Long Fantastically Poems
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ALLITERATION ON MY PERSONAL LINES©
Accolades for an accountable and artistic "alien".
Although, adversaries aspire to amplify my Achilles' heel,
Boring born brainless bold bastards
Bombard bonafide boys buddies,
Breathing bad breath after boozing &
Breaking-out a belligerent brawl,
Conforming to congruous conflict, forcefully coming like a comet.
Daring desperate diabolical dare devil,
Determined to destroy the destiny of a dazzling Daystar.
Henceforth, this epigram enunciates in words my endowments & engulf every equivocal expressions...
Fallacious statements breeds fiasco fantastically,
Ferociously making me fastidious about my fiendish friends.
VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright ©2009
Wales to me is people who smile and hug
Demonstrating clear uninhibited affection
Feelings dancing from their eye souls.
Wales to me is verdant meadows of produce
Cows with giant forgiving amber eyes
Nurturers who uplift each other as well as their offspring
Wales to me is homegrown and personal.
Lacy church weddings, grooms with pink cheeks.
Approval of tradition, appreciation of familial ways.
Wales to me is exotic adventure.
Wales to me is travel, and photographic opportunity.
Wales to me is fanciful and fantastically freeing
Julia Ward
Contest: Lyric
Wales to me is Homegrown and Personal
Biological copulation draws Easter egg,
fecund gooey glommed gametes
heralding zygote
(adroit bitcoin currency)
describing extemporaneous fusion
generate hormonal influx
juices kickstarting life manifold
natural occurrence pregnancy quilts
rudimentary secrete tapestry
until vicar wizard yields
zealous adorable biological concatenation,
derivative extrapolated filigreed
Gonads heft, induce jointly knotted linkedin MineCraft
nascent occurrence
presaging quintessential reproduction, sharing third trimester,
umbilical venerated womb
yawping zee amazing baby, credit deoxyribonucleic acid,
enigma fantastically grand
husband injected jetted klatch, leaving microscopic nothings,
opportunistically pierced quarters, readied shutterfly trap,
uterus vibrantly welded
* * * * * * * * *
yoked zappa bun, cooked definitive enchilada,
formula generations hardy
induced jimmied kin, labored maternal newborn, one pricked queue,
randiness spurred testes ubiquitously, voyaged whimpering yelper
thence subjected to the royal treatment
whence reality inundates the full term offspring
upon a lifelong journey (initially as a foreigner sans in utero),
but willfulness viz life source secures survivor
against the pinging peccadilloes
learning by trial and error to iron out kinks
as one among the human league
since the modus operandi to transcend encumbrances
triggers built in impetus
to traverse poet tent shill pitfalls along
space/time continuum trajectory
which adversity only serves to net greater strength
since that instantaneous and spontaneous bitmap
encoded upon conception.
Form:
It wasn’t the life she wanted.
This life drained the light from her eyes,
Turning them to deep gray circles,
Her voice lost its tone,
She lost herself.
Mothering was not a part of the plan.
She was supposed to get out.
Out of the town,
Out of the house,
Out of the state,
Go to school,
Go to college,
Go to work.
Grab the job of her dreams by the reigns,
Ride it into the fantastically detailed future
That she’d been planning since the 6th grade.
A home,
A steadfast group of friends,
Maybe a dog.
But not a kid.
Not a husband.
This was not the plan.
Over the years, she learned to pretend,
If not for the kids, for herself,
For the husband,
That she was happy.
Trapped in this provincial life,
She was happy.
Wake up at 7 a.m.,
Make the bed,
Walk downstairs,
Make coffee,
Make breakfast,
Remake the bed that you forgot to make.
Wake the kids,
Get them ready for school,
Get the keys,
Get in the car,
Get on the road.
Go home.
Sleep because you can never sleep at night,
Trapped in the spiraling paradox
That prances in your mind,
Telling you that this is not your life.
It shouldn’t be.
It can’t be.
At 3:00 p.m.,
Get back in the car,
Get the kids from school,
Get the kids back home,
Get back on the road,
Resist the urge to keep driving
Past the house, into the night,
Never to be seen again.
Resist the urge.
Because you have to.
At 10:00 p.m.,
Make sure the kids are in bed,
Make sure the lights are dimmed,
Make sure the stove and oven are turned off,
Go to your room,
Your husband won’t be home yet,
Not for another 2 hours.
You’ve got time to kill.
