Long Snoozes Poems
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Midnight lavender echoes whisper,
As the song of the rooster fades.
Mauve tackles the sky with a blush,
Curly coral clouds are dressed in buffed bronze shades.
Ebony snoozes in the round,
As the moon takes center stage.
Stars twinkle as diamonds in the sky,
And the night is peaceful page.
In the nocturnal retreat,
Nature's symphony plays on.
The rustling of leaves in the breeze,
And the distant hoot of an owl's song.
The world is quiet and still,
As if holding its breath in awe.
And in this tranquil moment,
All worries and fears withdraw.
In the nocturnal retreat,
There is a sense of calm and peace.
A reminder that in the darkness,
There is still beauty and release.
June 06, 2023
May all sacred,
but not quite omnipotent,
fathers learn this day
as we impatiently correct
our stress-disordered sons
That respect is earned,
so maybe disrespect is too
positive and negative layered
for and against authority
for and sometimes restlessly against
repeating Business As Usual
white middle-class dadisms:
You snooze
you lose
May apply to your lethargic
chronically anxious
thuggish
couch-surfing
cannabis-fed son
And yet feels counter-intuitive
for babies
and us great grandads
who need our outside rest
away from commercial
too lit up
and loud
and relentlessly plastic
inhumane degradations
In such a rabidly anxious hurry
to wait for inevitable pandemics
and genocide,
floods
hurricanes
tsunamis
forest fires
drought
dry river beds
famine
insomnia
rabidity
insurance company bankruptcy
government balkanization
supremacist tribalism
Silent self-medicating snoozes
feels like a healthy alternative to:
capitalist narcissism
anthro-supreme monotheism
monoculturing nationalism
painful survivalist isolation
demented diseases
species extinctions
self v other criminalizations
weaponizations
May feel like hoarding safety
for defense-oriented males
on a bad day
in a depressing moment
Become
yackity yack disrespectful
feeling entitled to rightwing exclusively define
"real [unwoke narcissistic] men."
Yet quietly hiding
under these sacredly respected
and secular unrespected unsuspecting layers
of diverse manhood hues and warring cues
lie traumatizing patriarchal cultures.
Capital co-invested resilient climates
prefer cooperatively active integrity
over passive faith-based respect
and dramatically traumatic disrespect
and unenlightened
stress-triggered verbal unrespect
accelerating competitions,
dis-integrity
unhealthy desecrating excommunications.
Consecrating sacred solidarity feelings
learned today
converge synergetic need/want supportive
resonant polyvagal
resilient communication systems
searching for win/win reconnections
Even when sometimes disrespectfully correcting
my pre- and post-traumatic
stress disordered father
son.
I simply find out how to get two hours of sleep.
A walled bastion around your neck is steep.
Elitists commend this moderate landmark.
While visiting vacationers all around the park.
Here's the way your body will in general look.
Arms are stone squares stained with a nook.
A fleece tee lands on the body with a thud.
Despite that, late spring clothing is very scud.
They linger the same as wet palm fronds.
To the path, skirting the drain's ponds
Your toe pain is a metaphor for it anyway.
I squirreled away in a pair of boots to stay.
On the road, the eyelids are shovels.
The white line devours the car's labels.
Written: November 14, 2021
~
If I gave you my heart on a big silver platter
would you sit with me here at the edge of the moon
Arranging the stars in a musical pattern
singing along as they whistle their tune
Then could we climb to the top of the tower
counting each step that we touched as we rose
Looking out over the valley in slumber
trying to guess every dream that they chose
Maybe then sail on an ocean of petals
riding each wave made of marigold leaves
Dropping our anchor just next to the garden
tied to a web that an old spider weaves
Or we might pick up a brush filled with laughter
painting a kite on the chuckling skies
Run with the string as a masterpiece follows
chasing a tail laced with blue butterflies
Kiss in a rainstorm of umbrella whispers
splashing in puddles reflecting your smile
Wake up the sun as it snoozes till lunchtime
rest in the shade holding hands for a while
If I gave you my heart on a big silver platter
showing you life is a beautiful view
Promising all you could ever imagine
would you give your heart on a big silver platter… too
~
I sit here relishing
a custard-filled
and chocolate-topped
choux bun.
If I had a trumpet
I’d surely blow it.
It seems that I’m
“An Emerging Poet”
and, icing on the cake,
I’ve “got potential”.
Imagine my elation
at such an unexpected
elevation. My many years
of scribbling, so long
unheralded, unheard,
pleasing but me and me alone,
and now at last the gods atone
for past disdain
and disappointment.
Yet even as I contemplate
my new persona, I surely know
a day of reckoning awaits.
In old age now, my words
grow trite and rusty.
I fear that, sitting here,
awaiting inspiration
for yet another new creation,
my rhyming days are almost done
and, truth be told, I’d rather have
another deliciously inspiring bun,
to be followed by, maybe, just perhaps,
another of my afternoon naps.
I’m moving down a forest trail,
wooden canyon on my right side,
above, on thermals, raptors glide,
always inspires without fail.
I hear a rustle before me,
and wonder just who that could be?
