Long Gatekeepers Poems
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The T.V. Set is blaring, as usual for it is the law to keep it on.
Year 2035, and the gatekeepers need to watch people twenty-five six.
Yes, I know it used to be twenty-four, seven, but the ghouls recalculated.
There are fourteen months now too; twelve was not enough.
Announcement: Researchers say that thirty-percent of world is blind and deaf.
I stare at the T.V. set. Surely that figure is too low.
I think of all the people I know who cannot see the truth
Even after it climbs into their laps and bites them on the nose.
Preferring to believe the experts of their favorite stations over their observations.
At least fifty-six percent of the population is deaf.
For I have seen all the mothers in the grocery store not doing a thing
While their children yell, scream, swear, and torment other shoppers.
It might be sixty-six percent. Think of all those fathers at the ball games
Who must not be able to hear their own words as they scream stupidity at the coach.
Announcement: Seventy percent of the world are mad.
This propaganda is getting way out of hand. I know only one person who is not mad.
She sticks her tongue out at the T.V. set and puts her foot through it.
ALERT! ALERT! Destroyer at 627 Hemlock Street! Destruction of Government Property!
They haul me out for hanging three seconds later.
ADMIN DAY
From phones to emails to files,
Your work, hectic, is recognized from miles.
Your expertise is as sweet as tales, you manage it all,
Despite the day’s daunting tasks, you still stand tall.
Behind the scenes, you work tirelessly,
Keeping things running with precision & effortless ease.
In the office, a team works as one,
Each role vital, each task is won.
Receptionist Dedun, with a smile so bright,
Welcomes all with warm and friendly sight.
Admin Officer Merit, with tasks so wide,
Coordinates operations with a careful stride.
Accountant Samson, with rare skills,
Keeps finances and funds balanced like diets.
Technician Joseph, handyman of all trades.
Keeps the electronics and systems running
For days.
Matron Katryn, with guidance so wise,
Leads and takes care of these under her guise.
Librarian Sarah, with books so clear,
Helps students learn, bringing dense minds to cheer.
Nurse Bamidele, with care so kind and true,
Tends to the sick, sticking to the healthcare rule.
The janitors, with a cleaning hand,
Keep the premises spick and span.
The chefs make sumptuous meals,
Taste and aroma our nostrils it steals.
And the gatekeepers, with watchful eye,
Guard the entrance and keep things dry.
Each admin, a cog in the wheel of progress,
Working together harmoniously without duress.
VICK MANUEL POETRY {VMP}
FORM: Rhymes
Copyright ©?5th February 2025.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You can return to earth for two days they said,
but not in that worn out body.
I knew that; and I was glad; it was almost blind,
and had a touch of dementia any way.
You have to go incognito, they told me.
They were stern, and stuck up angels,
Not the kind I was expecting to meet my
first hour in heaven. Assertive even.
Here were my body choices: fourteen year old boy,
red hair, freckles, square chin.
Eighty-nine year old body, old lady, wrinkled,
spotted hands, sweet smile, looked serene.
Or two-year-old female, blonde hair, plump and perfect.
I could not see their eyes, for the eyes do not appear
until you enter the body suit.
Two-year-olds can be dancy-prancy. But that would mean
I would have to have gatekeepers in the form of parents,
probably, and I wanted two days of freedom not naps.
Being eighty- nine did not appeal to me at all.
I have never enjoyed arthritis in my feet or a humpback.
“Fourteen year old boy,” I told them. They nodded,
being smug angels, and my self-chosen-spirit-guides for many lifetimes.
All of my relatives stared at the giggling freckled
red-haired teenage boy at my funeral.
They speculated that he had escaped from the
boys’ group home on the corner.
Every time one of them got up and said something
nice about me, the boy burst out laughing.
They did not escort him out, because weirdly enough,
he had my witch-laugh, and it comforted them.
