Long Elongating Poems
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Isotopes of a larger part
Extractions or
Variants isolated to its
Purity
Clustered to fuss and
Burst or reburst into a
Larger reaction
Each moment of a second is
Then equal from end to end
Moreso that its stability to
endure can be made safe for
the sake of endurance
To make regular usage of
What could be be
From the position of improvement
Advancing and duplicating what has
Been advanced to create a source of
reliable power, from the simplicity of
Science.
Facts to forward the advancement of
a stable source. Elongating what has been
done to reap the benefits of its possibly.
Fusion to make one second into 60 in a safe
and productive manner!
Every night the moon would shine,
and she would come alive.
The breeze would blow the clouds
away, she stops, drawn to the
moon like a lover whose been
gone so long she almost forgot.
She is in love with the moon
and how it makes her feel.
Sitting, rocking, waiting for
the full moon to come over
the mountains, to give her
energy she can't explain.
Her hair stands on end as
the sun goes down, her
breathing quickens, her heart
races. Like a teenager on her
first date she waits until
she's ready to explode. her
fingernails grow to points, two
then three inches long, extending
her elongating fingers and toes.
She leaves the chair, fearful
she will break her grandmother's
prize piece, and land softly
on all fours in the dirt
below the porch steps.
Her arched back cracks to
life, producing a beautiful
sheen soon covered by
graying hair, then fur.
Warmth in the winter cold
in the Rockies. Grandma's
cabin had been here for
generations passed down as
a safe haven for those who
need a place to change at
full moon. Her clothes were
piled neatly on the porch,
awaiting her return in the
morning. She did not need a
man to define her, she was
a lone wolf, in love with
the moon. But, she was the last,
and tonight she must ensure
the line goes on. She trotted into
the woods, the quietest, most
beautiful wolf in the land.
OLD SCHOOL IS 80
He calls me “new school” with a playful squint,
I call him “old school” out of my instinct.
Sometimes, you'd say, “Back in my days…”
And then you outwit us all in your own classic ways.4
Today you hit eighty, that’s eight decades you hold.
But somehow you wear “old” like a jacket that’s gold.
Old 80 looks fresh, like it just left agedness in a spin,
Age tried to catch up, but it just couldn’t win.8
Your appearance laughs at the years,
Your worries are hushed, no apprehension or tears.
Your stories are long and somehow grow longer,
But your handshake still feels ten decades stronger.¹²
Eighty today? That number is a bit confused.
It thought it was aging you — clearly misused.
Because strength like yours doesn’t wrinkle or fade,
It’s built on hard work and the prayers you’ve laid.¹6
Your jokes still booms like a well-tuned drum,
Your wisdom remains new like jolly-just-come.
You sit me down for a chat that will last
From choices today to stories from the past.²°
If aging were racing, you’d still take first place,
With grace in your stride graciously elongating your days.
So here’s to the man who makes eighty look neat,
Who turned every trial into stepping-stone feet.²4
God bless you, Dad — strong, witty, and cool,
Forever loved, we celebrate the King of Old School.??²6
VICK MANUEL POETRY{VMP}
Thursday 19th February 2026.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Impossible mission to pinpoint present
such fleeting moment instantaneously spent
according to yours truly i.e. this gent
mind boggled, intrigued, stymied...
courtesy unseen minute
(mine hoot, minoot, my newt...) agent
provocateur stealing every precious second,
whether or not satisfactorily spent
time thief absconds with
most treasured commodity
nary tell tale sign,
where he/she went
allegedly, inscrutably, seemingly...
robbing in plain sight fervent
as greased lightning
ramping, stepping, ticking up
blithely skedaddling across firmament
ratcheting frenzied temperament
upon psyche – regarding current
temporary soul searching resident
unstoppably speeding, jetting, barreling...
trigonometrically calculating tangent
severely distorted against
turbulent kaleidoscopic hallucinatory
backdrop – centripetal/centrifugal adjacent
forces compressing body electric
elongating flesh beyond infinity
diaphanous corporeal essence rent
asunder obviously self evident
Ahab bin to theorize
Pequod now to thee extent
overactive imagination lent
allows, enables, and provides
poetic license allotment
extemporizing this entire extent
stretching corpus callosum
to breaking point as well cogent
continuity fractured no different
than usual literary pablum
wariness cautionary brief adage,
when traipsing thru apparent
gobbledygook on par with
puttering around greenacres,
vis vis equivalent
ensnared within wide
webbed whirled sand trap event
chilly eroded Earth's landmasses
made of rocks and minerals
bajillion years metamorphosis refulgent
glistening silicon dioxide
in form of quartz
feldspar and mica supplement
granules ergo timeless saga never ends
or begins analogous
to Möbius strip lambent.