Perhaps it is an Indian,
face painted, war club on his back,
looking down at the dirt track,
the path taken by his foemen,
they took his woman in a raid,
his bow will flash, and they will pay…
Maybe it’s a militiaman,
on the lookout for that same brave,
the British stirred them to a rage,
bribed them to devastate the land,
dirty tricorn and old musket,
but he’s rarely had to use it…
Or could it be a long-hunter,
clad in leather, fringe, and fur hat,
rifle and necessary bag,
seeing it the duff is disturbed,
tracking an elk across the hills,
hoping tonight he’ll eat his fill…
Perhaps it is a pioneer,
just passing through on his way west,
his only clothes are on his chest,
his destination isn’t near,
looking for land that he can farm,
clear it with just strength of arm…
Maybe it is a lumberjack,
timber-cruising for trees to fell,
which ones to cut, his eyes can tell,
some of them broader than his back,
snaps is suspenders on his plaid,
they’ll have work for all of the labs…
Or a uniformed park ranger,
tired from long miles on his feet,
these winding trails his daily beat,
always looking out for danger,
knowing poachers frequent this place,
they’ll pay the price for unfair play…
It could be a tourist family,
father wrangling eager kids,
who dash about (like he once did!),
so many things they want to see,
his wife carries the little one
who snoozes in the mid-day sun…
Though it could be some teenager,
even now she’s glued to her phone,
why did she even leave her home?
Takes selfies to show off later,
Is she awed by the canyon’s drop?
or is it just another prop…
But it is none on these things, no,
it is an ambling black bear,
we’ve caught each other unaware,
neither seems to know where to go,
He’s as surprised by this as me,
was he also caught up in daydream?
Mr Ragged 2024
The unsteady slow winter moon,
trudges towards a freezing night;
riding on winds back,of shadows feint,
blowing out the days diminishing light,
It is !
A pencil sketch in many pleasant hues
sharp strapped; as a barbers razor,
lined out,in a distant vanish point,
cloudless,pained in a subdued flavour,
Oh yes!
Wood pigeons pair for the chill; it comes!
Clocks are sleepy now many unwound,
all along the water spilled fountain; the
sparrows thirst sip for a familiar sound.
Then !
The street seems to carpet up its cobbles,
It narrows; and tunnels into fast black,
bully boy cats prowl; and growl all clawed,
local dog snoozes, it snores on its bed of sack.
There on -
a lonely street corner cardboard damped,
barley lit; Is home once again to Mr ragged,
chatting in an alcohol tongue; a dialect to rats,
brittle veined, slow flowed, pave stone padded,
Soon !
Morning seeps in; spilling quite secondhand,
It slept long and sexed; under voyaged stars,
not fit for purpose! It breaks over a penciled hill,
49th street corner bustles, Mr ragged lies very still.
Some cry
My opponent will destroy democracy
But my opponent will normalize hypocrisy
My opponent pays hush money to whores
Well, my opponent snoozes in meetings and snores
My opponent’s in cahoots with radical progressives
But my opponent’s tax cuts are regressive
My opponent is in bed with Putin
Well, my opponent for Iran is rootin’
My opponent’s spending will stoke inflation
But my opponent’s plans will increase starvation
Enough! Stop! Cut! Halt!
It’s not all the other guy’s fault
All this negativity makes one thing clear
I’m voting for the first candidate I can cheer
RIDS OF RIDIC RIDDLES
Delusional convo with the inanimates;
February bragged none of us is his mate
¹and asked, "What month of the year has 28 days?"
-"All of them." I replied with a smirk on my face.
Walls 'ave ears wit' handwriting on the wall,
reading aloud what I heard and saw
as I walk into a room that contains a kerosene lamp,
a match, a candle, & a fireplace lookin' like a trap.
²"What would you light first?" The walls inquire.
-"The match." I answered, though I kinda sound *****.
Ok, omelette challenges me to kitchen quest:
³"Before it can be used, what has to be broken first?"
-"An egg." I countered with a sharp burst.
Night & heavy darkness walked in black mold.
4Then says, "I'm tall when I'm young, & short when old.
What am I?" This riddle emits my puff & my sigh.
-"A candle." I mumbled as one spillin' a cracked lie.
5"The more of this there is, the less you can see.
What is it?" Night asked but my mind is lost at sea.
-"Darkness." I replied with a tone of guessing.
My correct responses sounds like music to my ears,
it's like lullaby that snoozes my clockin' eyes.
6Then it sings: "What has many keys yet opens no locks?"
-"A piano, a piano, a piano." I chorused in my tenor voice.
Then I stare at my reflection, my stain & my sin,
reminiscing how I've toyed wit' what's obscene.
7So I heard, "What's always in front of you but can't be seen?
-"The future." My heart speaks as I skipped a scene
'cos that response isn't scripted nor intended to gracen...
Now, it's your turn to crack this riddle:
8A man looks at a photograph of another man (you).
He says, "Brothers and sisters have I none.
But this man's father (your father) is my father's son."
Now answer this riddle which is complex enough:
Who is the man in the photograph?
-•,uos hw,
VICK MANUEL POETRY {VMP}
FORM: Rhymes
Copyright ©? 20th August 2023.
Cold weather front
A few good days fooled us the cold weather returned we thought it was
early spring. I worried if my almond tree had its buds been damaged
and will not bloom and strews petals on the lane,
the illusion of frost, the princes in the tower saw in the fairy tale.
The fire in the grate is exuding warmth the dog no one owns snoozes in a chair,
no, the heart to throw it out
I’m not a tree hugger, but give trees a friendly slap
a sucker for the down and out bought a chicken for a Roma women
begging outside, the guard said, “you must not feed
them” like they should be vermin.
I love my almond tree reminded me of my mother when she was old,
so sweet her face in her frailty.