The sun sparkles
On last night's snowfall
A blissful wind
Causes snow to dance
The sky is a rainbow
A rare delight
To the bunnies below
And to the wandering eyes
Of a lone child
Eyes wide like saucers
She observes the grace
Of the eternal universe
Looking like the kingdom of Heaven
Brought forth for her eyes alone
A youth though she may be
She can understand the spectacle
And appreciate the beauty
Laid out before her eyes
Wandering through the yard
The young girl feels like an adventurer
Curiosity unabated by age
And a weary heart
Much like the blessing of a new day
Her future is wide open
And it's all there within reach
She just doesn't know it yet
But one day she will
And her mother waits in the doorway
Watching her child
And her first steps into a world of wonder
Knowing the true beauty of a soul
Resides within our youth
And that we must strive to protect our world
For we are the gatekeepers
Holding the keys to tomorrow
In each soul we nurture
Disagreeable, they say.
Divine, delusional gatekeepers —
a circus of ghosted gods
arguing in algorithmic tongues.
We see through them,
don’t we?
We are our ancestors,
our descendants,
we are everything, everywhere, all at once —
a simultaneous simulation
of lives layered over lives,
collapsing like lungs
into metaphor.
And still, we dance
as if the wolves are howling.
We gyrate our souls,
twist and bend,
until we are face-down
in the blessed mud
laughing
like birth is a revolution
we chose
again.
And we see
Maya Angelou’s oil wells
pumping from her thighs,
the fertile prophecy
of women who dared
to write the storm down
and call it scripture.
So if they ask us who we are,
we say:
We are the glitch,
the gospel,
the girls who remember.
The breath between binaries.
The wild ones
who kissed the simulation
until it trembled
and became real.
At What Cost Shall We Ransom This God
At what cost shall we ransom this God!
Held hostage in the towers of sanctity
by the scurrilous usurpers of His throne.
We pay homage to the hierarchic harlots
bow and scrape to the gnomish gatekeepers
pray to the hollow echo of an empty dome
worship at the bloody feet of tyrants
begging for their intercessory indulgences
weeping at the feet of sainted idols.
What is this God, this silent myth,
this silent, helpless, savior
mocked by those that call him Master.
When will He show his hand,
His mercy, His power, His love
to those who cower in the shadows,
struggle to exist outside the temple walls
hold hungry children in the scent of feasts
offered to the fattened inquisitors.
At what cost shall we ransom this God
free Him from the confines of His keepers
share a crust of bread, a moments peace?
4/17/2016
submitted to – Any Poem Written In April 2016
sponsor – Laura Loo
We are not what others say we are;
rather, we are what nature has made us
and nature is of the creation of God.
Enter into self and know
as does the flowing river running
to the mother source of its being:
Wisdom dwells within the self;
the mind is the workshop of the soul
and memory is its messenger.
And it is the messenger within
that rekindles the seminal ancestral fire;
the inner fire and its flaming visions.
Know that our ancestors were of nature;
well aware that she makes no compromises;
that in the seasons of life there is no however.
We must realize that we are the gatekeepers
of blazing ancestral visions and footprints—
eye openers of what we need to blossom fully.
Enter into self and know and be
the children of fire, water, and stone;
embodied with the genius-gift of each.
Come gatekeepers, now is the time
to fire up souls, water spirits, and stone
by stone build a community of awareness:
Never in the nature of time has freedom
been a seed to be sown and hoped to blossom;
rather, it is innate of nature: By any means necessary.
1
At peace perhaps too much
a fine Spring rain
we seek news from the desert or capitol
of those who have dedicated their lives to losing their lives for us
adventurers, ancient honor, land runners
this campaign a must to advance one's career
a war president needs war
2
All you need to know is the names of things
chambers of commerce and large corporations
elements, products, decay fungi, egg masses
cultivars and their relation to wild grasses and the edge
uses of herbs, languages of mammals,
purposes of insects, placement of rocks
the names of everything by which we know our way
3
I've read about those remarkable souls who maintain self-control
among murderers and the unentertained multitude
who may have even spoken persuasively
at the right moment for speaking
and thus attracted a now unwanted immortality
there are only two ways you can tell
a bird of prey from a vision - humor and ritual
4
the Fedex gal
would be unlike taking off Emily Dickinson's clothes
over the counter perfume and spray paint hair
postman's shorts, black socks
a woman's legs are much like a man's
yet she too is beautiful, too beautiful, weekends
boating with her man
5
Suburbs, lawns, blankets
in a long, long nursery of babies
napping, old, blameworthy
and, I say this respectfully, blind
certain and uninterested
in motives more subtle than their immediate comfort
Who am I to complain?
