Long Frederick Poems
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Enea Gets the Red Hat
Finally, he's getting somewhere.
Fifty years of age and almost crippled,
prematurely aged, but at last,
sweet recognition rains down
on the poet. Kneeling before Calixtus,
he accepts the Cardinal's hat.
Fancy that.
With every triumph, we're swept nearer Hell.
Each anthem that we sing's a kind of knell.
No matter what we get, or grab, or gain,
we're human, and our lot is death and pain.
Both Frederick and Ladislas
had to do a lot of lobbying
(Calixtus was a Borgia, after all:
and family is family.) Por fin,
esta elevado. Behold the scene.
Frederick with his back to us
and Ladislas holding on to him
(shouldn't that be the other way round?)
deserve their pride of place.
The seething swell of humans
swirls around the little altar,
but can't budge it.
The clear-cut marble doesn't give.
What is the painter telling us?
Men move, and flow, and live, and go,
but soon or later, their
energy is spent?
The Church is permanent?
Regard the four main players,
the upper crust of Mankind's many layers,
yet each one a loser clone.
Calixtus took the throne
already old, and singing one stale tune
(and that, corrupt!)
He didn't use a long spoon
when he supped.
There's Frederick, the Emperor,
a joke. Bullied by his minions,
unhappy, hapless, broke.
And Ladislas, a king without a kingdom,
a cock without a crest,
he's Frederick's long-term guest
(another kind of jest).
A prisoner -- or let's say, at home,
he and Frederick make a palindrome:
august additions to this Pleasure Dome.
Enea: worn out, homesick, ill.
Surviving now on sheer will.
Is that Nature's tonsure, or Man's?
He's kept alive by feverish plans
to mount a Great Crusade --
but we all know it won't be made.
Two rigid windows and an altarpiece.
The Trinity? (The painting is the Holy Ghost.)
Or are those plain, framed panes
the Empire and the Papacy?
You think we're reading too much in?
We point you to one subtle artist's touch.
The youth, right-centre, in the azure cloak,
who's smirking at some "only-I-know" joke:
head cocked, as if he's watching all, askance:
he finds the dainty, double-dealing dance
amusing. Isn't he Rafael?
Hatted like some crimson Cardinal,
he's watching how they rise up, how they fall.
He's waiting, calmly, to inherit all.
If Trump wins...rest in peace - Mother of Freedom
Post mortem courtesy
Doctor Demento yielded
Lady Liberty lies slain...
videre licet knocked senseless
from brutal blows upon her crown
simultaneously shouldering existential crisis
triggered nervous breakdown
though rendered mute
sound of silence doth expound.
Forsooth impeachment hearings
rendered him immune
to chastisement, insurrection
he did foment, blithely
skirting impairment appertain
blood on hands of
self important president,
though alcohol he doth abstain,
nonetheless permanent drunken stupor
doth wax and wain
finger of guilt
damaging democracy points
to him as chief villain
groomed since... time immemorial
atavistic primate brain
bathed (courtesy Frederick Christ Trump)
buzzfeeding chosen favored heir
go for broke – as a red badge of courage
bankrupt countless times
and pulled out all stops,
viz unbridled thundering,
espousing philosophy gain
amass wealth, unscrupulous
if necessary where,
might equals right cold play'n
deadly serious game (Life) train
sight squarely and/or roundly
scattered lovely bones
amidst tombstones testimony
incidental secondary fallout main
part and parcel, where legerdemain,
plus art of the deal linkedin
with immeasurable gloating
ego necessary to gain
con fetter writ oligarchy plain
successfully cheating, hocking,
milking, quaffing, and trending,
yielding dynastic rule
trumpeting eternal and carnal
stormy Daniels reign
vaping with wealthy
zealotry (think vain)
at electorate expense
tampering koolaid acid test
courtesy illegals sown GMO grain
colluding when/where possible,
never losing sight regarding
selfish mission to attain
obligatory ideal tyranny
rampantly running roughshod,
no need to explain
writing sleight underhanded profane
antithetical, critical, heretical quatrain
badgering, belittling, besmirching,
bilking, boasting, bragging with disdain
flagrantly flaunting, fleecing,
regarding purported B.S. degree
in economics he did attain
matriculating Wharton School of law,
hmm... methinks he paid
hireling from Ukraine
forever flirting, flouting, and flunking
even basic geography questions
case in point being
where is Drury Lane
additionally, he ain't
no literati familiar
storied quasi fiction Citizen Kane.
