Long Armoury Poems
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I SHOT THE PREACHER MAN™
The David in me shot the Goliath in the PreacherMan.
Arrant debacle of the anointed one
And dark child claiming identity of God's son.
Am just a little boy and not being punitive
But defiantly cantankerous and emotive,
No regret for my actions but now a fugitive,
Fugitive of my own premeditated atrocity
instead of the uproar of the city
Or the thought of the men in black
Even though it cost peace and keeps me on my track.¹°
Couldn't wait to eradicate that unwanted page,
Only the deed can placate a long rage.
Rage of being a molestation victim for years
And I couldn't even confide in my jesty peers.
You were the bully that wouldn't let go
Even many times when I said "No"
You still continued ripping apart my body and soul.
You were a shepherd to me in the sanctuary
But a wolf outside the congregation armoury
To defile me timelessly, ignoring the Law, what an effrontery²°
I should never be an "entrance" for no one,
you caused me pain physically, made me burn.
Sunday morning, on pulpit, you're the "light of the world"
But weekly when Mom leaves me with you for a word,
you're the darkness and fire eating-up my soul.
PreacherMan once said "we'll all reap what we sow".
You taught me about David & Goliath in service
Then, I began seeing you as Goliath, as you stir up malice.
Mom named me David, I was so little at 7.
I imagined how someone like you'll make heaven.
Child molestation wasn't what my parents bargained for.
You've been a thorn in my flesh since 4
Till you orchestrate the truncation of your own life,
leaving behind your innocent children and wife.
So just like David in the Bible I sort bravery,
even without stones, sling or any armoury.
Soliloquizes and quizzed my memory,
"in case he dodges a stone entering his eye socket,
he definitely wouldn't do same for a bullet".
I had no choice since mother wouldn't heed my voice
and father's never around but only sends toys.
The David in me shot the Goliath in the PreacherMan.4²
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright © December 15th, 2021.
A Prophets End to Invasion
They were besotted
And long they stood with their clans men
their adamant frenzy breaking the strain in their eyes
gawping at the infamous injustice done
the dangling figure hung
with loop and gaudy blood
limp in their half seeing light
The uniformed aliens taking a stroll
the curfew bell rang sharp
almost brutal
down the abandoned alleyways of the one time
cornucopia
a dirge is sung
bemoaning their dear sweet concubine
oh where oh where was Columbine
In the hanging square this cringe of faces
milled and cried
show us something
give us cabaret
show us eternity
give to us this monstrosity
Voices in tune with their monotonous isolation
beseeching the crystallized prophets
as they rolled in tanks and armoury
waving the flag of their bedlam
the aliens returning once again
to another hero hung
from the bow of a slender tree
malice aforethought grown to onslaught
on the figure head
choked on his fine cup of blood
A crown of Apes and thorns
Labeled him the shyster
the pseudo man
crying
“don’t touch the sycophant it is taboo
don’t taunt the warrior
the lecher may come for you
don’t dare to look upon him
the dead face of our renaissance”
So the masquerade was done
the Christ is hung
the fable has gone
they are lost in their cybernetic burlesque of confusion
once the satyr made his revelation
but not one of them dared to look upon
the face
of their dead rebellion
Jerusalem, where Jesus went.
Was ruled by heathen hell bent.
Outraged. All England in discontent.
An Army will be sent.
In Jerusalem. The Holy land.
We will stand.
Sons and cash, give your all.
For this project answer the call.
Ships made ready, without stint.
Knights sharpening their swords.
With a glint.
Heavy armoury, shields and lance.
Horses and servants, they advance.
The horses first to die,
The others by and by.
Across the seas to a land of heat.
And desert sand.
Water not to hand.
We went to war. The world saw.
The Lords "WILL" to do.
We are the Knights.
Of the round table.
Fight for God we are able.
Sons of Dukes and Nobles.
The cream of the land.
Defeated, not able to stand.
Many a pampered youth was there.
Never hardship had to bear.
Little did they know, it was a shame.
Fluffed out like a candle flame.
Many a Knight cried.
For his mother as he died.
Armor and shields thrown away.
Too heavy to carry on such a day.
Our Knights fair game.
Helpless and exhausted.
Where they lain.
