Have Words Poems | Examples

Walking Away

It’s not easy walking away
Its not harder to feel alone
I have words with no way to say
There is a world and just my home

I did not look back
I did not want to say goodbye
Courage perhaps or wisdom lack
Without words… can I still lie?

Each step… each thought
Brings me closer and further
I’m free yet caught
Was walking away worse or better?

It feels unreal yet solemn
How nothing can become everything
 Can feelings be reasoned?
 When only oneself knows what it means…

Something I wanted to say
Instead… I went home
It’s hard walking away
Easier to just be alone
………….
 Song : Gloomy Day by Hwang Sang Jun

The Punchline

It started off as a domestic
Nothing new in that
With one word borrowing another
The usual case of tit for tat
Men are not so well versed with verbals 
While their better halves have words to burn
Yet her sharp and stinging words
No headway  were making to take him down
Until she threw in the dynamite ,"You're driving me mad!"
An opportunity he should have done better to resist
Fool that he was ,he just could not let his flippant riposte 
Be missed
And out it came, "It's just a short drive."

His convalescence is going well

BLESSING FOR THE WRITERS

This blessing goes out to all the writers out there…
who don’t know where to start.
Who have words that want to be released floating in your heart.

Who feel like you’re on a beach…
and as you look out from where you stand
so many of your words spread out in front of you
like tiny grains of sand.

May you be blessed to start scooping your words into a pail
use a shovel…use your hands…
and don’t stop shoveling until you have enough words
to write what you want to write…
to build your castle in the sand.

I'm a Poet

I'm a poet
Who are you?
Are you a poet, too?
If you are, do you tell?
Or do you keep it a secret?
Do you share your poems?
or do you hide them away?
Do you have words flowing 
in your head and pestering you
until you get them recorded?
If you do, chances are you are 
a poet, even if you don't know it!

Empathy

I might not be a healer, but I do have words—
Comforting words, soothing words,
Perhaps lies,
But certainly not disguise.

If you come to me, I will put on your skin.
I don't claim I feel like you do,
But I will hold your hand and listen to you,
And never pause you until you pause.

When clouds camouflage over your head,
Certainly I will light a candle.
I will scatter clouds with my palm
And never leave you until you leave.

If your stars do not align the way you wish,
I will align myself with you
And wait for your stars to fall in place
And never stop embracing you until you stop.

I only have words

I only have words

Can’t you get me anything from
From my hand, just listen to the words
Comes from my heart, take all to yours
I have just words, you took me to the floor

Loved you, love has not come from you
A heart, sad, happy in yours, kind gone
Mistake, open a heart in your closed one
Hmm, loved love is ice, killed my life

Loved
You
Heart
True
Words

Why Does She Always Have to Cry About it

Sammy’s parents wanted a baby.
He thought it would be a good thing also
until they got a baby.
A wrinkled up old-man-looking screaming wailing baby.
The one they got was a girl, they named it Sheila.
She cried all the time.
At first she sounded like a whimpering mewing baby alley cat.
Her crying got louder, more desperate, and shrill over time
More urgent, more desperate.
People in the grocery store gave them mean looks
that said “Why can’t you keep that thing quiet?”
Sammy wanted them to send it back.
“Babies are never labelled return to sender.”
He was forced to listen to a couple of years of this insane crying.
Why doesn’t she just tell us what she wants?
Why does she always have to CRY about it?
Babies don’t have words yet, his parents told Sammy.
Sammy thought about this for a long time.
When he was a young adult he worked in a daycare center.
He taught the babies sign languages for milk, eat, sleepy, and bored.
After the babies learned the sign, they were less frustrated.
Thus, there was less crying, and the workers had less frazzled nerves.

How do i pretend?

How do I pretend to be
happy when I am sad,
Pretend that my day is 
going well when it is 
bad.

How do i pretend that I
do not know the difference
between the right and wrong,
Pretend that I am strong even 
when i am not.

How do I pretend to smile when
I drown,
Pretend that I do not have words
to say out loud.

How do I pretend that I do not
have a heart of gold?
Something inside of me that never
gets old.
Something inside of me I want 
someone to hold.

Sheila Loves Dancing in the Rain

She grabbed her cat and ran out to dance
The cat was horrified, annoyed, askance!
Why does she do this to me every time?
She loves the rain, to me it is cold and grime.