In the early Winter morn, in the Seargent's footsteps,
They followed on the burned, barren earth,
A place so strange, but so familiar, he looked around,
A sign lies, on the naked land, "St. George Vill.", it read,
In a frenzy, he wondered at the town that made him,
Now buried in its own grave,
While his Comrades rested their tired legs,
He ran, like a deer from its predator, hither and thither,
"Frederick Stewart" it read on the sign, the house's only identity,
The house looked as if a canvas drenched and stomped,
He looked on, as still as a windless night,
A pat of a small hand, he felt on his thigh, a little boy,
About two, neither a drop fell nor did he smile,
When the world saw two years, the town saw a hundred, he thought,
He embraced the boy, kissed on his cheeks, but,
No cry or laughter was heard, only stillness,
He took the boy inside the gloomy home, if,
It was home anymore, sat at the dining table,
He looked on at the hanging pictures, perhaps,
The only proof of its inhabitants,
In a picture, a boy laughs, on the same table,
A cake infront, as people heard clapping,
He looks at the wide smile of the picture,
And the deafening, loud silence of the boy,
"Are you from around here?", no answers heard,
"What is your name?", silence answered back,
The boy, now descended from his chair, walked,
His eyes towards him, fingers pointing the ground,
A watch fixed with a large button, it seemed,
" A time machine my father made for me",
The watch made him relive those bygone days,
"When you feel afraid, this is your way home"
He remembers his father's words,
A toy it was, now became a window,
Through which whispers could be heard,
Sweet, haunting and lamenting whispers,
But, as if something clicked in him too,
He ran towards the thing, his chair falling in neglect,
He wore the watch and clicked the button frantically,
" WHY DOESN'T IT WORK!?", he cried as two drops rolled down,
The boy as if awoken, now let out a cry,
The silence was finally broken.
HERO DAY
From the depths of history, their stories unfold,
Of black men and women with spirits untold,
In defiance of chains, they rose above,
Their hearts relentless, fueled by love.
African kings and queens, proud and revered,
Adorned with grace, their power endeared,
Leading their people, with wisdom profound,
In the face of oppression, their courage resound.
Through the darkness of the Middle Passage,
They carried hope amidst a barbaric rampage,
Spirits unbowed, though shackled in chains,
They saw the light, as liberation rains.¹²
From Harriet Tubman's guiding light,
To Frederick Douglas, marinating insight,
They fought for justice, their souls ablaze,
Braving dangers, in emancipation's maze.
The echoes of Sojourner's words ring true,
"Am I not a human, deserving rights too?"
Disrupting conventions, they questioned it all,
Their voice a clarion, tearing down walls.²°
Astride the saddle, majestic and strong,
Buffalo Soldiers, their honour belongs,
Protecting the frontier with unyielding might,
They battled adversity and darkness took flight.
In Montgomery, a humble seamstress arose,
Rosa Parks, unwavering, her bravery shows,
With courage on her side, she took her stand,
Reclaiming her dignity, a symbol in her hand.
Martin Luther King Jr., a visionary light,
His dream etched in hearts, day and night,³°
With words as his weapon, love as his shield,
He shattered barriers, equality revealed.
So, let us pay homage to the valiant hearts,
Who bridged the bondage and mount heights
Their heroics celebrated, their stories embraced,
In their triumphs, the spirit of freedom is traced.
"Hero Day" we name it, with honor and cheer,
A dedication to the heroes, far and near,
For their bravery, their triumphs we hail,
In unity, their legacy shall forever prevail.4°
Dedicated to: African-Americans and Africans in diaspora
VICK MANUEL POETRY {VMP}
Copyright ©? November 2023.
(Sir Frederick Treves, Victorian surgeon, has the
following claims to our respect: (1) he discovered
and cared for Joseph Merrick, "The Elephant Man":
(2) He followed the route in Italy of the characters
in Browning's "The Ring & the Book", taking
priceless photos: and many more things!)
The Eloquent Man
Sir Frederick Treves enjoys four claims to fame:
the lifelong friend of Thomas Hardy, who
supped with him in the King’s Arms snug: the name
of Joseph Merrick (Robert Browning, too!)
is intimately linked with his: he’s due
a place in heaven for his healing feats:
and yes, he lived here, on the street of streets.
It’s Dorchester, or Casterbridge to some.
And Treves, a native, knew its ways and whims
as well as Hardy did. When he succumbed
to his appendix, genteel pseudonyms
were dropped. Tom Hardy chose the funeral hymns.
He also honored Treves in gentle rhymes,
to mark his passing, in the London Times.