Read a book,
Look for flights,
Watch a show,
Cry into your pillow,
Because no one has given you their shoulder
For a very, very long time.
Husband comes home at 12:00 a.m.,
He takes a shower,
Crawls into bed next to you,
You exchange pleasantries,
He turns off the bedside lamp,
Within minutes, he’s asleep.
What to do tonight?
Another successful day,
Set off without a hitch.
Walk back downstairs,
Fold the hampers of laundry,
It’s 3:00 a.m. now,
The kids will be up in 4 hours.
You’ve got time to kill.
Maybe this time,
You and time can trade places.
Maybe this time,
You can keep driving.
Maybe this time,
You can be free.
Maybe, but not today.
My pal, Elsie has the biggest plans, grandiose almost, fantastically fun to hear about.
She is a complete delight to be around, and the clothes, hats, and shoes she wears really shout.
She keeps me in stitches for days on end when she flies in with her long-suffering earl.
She is going to start a blog, paint a best-selling canvas, write a novel, and paint a city mural.
Her terrific thoughts, her enormous dreams, her extraordinary plans somewhat set and well-laid.
Hilarity jumps forth when she comes around, to regale us with stories of her latest escapade.
I cannot wait to see her, to find out what she has actually completed this year, all done.
Although it has been rather tough for her to implement or start a project, she is always great fun.
What about your award-winning sculptures I ask her and your paintings, how are they coming along?
I traded those things in for calligraphy, she informed me, but I am writing a terrific love song.
What about your fantasy novel, are there a few completed chapters that perhaps I could read?
Then she throws back her head, laughing prettily from Accomplishment, her well-decorated white steed.
We wave goodbye, knowing we will have this delightful almost identical conversation next year.
It never ceases to amaze me how close to getting started dear Elsie has almost been near.
Her muse and mine hug tightly, because when we were young girls, they were exceedingly close and tight.
Her enthusiasm is exciting, I admire her determination to make her creations perfectly right.
I am not ready, she tells me. Creating a masterpiece is something that takes time.
Maybe next year, she confides because my productions and creations must be awesomely sublime.
Years of incessant planning have not helped Elsie put pen to paper or get started, it is true.
Three husbands, a two hour a week job and a couple of children have prevented her from a glorious follow- through.
The reason I will never stop loving you
Is not in existence
And will never be in existence
When I said I am crazy about you
I didn't mean if figuratively
I meant it realistically
Your smile drives me crazy
Your eyeballs drive me crazy
Your intellectual sagacity drives me crazy
Your tenacity and perseverance drive me crazy
The fact that you are still here with me despite my flaws drive me crazy
Ajike, your being drives me crazy
When I said I am mad over you
Like, I mean, I am fantastically mad over you
Why?
Baby, you make me happy
You make me feel loved
You make me lively
You make me feel desired
Indeed you are my better half
Because you absolutely complete me
A genuine hero isn't one that's flawless
Arguably not the one garmented with
Absolute forfeits but one who is purely
Accountable in securing relationships
Amiably without trade of another life.
Fantastically feeding through the
Flickering lengths of surfaces
Flawlessly demonstrating, yet exploring the
Fatal ends of the earth
Formulated with his hands.
Firmly confronting unknown demons with
Frictions slipping through the gutters
Flourished and aided by true
Friendship with an unending ink.
Mr. Fantastic.'
Invisibly sewing through the storm
It's amazing how universal laws
Illuminates patterns bearing geniuses.
Intrepidly matched with foxes and foes
Incognito, still dooming through the runs
Inexorable the heiress that jogs through walls
Infallibly without a pause for blockages.
'The Invisible Woman.'
Humbly joining the waves in a path
Haven to show light in reflection of
Hazardous challenges and adventures
Hurtful exposures but the
'Human touch' burns through
Heartily thrives not drowning in power
Havoc stricken but banked on
Hopelessly sticking to what's better than potatoes.
Family!
'The Human Touch.'
The Thing that Grimm's do is
Tactfully take souls to the other world full of
Turbulence but he possesses a crushing strength
Tenaciously draws the souls back to life
Triumphant discoveries without boundaries
Topped against gravity and human deposition
The sailors enemy isn't the dreadful
Tenebrous storms but the ignorance and absence of
Tough likeminds that can generate a tunnel.
'The Thing.'
A fantastic four!