The Egyptian soldiers slaughtered.
Killing them all in Jerusalem.
.....................................................
Comments...
Every year, Britons sing about this Holy War.
Bring ne my shield of burnished gold.
Bring me my arrows of desire.
And chariot of fire,
I shall not sleep from restless strife.
Nor shall my sword sleep in my arms.
Till we have built Jerusalem.
In Englands green and pleasant land.
.................................................
A TEACHER'S APOLOGY
I know we can talk,
That despite all you'll rise; walk!
This betrayal your eyes display will not shake you
Nor the pain you think I caused break you
I know not why you bore the scourge
Why you lost your courage
Once you had faith
You could move mountains and swerve waters
Once you believed
And you stood tall refusing to waiver or despair
But now you seek solace from the earth
You give the moon and sun your back
How I have wronged you I don't know
I could apologise but no
I will not say a word you won't hear
I will not utter any until you are here
Close to me, facing me
So you can listen, so you can hear me
I have begged, I have asked
Still you deny me your face
You sing in somber tones
Your pitiful lament, this war song
It paints for me your grey hues
Your tormented and bleeding heart
I could give you this chiffon
White like mountain lilies
Soft like a caress...a memory
I could let you cry it all out
And maybe wipe it off with this
And store your pain in my armoury
I want to...
I want to cradle you
I need to hold you tight
Yet like the Egyptian Nile
And the Orange River are we apart
Let this be therefore my demise
That I cannot heal your pain
That I cannot mend your heart
Or wipe your tears
Because as yours weeps
Mine tears apart with every drop
You will shed.
20.03.17
The Lay of Sir Donald
(Or: Le Chanson de Donald)
An orange man – of red and trailing tie,
Small hands, and copious twitter-feed – sing I!
Most staunch ’gainst Saracen and Mede is he,
Bare-armed and ruddy-necked his followers be.
Brightly he barteth, and knows how, full well,
In sev’n-score characters his truth to tell.
Courtly he is to nymphs – yea, most correct –
And any contradictions he’ll reject:
Talk of “ailuric rapture”, he maintains,
Was nothing more than banter between swains.
And though, by direst foe as “dotard” shamed –
By REGAL liege-man “moron”, too, proclaimed –
He’s shunned by ANGELA, the Teuton queen
For policies much nearer black than green,
He’s loved by VIKTOR, chief of Magyar horde,
And (still?) VLADIMIR, Muscovy’s dark lord.
But all now tremble at his reckoning,
In Orient far, with JONG the Hermit King.
Tis hard to know whose head is the more beefy
Or whose hair more eccentric’ly coiffefe.
“Since in ballistics you indulge, and fission,”
Quoth he, “Let us contend in micturition.
My country’s armoury is locked and loaded
To make yours but a wilderness,” he goaded.
You doubt he sets his cap at Tyranny?
That risk of Bloody Warre augmented be?
As well to doubt the POPE’S denomination,
Or Silvan Sites of Ursine Defecation!
Every time and anytime,
i mistakenly delete or loss a poem
that i have sweated so hard to compose
i feel like,
i have lost a golden child,
but after couples of struggling to retrieve back the poem,
from the land of lost poets,
I normally eventually get it back,
this always happens formally abnormally,
that it keeps me wondering,
Why and how come?
And i notice that,
God always purposely makes me to loss or unintentionally delete my poem,
so that I could write it much better,
and it always gets way better.
But the first informal vanishing feelings,
is always so bashing and banishing,
that if one is not wise, pushing and strong,
that would led to the dearth of a new born poem.
Overtime,
I try to quench,
but I can't bench,
for the toughness of my poem,
never let me remain in softness
because it only deletes from the laptop, paper and surface,
But it never deduct nor abort from my brain
It dances continuously,
like rainstorm in my brain,
non-stop, till it is conceived again,
through ink, then it winks happily at me
This makes me feel like a poetic Hero,
who goes to battle with no sharp armoury,
but with a pen, paper and sharp memory,
and still wins the vigorous war,
which blocks the resurrection of his poem and the success of his sharp vision.
KING OF NAPOLI (PT. 2)
Bright Altar of the bloodless sacrifice,
sweatless stains drenched your jerseys.