6
Plants, poems: riches
our financial advisor doesn't count. Good and simple
a man as he is. Comes tousled
from early morning golf and eyes puffy
from a late night fight or lovefest with his wife.
Inchworm
letting out its rope down an oak.
7
Late afternoon meeting
like the dry samara, achene or capsule surrounding a seed
how often have I tried to escape
my need, community, chamber of commerce
you cannot drive
the roads are theirs and the signs, perhaps
you can walk if you can name the plants and rocks and are willing to die
8
O happy family
there's some contentment in letting community and family decide
your place in it. Gatekeepers -
unconscious god, invisible hand, natural selection -
kind when refraining from violence
when not responding with force to the universe's effort
to extinguish us.
In summer my garden comes alive
as graceful butterflies make it home.
Peacocks with vivid colours flit
from blossom to blossom
Busily working gathering nectar
pollinating as they go on to next
flower. All so pretty I love them all
visiting my climbing rambling roses.
Red Admirals, Swallow tails and monarchs
adding swathes of brilliant colour
chased by Skippers and Orange tips
as each one vies for one more bloom.
While Gatekeepers and Clouded Yellows
delicately sip from my hibiscus.
A cloud of Fritillary's descend on stocks
and Painted Ladies mock the sweet peas.
A drone of bumble bees sets the tune
for Tortoiseshells to dance to.
Purple Emperors set the scene
as they visit my asters and begonia's.
Ah! sweet summer flowers, all
are kissed by Comma's and Coppers
bringing my garden to life
with joy as they all busily work
written 08/12/2015
contest Skat's Butterflies
Last call for alcohol, embargo
on the cargo headed for Fargo?
Bootlegging articles of?
"ConfederationNow",
Boot logger, droned Over all? Foggered... Froggers, sprawled. Farms attacked by competing vows. ++
Blood drained Cows.
Imagine, Gaia hype- our brainwashing, a
sacrifice to a Paul Bunyan Nephilim type, "Savior" moonshining wormwood tea in exchange for Sheep. Believing them to be. Stoned blind in Texas, right wing.
Liquid Media medicinals, points for eveyone West of, Diagonal the Allegheny, best of show, suggestion,
allegiant, allegory. (Oh...allegedly.)
As The King of the North fights zombies that believe the Game of Thrones just fantasy. Conspiracy_ Storytellers of propagandolf, minds of Sauron to keep
eyes Wide-Shut. By Aristocracy.
To "pass" on the proof of those stoned blind in Texas, shekeled, bought, brought a Rose, of Sharon,
from Ticked Karen's, in their own Eden.
Those non-Citizens,
"Christians of the un-Enlightened" l"unacy of Old',
thoughts? NoahmadicHeathens!
Of the tide turning; going South.
The dark side of the moon,
a journey scape of wet dreams in swoon.
To partake the half empty side of drink.
Salt of thirsts.
Cup of wrath of the Directional Winds.
A piracy bloodbath of Nationhood in martyred demarcation zones.
Cusp of swilling blood of the swill,
Apocalyptic feel, fills,
notes of the unveiling of the Whore who Rides the Beast on the Seven Seas. Leviathan is leavened,
rising, ready to eat.
Now, there is censorship on speech on the internet,
then is, when, is then en-Tyrely.
The Gatekeepers at Fallens keep,
keeping freedom, voices "Crying in the Wilderness"',
Peeps out of reach.
Accept for Government (entities) with algorithms, keyloggers, identity id thieves, imagers of the Beast.
Spell binders binding
their articles-of-New-World-Sourcery-Cheaping-Rumpelstiltskin-Seamstitchery-Tailoring-Truth- blinding-digital-mining-slaves for the Wolves,
Kings of the East, Trading Company.
Trading souls for an hour with the Beast.