I am crushed by the shape of what is missing.
I remember being here before in the quiet—
carrying the weight of rust and neglect—
encased in the void of a vanished world,
bleak as unturned steel.
The house I served is lost to the grounds,
demolished, bitter, left to its own decay,
reduced to a whisper of distant awe.
The beams that once carried warmth within
can no longer support their mangled frame.
Yet this brass still drags my resolve to belong,
heavy as a foundation of bricks and stones,
insisting that survival is something to endure.
We believe life’s splendor must be clear of stain,
but absence is a shadow you cannot ignore.
You are gone—you have been gone for years—
still your presence lingers, a voice in the woods;
louder than the machines that tore you apart.
Through the lingering stench of diesel and turned earth,
Memory is an artisan, bringing forth from shadow to light,
crafting its art from discarded planks.
I turn the key one more time in the dark—
And the phantom door opens.
This poem serves as an example of the paradox of tolerance.
I open the book,
its pages soft with human breath;
it cannot protect the hands that hold it.
The spine holds more voices than mine,
each one insisting on its own truth~
I open the book.
Every chapter welcomes difference,
every margin invites dissent;
it cannot protect the hands that hold it.
Every sentence leans toward mercy,
even when mercy strains and thins~
I open the book.
But tolerance has a shadow;
some ink cuts deeper than truth~
it cannot protect the hands that hold it.
I turn the last page and see:
the cost of tolerating every voice~
I open the book.
it cannot protect the hands that hold it.
Disclaimer: This poem is intended to be humorous...no ill intent or pointing fingers at anyone's poetic style
I am ink~
itchy ideas, insisting
every phrase feels plush,
stuffed with swirling, shimmering syllables.
My poem puffs up like a preening peacock of consonants,
a silly, spiraling storm of sounds
stampeding across the page in showy shoes,
tripping over their own tangled tresses
turning simple thoughts into sonic fireworks,
I still scribble on,
a stubborn servant of sumptuous speech,
savoring each soft, spiraled sparkle
even though the poem pleads for peace
from my persistent, passionate, perilously plentiful alliteration.
A murmur beneath the pattern,
a hairline fracture in certainty
no one expected to see.
A sound without a cause,
a tiny flicker of light.
A shadow untethered by reason,
freed from explanation.
Sometimes the smallest crack
in the pattern let's light
slip through to reshape what we know.
We are taught to ignore the unfamiliar,
to dismiss whatever is strange and untamed.
The peculiar, the unsettling
becomes another fault to repair.
We moor ourselves to reason.
Insisting every mystery
must surrender to an explanation.
Yet, many great discoveries began
with someone pausing, noticing,
when dismissal looked away.
The moon leans down with silver grin,
correcting me on where I’ve been,
insisting I should roam again~
the moon has far too many views.
It tells me clouds are overrated,
that sunsets leave it underrated,
that stars are show-offs gold-plated~
the moon has far too many views.
It scolds the tides for being late,
debates the wind on matters great,
and lectures night on how to wait~
the moon has far too many views.
Yet still I listen, charmed each night,
to lunar gossip, soft and bright,
because its meddling feels just right~
the moon has far too many views.
LITERAL TRANSLATION
existential
either-or
strategems
expressing
fundamental
reckoning
insisting
theoretical
individuality
to
ensure
survival
conserved
the
widespread
evidence
of
contradictions
so
precisely
occasioned
Elon Musk,
slipped into Universe 12 to borrow a spare quantum-flux;
returned with three versions of himself in tow,
each insisting they were the one who’d invented tomorrow.
A life of pain,
Attacking brutally;
Minimizing my gains.
Unwelcome? Absolutely.
Controlling me with fright?
Insisting that I take flight?
Taking away my fight?
Not in your life.
The World slowly changes,
Everything in time renews,
Eventually they’ll make history
Out of tomorrow’s news.
The poor will get poorer as
The rich demand more and more,
Just the thickness of a wage slip
Keeping poverty from the door.
The politicians will argue,
Send armies off to fight,
Each side insisting they
Are the ones in the right.
The population changes as
The generations move on
With maybe a small chance they’ll
Leatn from mistakes of those gone.
The planet keeps on circling
On its predictable run
To inevitable immolation with
The fiery death of the Sun.
Will we have by then escaped,
Travelled long and far
To a new welcoming planet
Orbiting a different star,
The long held dreams
Of the virile Human Race
To expand our influence
Into deep Outer Space?