Talk to me now...of day break
Of questing light
The sky
Salted with clouds
crimson with a spectrum of a rainbow at dawn
or
peppered with grey and raindrops
Sugared all
with the seeds of a new day
The question lies ahead
eventually we all must leave
I'm tired
Tired of mossy hills
Tired of rainbows
Spare me your rocks with they're glistening gentle
subtle hues
Spare me your mud brown here
red there
Spare me your ponds
your lily pads
Let me get over your lovely hidden pathways
you weeping willows
Oh please spare me!!!
Let me forget the walkways that stretch out so far
weathered wood and seagrass bound
that far out over the sands bring me
closer and closer
to your wild undulating blue so grey green blue sea
Don't dare me to love the sea anymore
That vast grasping calling tumultuous sea
Let me forget fine golf course grass yards
Forget me flowers
Forget me seeds
Forget me pine needle soft forest floors
and absolutely forsake me tall golden grasses that dip
and yaw in breezes
Forget me English gardens with archways
and ancient swings
with fancies and curiosity
Forget Me All fish ponds and lilypads
Let me forget the taste of oysters
Let me forget caviar on crackers with sour cream
Let me forget the taste of a fantastically season steak
hot dogs and home baked bread
Oh forbid me to remember the smell of a Christmas tree
and apples fresh from the orchards
Or peaches..plums and tomatoes hot from sun
Forbid me to want to water a flower again
Prevent me want to hear the sound of my footfalls
on cobbled paths
Beseech me never to think of salted air
Forbidden to me
to remember
what it was to kiss your lips
caress your every inch of silk
Swim in water
Dive and dip and flip
Never
to fly again when watching a bird
Resent and resist in me
the coo of my morning dove
on the day before her children leave her nest
I will not feel it again...I will not long for it if it is forgotten
I'll be ready to die then
Deny me all I love
Make me blind and mute and helpless and feeble first
That when I die
I die as I came
A stranger
wide eyed and awed
to the glory of life hereafter
Upon the twinkling of silent twilight,
tranquil thoughts set adrift,
infatuated in elysian reflection.
The mind wanders,
observing and listening - roaming;
avoiding confusing crossroads
leading into chimerical phantasms.
Overwhelmed by the darkness,
fervent fingers tremble,
yearning to bleed streams of serenity.
Suppressed soul whispers,
exposing sacred secrets,
releasing the mind from its chains.
Ink flows translating the meraki;
revealing a passionate poetic soul.
Empathetic emotions drain,
yet the soul desires to venture further.
Thirsting to dance forever in euphoric eunoia.
Meraki eruptions have no fear that
each drop may exhaust the pen.
For invictus ink is a valiant virtuoso,
calmly conquering consciousness
to drift towards selcouth land.
Every muse lusts to manifest in meraki,
yet it is no miracle - it's a natural phenomena.
The Silent One
27 November 2017
Meraki: The soul, creativity, or love put into something; the essence of yourself that is put into your work. This Greek word doesn't have an English counterpart.
Chimerical: Created by unchecked inspiration; fantastically visionary or highly improbable.
Elysian: Creative or beautiful; divinely inspired; peaceful and perfect.
Eunoia: Beautiful thinking. Shortest English word that contains all five vowels.
Selcouth: Unfamiliar, rare, strange, and yet marvellous. An Old English word and can be found in Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe from 1814.
Invictus is Latin for “unconquered.
I won't tell you my secret, just teasingly repeat
A host of hints, told by others, if you'll be discreet.
My monikers, plentiful as flowers in a field,
Tell you not that which you're longing...hopes to be revealed.
History books may have reported that I have died,
Except, I'm speaking to you now. Can that be denied?
Come, let me disclose something that may give you a chill.
Old? I was born centuries ago. I'm living still.
Until you know, this gripping mystery prolongs.
Now, know that I wrote arias and English songs.
That's only one of the clever ways I entertain.
Oh, I am a genius. Some say I was insane.
Fantastically, my books show how to defy fate -
Sure, I can create wealth, extend life and levitate.
Travelling far, born of a Transylvanian prince.
Gifted in speech, I'm a learned man, as I evince.
Enigmatic, I may be from Portugal or Spain.
Rarely, did anyone, such grand multitudes contain.
My accomplishments include sciences, arts, and such,
And compared to my learning, nobody knows that much.
In some cafe, in a bar, or on a crowded street -
No one must know of that fine day when we two should meet.