The cat did not have words, so could not speak
Sheila flung him under her umbrella, he felt bleak.
The rain was pelting and mean that ugly spring day
But Sheila loves the rain, so continued to play.

Poetic Hide and Seek

Are we but dancers on an unlit stage
Disclosing secrets hidden in the angst of now
Revealing the ups and downs of then.
Singing in the choir of the off key
Whistling past punctuations grave yard.
Our words a chant to taunt the demons
Remind them that we are still here
That we have words and are not afraid to use them.

Do we not hide behind, and within
Each metaphoric medley of madness
Bare the essence of an eager soul
In the nakedness of our ramblings?
Children clamoring for attention
Making mud pies, walking through puddles,
Bravely turning off the night light
Yet still afraid of the dark.

But for myself, I warn you, I am here
Within the words I blend together
A guileless garment maker
Obsessed by the texture of the threads
Stitching errant words together
Into this patchwork that is me.
For I am here, peeking from within the fabric,
Modeling each moment on an unlit stage.

Sweet Quintain

Sweet Quintain, sing to me
of poetry and skies of azure blue;
of sea gulls flying free;
of dawn and morning’s dew
and sunshine as it falls with splendor on the sea.

Sweet Quintain, give to me a tune.
Let it be the song of birds
on a gentle day in June.
Let the melody have words
of a poet’s serenade to the golden moon.

Sweet Quintain, sing more serenades.
Sing with the wind’s soft susurration.
Be the breeze dancing through fields and glades.
Never let there be cessation
as water from mountains freshly cascades.

Sweet Quintain, sing in light of day
and serenade me too well past eventide.
Sing even when a cloudburst comes my way,
for beauties of nature everywhere reside.
Be rain or be a hurricane, but let your music stay.

Men Are Made In Tears So Be a Man

MEN ARE MADE IN TEARS SO BE A MAN 
 
This world's cliché says 'tears are not for men'
But if you cry your eyes out now & then,
you are perceived as emotional, feeble or weak,
rather deal with situations even if bleek,
and act critically rather than speak.
Some of our life's theories and reasons 
are invalid and falls short before our eyes,
while some are too machoistically base.
When will you let the water fall ablaze?
And humbly descend from your exalted face?

Men are made in tears so be a man;
Witness the complete cycle of your lifespan.
Shedding a tear doesn't devalue or cost a dim.
I know a lot of us men don't feel the same
We feel running the eyestream is a shame.
In my life, I only have few examples of real men,
certainly not all of the gender that emits semen.

Perspectively, some men hail from different worlds.
The greatest & strongest man against all odds,
broke down and cried...baffling all ye gods.

I have words for you but most importantly, two words:
'Don't forget, "Jesus wept".
And brother, so can you!'


Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright ©? May 2023.

Tribute To Trayanna

Trayanna’s green eyes were enormous and unusual
Bigger than frog eyes, with a touch of gold in the center
Are they abnormal? Someone asked. No they are endearing.
The shade and hue of a Luna moth. I had never seen such eyes.
We usually have words for the unusual but there are no words today.
We are speechless, all of the rest of us have brown eyes.
Trayanna is an unusual addition to our class, something totally new.

I Never Learned To Read

I use my Thesaurus to prop a door open.
As a desk when I write poetry outside.
To lift a two-year-old high enough to reach the table.
You should open it, my eight-year-old grandson suggests.
Why?
It might have words in it and pictures and stuff.
I show him there are no pictures.
“I never learned to read,” I tell him.
Waiting for his logical mind to click in.
He knows that I write.
He gives me a hug.
“I will teach you, Grandma.”
I cannot wait to show him how fast I can learn.

Le Mot Juste

I saw you again last night, real and near and true---
And knew that, if I found The Right Word
(not good words, or convincing words;
only The Right Word would do),
You would turn and see me,
And know, clean and clear,
Like the ringing of a bell,
That though the years have blurred
My face and mind and touch,
Still there within my heart,
I hold you near and well,
More tenderly, I swear,
Than I have words to tell.

Then I woke, and found I was alone,
And The Right Word slipping back,
Away from daylight mind,
Back into the midnight of my soul---

I will find it yet, this I vow---
And if the Universe has truth or heart,
I will be allowed to speak it to you.

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