid full cash silencers who love their rustles:
I’ve long learnt to think of all power tussles
As “For the wrong reasons flexing one’s muscles.”

On the African scene badly burnt car,
Owner politician with its rude scar,
Life savers much afraid he would not go far.
“They might finish him off in some lone bar!”

Times it meant with cash, asking that one step down
But mostly with weapons to forget The Crown,
Bizarre shoot-outs and scuffles in a calm town,
In the end wasting Senators Charles and Brown…

Stark evidence one can’t targets deliver,
His subjects to meet with enclosing river;
One would only be worsening the fever:
The merely interested in Gold and Silver…

Yes, not at all times take one to the Tower,
Sometimes, hands one over to Grave with flower;
From oneself one takes away easeful hour,
A crazy idea: one hour in bower..

Like games greatly checked by youth-crushing age;
One shouldn’t in one’s seventies open the page.

To One No More Lionized

If you were much lionized
Later no more recognized
Or by some men demonized
Would it leave you traumatized,
Judge it a foul play dramatized;
Have the actors stigmatized:
As Satan characterized?

You must not try the dreadful:
To fight them or other frightful!
Put up you should the easeful
That makes painless the painful…

Your arch smiles now the stylized,
Your movement systematized,
Time for Apps digitalized, 
And once again ways modernized…

Autumn Walks

I have loved these evening walks
through smoldering reeks,
ankle deep in haunted litter.
Loved
the flicker of mottled hawks,
flaming across a waterborne sky,
the soft mats of moss upon late shadows,
the silver shimmer of small paw prints
in muddy puddles.
Those sweet smells, the spilled decay
and grace of newly wilted flora,
overripe and yet tingling with scented airs. 
A gilded leafage heaped only to be scattered
by a fresh-faced wind.
Slippery sidewalks painted russet,
the gold vapor of milder sunsets
as an easeful light drips from twig and branch.
Gilded threads of smoke winding through hedgerows,
mist trails sliding under warm breath,
these I have loved.

Dress At Officers Mess

You may any nearby mess
Some tomorrow access
Just to cleanly assess 
Their customary dress …

Still it is an easy guess,
What they wear at officers’ mess:
More of a liberating mufti than less;
The Civilly Military for Easeful Recess …

A body cover to unfailingly bless
But fail to grant “A Dress”,
Because it does slowly impress
And wearer’s skeleton does stress …

But wisely they wear at the mess
What you wash and need not press.

Resistance Before Death

The dying from torture should this resist,
Over the struggle to hang on persist;
His would-be killers punishing badly or a little
-Like glass taking for the still brittle-
With  teeth that still understand ‘How to bite’
And palms over groin he could make ‘very tight’.

This is the striking of balance:
To assassins giving not the cheapest chance
And for their blood-red quest
Forcing them to ascend a steep hill;
No granting of idiots a quarter of easeful rest!
A proof that one’s slaughter goes with a high bill
And complete rejection of one’s easy self sale
Plus torturers’ packaging of a hilarious tale.

Always  pyrrhic victors killers should be made
To sourly tamper with victory from your separated head;
Their speedy lighting of bright festive bonfire
Or for it arranging one too many Michelin tire.

Alone No More

Channels within the windblown grass and contoured
shifting sand, stretch-probing as a spindle tree,
rouse echoing murmurs of the easeful sounds
of solitude, the slumberous sea, and me.
Entranced and mindful on this wild hypnotic shore,
Solitary maybe, and yet, alone no more.

Untimely Whims

Intense and absurd is the ecstatic sorrow of Fall,
Could it be ephemeral craze or the rust within my mind?
Easeful summers and beatific springs placate my angst… 
Balmy feral winters palliate my soul and my sense, yet
Eylul remains the ufindable season of my earthly craze.  
Ruthless is the depth of the iceberg that depletes my sense!
Greenish and yellowish leaves are now under my feet, and 
Estival budding love still haunts my restive, whimsical heart. 

Into love-ish whims I subterfuge blasé of the yesteryears,
Haply my ephemeral insanity becomes his sane lunacy, 
And all that comes along is but proof of humane lucidity.
I soon becomes us and the magical bond dispels my fears. 
Is it a mere reverie or am I back to my olden deferred dreams?
Easeful is the thought of his shady iceberge in the daylight,
Yet the nocturnal darkishness it is not saccharine as it seems,
Still into love-ish whims I subterfuge blasé of lunatic insanity.
 
30/10/2020

Heaven Whispers Her Name

HEAVEN WHISPERS HER NAME

My days of the past
Comes to fore at last
Fulfilling desires of the heart?
The start of a known new path
Promise to keep a gem
I'll make her my emblem.
My Wisdom Sesay seasoning;
Skin glistering, voice blistering,
While I'm listening,
Whistling to the sound jingling.
Your whole thought's underneath my heart
And just like that...
We are gloriously gone,
Media world will be stun.
A journey into ourselves is on, 
Voracious Voluminous appetites,
Overtly Overfeeding tonight,
Heaven whispers in my ears, thrice,
Flashing Genesis 24:15 in my eyes,
Visions sporadically visionize my Rebekah,
Televise my movie, pictures so spectacular,
Heavens whispers in my ears - Wizzy
Then my breathing becomes pacy
Though the weak night gets lazy
But reality I am facing,
My heartbeat sporadically racing,
The happiness of artificial waves,
Numb and insane in my dark caves,
Replaced by the green lights...
That bade me come over to new height,
Together in quickening of release
To leave this weary heart to easeful peace.

VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright© 2017.
Rewritten: 2020.

Reverie

In the throes of madness,
Some have said acuteness of the senses is a level no man can know unless he himself is mad 

A return to instinct allows the senses to guide you through the work that's to be done
A heart broken--- knows how to guide a blade quickly across the wrist
or anothers throat
You sing a 'melodious plot' with "full-throated ease"

but a refrain in the illusion of hope
At the thought of the faked horizon or a child's laughter and we carry on even when we stop in the snow mesmerized by the
sweep of easy wind or downy flake

Conscious of the palsy shake of old men
That allow us to be in love with easeful death.

The whistle of the nightingale or the whisper of the the snowy wind

Or in the end we sing of sunsets or sorrow full well knowing tomorrow 
is not our old friend.

What Love Is

'Tween Sensibilities' Splendor 

You speak adamantly of gentle courage
     and sharing spring's flourished nectar,
the swooning rhythm of swaying trees
   and the easeful breezes that flow
     'tween endearment's sensibilities,
misty moonbows 'neath dusk's stormy skies
     & lavender sunsets amidst rosy horizons,
affectation surging betwixt life's turmoils
     wallowing in self indulgence & indecision,
the harmony of olive branch surrender
    as thrumming heart's string patience,
it was then I comprehended, darkness doesn't
   last a lifetime whence lit by love's fortitude


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