Bundle of rules elongating the short distance between a problem and its solution
Unnecessary layers compulsorily placed on a mounted ladder with very few steps
Road expectedly smooth and direct is created with uneven stones and many bends
Every step is an independent process making the system tiring and liable to corruption
Alternating procedures and changing routes heavily function in the handling of issues
Under these so many ambiguous limbs is the fertile ground to germinate yet more problems
Complication storms out of these processes lined up in a queue with undefined relevance
Rare is the accuracy of timing respected as it is bastardized in five to ten folds
Add-ons a very possible side effect embracing the commotion of the mercy of many hands
Cruel is this system, especially in the 21st century of advancement in data processing
Yet loved by establishments of worlds without regard to maximizing human services.
The time ticks by
As I stare at the clock
Knowing my near future.
Just sitting
Waiting.
No news, no change.
Storms rage,
Confusion, resignation, consternation .
The time seems slower somehow.
Like the whole world still turns but us.
Decisions. Coffee? No coffee?
Who can predict?
People bustle, not knowing, dazed.
Children scream with over tired,
Hot sticky evening air.
All becomes predictable,
We all make a new temporary home here.
As if we are refugees
Clubbed together in our island
Our land of no name
No country.
All set adrift.
Time still ticks by,
Ever slower.
Stretching each second
Elongating the interstitial pauses.
We can do no more.
We eat, drink, shop.
Nothing in those world
Is like an airport delay
There, over the top of that garage, Look!
a magenta-colored cloud
against a clear blue background
And see! It’s head’s like a duck’s crown
its bill pointed, orange
And there! The feathered wings on either side
white and layered. They're real!
It’s not moving either. Not even a millimeter
Like when I was a kid. Suspended in time...
Oh, I feel a slight breeze now
And oy, the duck bill is inching forward
Its bill is losing its sharp point
Its neck elongating
O, please don’t go, my duck.
Ah, but you’re going… going
I am scrolling down hill,
folding the pills,
elongating the tree's
and simplifying the breeze,
I am a song to be played-
earlier than you might say
in the day,
when hearing is a complaint
and danger is delayed,
but you are a spade,
to be wondered and craved,
you are your own way,
with the sing of the slave-
underground-
above the haze,
glazed with the betrayed,
honed in on like waves,
so stubborn your gay-
holding on to the page!
Don't you walk that way!
Troubled little weaver-
always weavin' in and out of the days,
with your face,
and two others that may show you the way.
So...Whenever there is game,
whenever you are just being insane,
two others can ring your ping-
scratch at your lawn,
ease your bickering fawn,
who is ages old-
cranky and yet cold,
shines like the rivers of silver soles,
wasted and bold.
...Blanketing and broad like the system of the slots,
put in a coin so you can jog-
with your eye's,
and with your pogs,
fall to the floor,
while dude ranchers await cry's out the doors,
become single and slower,
dangerous like snow blowers,
manned by cats
with fake joints hangin' in their lips crowin,'
as they are growin,' croppin,'
and sowing,
the stage is set to start goin,'
but you stay all knowin'-
with the people out there- asses a blowin'!
Like the sound of the tick was that on it-
like the leaper out of time was so subordinate,
you know you could have grabbed mine,
you know about other ways to shine,
but still you sit and grind-
sleep and unwind,
base your catches on other famous people's finds...
I don't confide,
I really don't try,
I just hear god and ask about the water in the sky,
why doesn't it come down on African pride?
When they need it most?
When we know 911 proved evil the most...
But sit here and boast
and you'll hear gods jokes-
he's got what a man needs,
he's got you underneath a sheet,
so don't breathe!
Just start running,
got the mustard?
Pray for a plead,
because random people leave
while friends try and greet,
an acre of land with animals and plants couldn't please,
even if they spoke the language, and cured the disease,
sorry if I sound meek-
but pride comes when I'm done writing these...
Focused, concentrating
on some random
but persistent thought
riveted in ruminations
fixed on point and purpose,
ponderings deep and dark
in retrospective scrutiny;
Aged, antiquated,
moments and years,
decades and suddenly a century
passe, slipped into senescence
names, history
lost in time.
Startling, staring, fading away,
hazing in dull images
out of time and out to space,
evanescence, dispersed,
vaporized, evaporated,
lost in the moment,
dematerialized from reality.
Time intervals, stretching, elongating
millennia unrecorded
scratching at eternity,
forever modes, ended
life spans, lifetimes, legacies
names, history, forgotten
in missing time.
Lost like unused syllables in unrhyming words
petals of frilled sorrow drip to the earth from weeping trees,
crying each filigreed petal slowly, one by one,
in cascades of gentle tears to their tender rest,
shaping billowing beds of brightly colored pillows,
until soft breaths of evening breeze exhale long sighs
through longing limbs creating whirlwinds of smiling fragrance
in the fawning dance of each nectarous petal.
Like lover's swirling in life's last dying embrace,
reflections of cold loneliness slip past with each fallen bud.
Soon the flowers will be lost in winter's stark gray advance,
and the smooth bark of the Crepe Myrtle will lie dormant
yearning for the elongating warm caress of Spring,
and its delicate chiffon cloak of humbled innocence,
again hiding its discomfiting gnarled nakedness
behind silken vales of scintillating incandescence.
11/07/15