The wretch named Merrick, or the Elephant Man,
could well have lived his loveless life untended,
had Treves not found him. Merrick’s mortal span
was made more bearable, being befriended
by one of London’s foremost. When it ended,
poor Joseph Merrick, long reviled and scorned,
found home in Wimpole Street, where he was mourned.
King Edward feels a grumble in his tripes,
and sends for Surgeon Treves, the kingdom’s best.
“You mustn’t operate,” the sovereign gripes,
“My coronation’s looming.” “Which seems best,”
asks Treves – “a crowning, or cremation?” Pressed
to give an answer, Edward takes the knife –
and Treves the genius saves his monarch’s life.
The poet Browning wrote some novel verse,
or rather, a verse novel: ring and book,
Italian murder tale. Treves was immersed
in it, obsessed with it, completely hooked:
went off to Tuscany, made notes, and took
some photographs, made sketches, thus preserving
the base of fact. The man defines “deserving”!
Once his brown alpargata shoes trod countless miles,
imagination burst from his vivid, traveler's eyes...
He traversed valleys leading to azure mountains,
and heard a chant sung with vivacious tones.
Like the invaders of the past that built sturdy castles
on rugged hills, he intruded in those ghostly places...
expecting swift lancers with fierce glances ready to attack him,
or take him prisoner and toss him in a dungeon completely dim.
But with his slick tongue, he would kindly ask for a fair trail
and be scolded by the drunken King with the fattest tummy
to explain with a few words his intrusion in that well-guarded territory;
and looking so young and innocent, his plan for deception wouldn't fail!
" Oh, mighty Frederick II...I come in peace and as a conquered native,
I would bow in admiration to be of service to your kingdom,
which extends from Naples to Sicily, your mercy is imperative...
may your soldiers unlock these heavy chains that make me lame!"
The Norman King with the bluest eyes ordered the knights
to free him and waited for words to flow from his mouth with dry lips, " My great
King, I have grown grapes that are so juicy to eat with bread and they make
the most delicious wine to bring merriment to your festive nights!"
" Where's this region you mention with such wonder and delirium?"
With red-inflamed pupils, King Frederick II asked him. And he traveler's deep voice
vibrated with loud excitement , " Into the valley of Baianum!"
" Let me out of this castle and I will show the purple grapes of a farmer's choice!"
" Let him loose!" ordered the tall, fair king. " Give him the fastest horse,
and let him bring me proof of his finding!" The soldiers obeyed with reluctance,
but little trust they showed in him: they assumed he was another well-paid jester,
who performed his comedy well...they knew the cleverness of that young traveler!
We have come a long way we have been fighting for centuries and decades to get
where we are.
Jim Crow and the Segregated south couldn't keep us down.
We fought to be equal by marching the streets of the south all the way to D.C.
Slavery may have tried to keep us down and make us give up.
But we held our heads up high and looked to the sky and Prayed to God to help us.
And he did he saw us through he made us stronger it was another's day journey
and we were glad about it.
My heritage enlightens me it inspires me to be a better person and to be my best.
My culture motivates to want more to educate the younger generation.
From the plantation to the white house we have come a long way.
To see the future through and have a brighter day.
The south thought they had us bound but they were wrong.
The Lord knew what he had in store for us all along.
He showed us the light............
And kept us through the night.
People like the Reverend Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson are keeping the legacy
alive .
By making sure that we know our rights and get the respect we deserve.
I am enlightened by what Martin Luther, Malcolm X and Frederick Douglass did.
They were motivated even though they came from different backgrounds.
My ancestors pulled through so I could see something unique and divine.
Segregation turned into intergration Jim Crow evolved into the background paving
the way for Barack Obama to become president.
If only Jim Crow knew he paved the way for civil rights.
For marches upon Washington D.C. and for Lunch Counter Sit-ins.
All those hymns and Justice he paved the way for Rosa Parks to say enough is
enough.
To not give up her seat and to be treated as equal citizens.
My heritage and my culture breathes within me and I must keep the legacy going
strong.
All my days long.