Which armoury delivers this season's Scudetto?
It's the masked number 9 that emerges our hero!
And summoned the spirit of deep emotion,
from the unknown graves of dwindled passion,
where victory was long gone and finally over.
The aura of late king Diego Armando Maradona
Saturate the entire stadia like the scent of confetti.
Night falls on the celebration in the great city,¹°
Shadowy clouds darkened o’er the helm of Naples,
Wind swaying the trees, branches & vegetables...
The firmament yawned; heaven stript bare,
the spirit of Maradona hovers & fills the air.
The Mountains heard the voicing earthquakes,
travelling through those top towers.
Thunderous voices at the metropolitan
rattled roofless halls of fame of our foreign sultan,
where the portraits, statues & banners of Deigo
Stood high & mighty like the great Armando.²°
The whole of Italy & Earth woke out of their slumber;
A blaze of light between two heavens sets asunder;
The first hero of Napolitans bears down
on the new king Osimhen, & wears him the crown.
All hail the King of Napoli.????²
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Form: Rhymes
Copyright ©? May 2023.
MARRIAGE GOALS
What a colossal list and express phenomenal;
I enlist the daily dose of making her laugh like Hyena,
And evoke unseasonal smile like Harley Quin,
Unleash all romantic poetic armoury on my Queen.
Just like King Solomon, I'll write her classical notes,
Breakfast in bed of nutty pancakes, Ricotta strawberry and oats.
Tease her, not in a rush, till she begins to blush,
And joy starts to torrentially gush...
compliment her till she turns pink
as we skate gleefully on ice rink.
Make love with her mind and soul,
Wise word impartation is the seed I'll sow
until her name changes to Wisdom.
Fulfill our conjugation and exercise marital freedom
Learn a lot from her like my loving mother,
And every potential discord we'll both murder!
As her Bride, I'll Groom her in the way of the Lord,
Fanatically imbibing & feeding positives from my taste bud,
monetise our skills and use all our God-given gifts,
resonate in unbridled sex like freaks in the creeks,
Producing bedroom evidences as we raise our kids, bringing up our seeds even more than I was raised.
And continually, Christ name will only be praised.
????
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Form: Rhyme
Copyright©November2022
When I Google you,
I recognize the struggles and muggles you face,
I recognize the brutalities and the scars from decades of suppression and oppression which you endure;
The broken promises, failings and shortfalls;
I recognize the enormous work and journey ahead;
I see the repulse and self defeatist attitude occasioned
By broken hopes and aspirations;
I recognize the seasons and reasons for the youths failure to thrive,
In the face of monumental battles confronting them daily
When I Google you,
I recognize the unmistakable hurdles, scurdles, shuttles and scuttles;
The suppressed emotions, emissions, missions, visions, and vanquished voices of the voiceless,
The brazen helplessness, hopelessness and long worn faces
Of countless array of seen and unseen battles;
The dwarfed armoury of opportunities occasioned by lack of vision, mission, emotions to thrive, ride and drive
But,
I can also envision:
The salient, but countless unspeakable and unquenchable determination and desire in you;
The urge, surge, splurge, hidden treasures, pleasures, possibilities and the unheralded hope and abilities in humanity!
I AM®
I am
Arthur, Cupid and the edge of a bow
Soldier of 9 lives in this generation of hue
His armoury brandished by men
And sculpted by the One God,
Broken, battered and buried soul
In dismal and dark crypts of life
But leap out of the dungeon of obscurity
To set pace for a long but new voyage.
I am
A train in motion; watch me to catch a glimpse,
I am a word in flight
Write it down quickly for it last
I am a prophesy in season
To come to pass in due course
I am a bubble bustling in a glass
Can you feel the magic?
I am a man in race
You can catch the moment
But not the main man
Catch the benefits of my pain,
My gallantry lore and conferring boons,
My chariot comes but now
Right on the move to a spectacle
You feel the snap wind.
Catch what I leave behind -
My legacy, my story and triumph,
Hear the fading sound
Of the chariot of fire basking away in explosives.
On the move like my fathers before me
Taping from the drip of my crimson river,
Draw the benefit from my predestined existence.
I am
The man that is loosed
Not the man on the loose.
VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright © 2016.