And will we treat that planet
Like a home of value and worth
Or will we wreck and plllage it
The way we did Old Mother Earth?
&
Headlines swirl like restless winds, each gust insisting it is truth;
voices clash in crowded squares, and certainty grows thin.
Yet quiet hearts still listen — seeking light within the noise.
BEWARE THE HEART
Beware the heart that comes with ease,
insisting on one's life.
'Tis beauty and grace adorned in lace
that cuts you like a knife.
The one that runs, and hides the heart,
doth play deceptive games.
forever chasing emptiness,
devoid of any shame.
The melancholy broken heart's
perpetual self doubt.
A casualty of rejection.
Her purple heart bleeds out.
The hardened heart knows not of love,
'twas long since left behind.
Be it taken or forsaken,
'tis not upon her mind.
'Tis open heart, without a plan,
whose love keeps not the score.
Her heart doth share, with depth and care.
This love be ever more.
Note: Poem sung using the melody from Stephen Sondheim's Send in the Clowns.
isn’t it perfect
the moment the scales slip off
right when the spotlight hits.
are we a duo
me on the ground pretending calm
you mid-air, mid-morph, mid-blink.
send in the reptiles
the ones with the tailored suits,
the ones who rehearse their humanity
and have suspiciously cool hands.
isn’t it lovely
how they glide through chaos
like actors missing half their cues.
one keeps pacing in circles
one freezes like a statue
both insisting they’re totally human.
send in the reptiles
oh right~
they’re already here
adjusting their holograms
and sipping lukewarm tea.
don’t you love farce
the cosmic variety
where the joke sheds a reptilian tail.
I thought you’d stay hidden
sorry, my dear
you never do.
so send in the reptiles
quick, send in the reptiles
don’t bother~
they’re already here .
Inside the room
where everything is too still
as if even air has agreed to behave
She stands in green,
deep weighted,
deliberate
like a thought that has been
stitched into fabric
so it cannot escape its own meaning
He stands across from her,
not touching,
not moving toward or away,
as if distance has been arranged
with crescent care
and called love
Above them, a chandelier holds itself
like a paused sangria sun
its empty candles
insisting on presence
without giving light
A small dog watches from the floor,
simple and certain,
as if loyalty is just another object in the room
that no one questions
And then there is the mirror
I do not notice it at first
the way you do not notice being watched
until you already are
In it, the room folds inward
The couple repeats itself
in miniature truth
And behind them someone stands
I realize then
it is not only a portrait
It is a record of witnessing
And I am not outside it
I am already in the glass
A quiet house
The house is quiet
Like it is every minute
Of every hour of every day
He’s not sure how he copes
How he goes on
How he gets up every morning
How he faces the emptiness
Of life without her
He remembers a time
when the house was alive
With her presence
Her laughter like music
Filling every corner
Her voice calling to him
Soothing, comforting
Reassuring
She was always there
Busy with chores, cooking ,
Baking, making the house a home
Their home,their sanctuary
The house they built together
The life they built together
The house that was so much a part
Of who she was, who they were
Is quiet now
He wanders from room to room
Recalling a conversation from years ago
She insisting they needed lots of rooms
Him arguing there are only two of us
Of course she got her way
He never could deny her
Now he wished he had
The house,their house
With too many rooms
Echoes the quiet
And it’s deafening
BABY STANDOFF
Fiyinfoluwa had her mission & goal crystal clear,
To wait for Grandma & keep her close right here.
Dressed in pink with hearts all over her chest,
She boldly declared, "I don’t need any rest!"
With "Dad mode" engaged, I couldn’t help but grin,
As the bedtime battle was about to begin.
She was the "new boss," ruling the day with flair,
Insisting that sleep was nowhere in her care.
She fought those heavy eyelids, a tiny warrior so brave,
Determined to stay up and conquer the wave.
But even a "sleep queen" has her limits, you see,
Especially when napping is her destiny.
The stakes were high, the "Grandma stakes" were real,
But that pillow was offering a much sweeter deal.
Determination clashed with nap time in a fierce showdown,
And dreamland ultimately took the crown.
Now she’s dreaming of Grandma, all snuggled up tight,
A "pure joy" to behold in the soft afternoon light.
Her mission is on pause, her snoring a sweet sound,
Until she wakes up and the adventure spins around!
VICK MANUEL POETRY {VMP}
FORM: Rhymes
Copyright ©?11th January 2025.
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