Form:
Forsooth impeachment hearings appertain
blood on hands of
self important president,
though alcohol he doth abstain,
nonetheless permanent drunken stupor
doth wax and wain
finger of guilt
damaging democracy points
to him as chief villain
groomed since... time immemorial
atavistic primate brain
bathed (courtesy Frederick Christ Trump)
buzzfeeding chosen favored heir
go for broke - bankrupt countless times
and pulled out all stops,
viz unbridled espousing philosophy gain
amass wealth, unscrupulous
if necessary where,
might equals right play'n
deadly serious game (Life) train
sight squarely and/or roundly
scattered lovely bones
amidst tombstones testimony
incidental secondary fallout main
part and parcel, where legerdemain,
plus art of the deal linkedin
with immeasurable gloating
ego necessary to gain
con fetter writ oligarchy plain
successfully cheating, hocking,
milking, quaffing, and trending,
yielding dynastic rule
trumpeting eternal stormy reign
vaping with wealthy
zealotry (think vain)
at electorate expense
tampering koolaid acid test
courtesy illegals sown GMO grain
colluding when/where possible,
never losing sight regarding
selfish mission to attain
obligatory ideal tyranny
rampantly running roughshod,
no need to explain
writing sleight underhanded profane
antithetical, critical, heretical quatrain
badgering, belittling, besmirching,
bilking, boasting, bragging with disdain
flagrantly flaunting, fleecing,
regarding purported B.S. degree
in economics he did attain
matriculating Wharton School of law,
hmm... methinks he paid
hirling from Ukraine
forever flirting, flouting, and flunking
even basic geography questions
case in point being where is Drury Lane
additionally, he ain't no literati familiar
storied quasi fiction Citizen Kane.
(Charles Philip Arthur George - b. 14 November 1948)
I had a cousin called Charles, said Aunty Olive.
Nice young man. That's him on our TV.
That's not cousin: it's King, said Aunty Lucy. It's King Charles.
Now watch it all on this TV. It's a TV, Olive, a TV.
It's nineteen fifty-three, isn't it? asked Aunty Olive.
I remember Victoria. There she is.
She's dead, said Aunty Lucy. And you meant Elizabeth. She's gone, too.
Now look at those oils. They're from the Mount of Olives.
Very posh, said Aunty Elsie. Olives.
Nothing to do with Aunty Olive though - she's here, right here. Ha-ha!
Do be quiet, said Aunty Olive. We're all different olives. Ha-ha!
And this boy is Prince Charles. Prince Charles.
Prince Harry, Olive, Aunty Elsie corrected. Not Charles.
Harry's the King's second son. That red-headed one.
Now, said Aunty Lucy, you must have heard of this chrism oil on this TV?
Oils of sesame, rose, jasmine, cinnamon.
Oh, yes, said Aunty Elsie. I've heard of them.
Neroli, too, and that benzoin, amber and orange blossom.
Oh, you do show off, our Elsie, said Aunty Olive.
We're not that Mr Shakespeare's three witches, you know!
But look who's here, Aunty Olive added:
That Prince What's His Name chap, that Princess royal.
Yes, said Aunty Elsie: Duke of Gloucester, Viscount Linley,
Prince George - that nice boy - and Princess Charlotte, it never stops.
And nor will this TV show, said Aunty Olive.
So let's watch this King George, er, Frederick, er . . .
Charles! Aunty Lucy bellowed.
Charles! Charles! Charles! Charles! Charles!
(6 May 2003)
(You may wish to see also "Trooping the Colour" of June 2022 and "Obsequies for a Queen" of September 2022; and Elsie appears also in "Aunty Elsie's Bathroom" and "A Rubbing of Hands")
Reprehensible Savagery ©
'Pon reading tragic headline...,
aye experienced grief alone,
no matter the killer (Chris Watts,
thirty-three years
of Frederick, Colorado) unknown
to me, the sheer brutality,
whereat he killed Shanann Watts,
Bella and Celeste,
his once adorably beautiful,
now ceased wife
and daughters ages thirty four,
four, and three respectively
(purportedly via strangulation)
reflexively did i groan
particularly, the propensity to kill
with in sinew weighted bone
times gone by,
where expletive laced epithets
incessantly did drone
nearly activating trip wires,
a blood dripping knife,
would be shown
to police, unless...I took my life,
cuz immediate regret would well up
resulting with an agonizing moan...
hence after perusing morbid
(somewhat inexplicably fascinating)
screaming tragedy ado
admit sadness overtook this chap,
what wrought motive,
(albeit premeditated)
for him to construe
such an atrocious, ferocious,
heinous, et cetera grew
some crime toward innocent wife
(she supposedly knew)
intuitively felt and possibly
foresaw the slew
how her life (a grotesque
mass square aid )
would meet one gross violent death
intimating marriage frayed
ranking as "FAKE,"
or Eff for failing grade
yet tidbits publicized twas shaky match
from get go, no heaven made
nor wedded bliss -
her precious life paid
as well two preschoolers
(cute as a button),
and expectant third progeny (male fetus)
existence extinguished by, "killer"
the husband, who went
into a deadly tie raid
now guilt upon
his conscious heavily weighed.