Bradford pears line the drive
Golden mops, dense supply
Ivy climbs, in designs
Elegant, are these vines
Cyprus trees, thrive with ease
The goods of woods minus leaves
Spongey grass, rich in hue
Heaven for morning dew
Purple trees adding spice
Alternation feels nice
Variations zig and zag
A dash of contrast, adds swag
An oak that’s lived many years
Rings align,descending tiers
Base is broad and trunk, stout
Pushed through frost, flood and drought
Just beyond this house of mine
Rows of pines, you will find
The beauty of it blows my mind
Twas a dream, once upon a time
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
we built them in closets with worn out bed sheets
and couch cushions heavy as boulders.
the flashlight’s beam cut through the dark,
a knight's sword, our citadel against bedtime.
the carpet was moat-water,
broomsticks and mops our armored steeds.
We drew maps on pizza box lids—
Here Be Dragons in red crayon,
Mom's vacuum sketched as a sea monster
with fangs of dust.
there were no stone towers, just laundry-basket turrets
and battlements of stacked books where
discarded milk crates became our thrones.
we knew the magic: how a blanket draped just so
could turn December drafts into mountain winds~
they stood until Monday, these cardboard kingdoms—
until recycling bins swallowed the ramparts whole,
leaving only carpet dents where dragons breathed.
And us—we still smelt of marker ink and dust already
scanning the garage for next Saturday's unconquered country.
Lips mops caress waterfalls crash metallic nerve laughing gas confession
watermelon sugar sister scissors
clocks tick loud like shaved ambergris
Laminated kerosene lamps illuminate
Evanescence oblivious presence
Skull bird knives spike of peachy creamery
Pentagram ouija board machinery’
Throats chokes, nose pinched in bleached milkshakes. tiny ears buried speechless
Mousetrapped.
I gave it all
Light throbbing in the heart of darkness
Shakes its density and solidity
Dawn lengthening towards morning
Mops up darkness slowly
Shadows vanish
In its brightness
It rubs them off the bodies
Of men and furniture
Lion, camel, orangutan and tiger;
Light focused on cave
Clears the obscurities
Light of reason removes
The stumbling blocks of superstition
Light of knowledge conquers ignorance
Light of conscience deals with narrowness
Pushing it towards broadness and righteousness
Light broadens the narrow space of the heart
Leads it towards benevolence
Pride and prejudice, niggardliness vanish
With the white purity
Of the effulgent Divine light
The light of lights!
It hovers round us
Flashes with higher consciousness
In search of us groping in the dark
Near us comes it giving chance to embrace
Sure it is that we move pulled towards it
Let that light grace us towards fulfillment.
Fearful of my own greatness my past shadens the pages in wich I've read not giving up I cry sometimes to bring shine on the twigs that are in my spine the ability to pull away I lack but makes up with a heart that can't be torn apart i use these words as signal of gratitude in rooms equipped with dusty brooms and mops that leaves tracks of dirty foot prints jumping over the great white fence hoping to get caught on the wood chips of flawlessness to catch wift of the perfumes my gift shall soon bloom and spread without hollowness Everyday isn't filled with the fuel that fills me a feild stuffed with harmony of your voice is where my paradise starts and thrives more when you awnser the phone stoned in my own low temperatures to reserve the good times that Glyde when I sigh better days are ahead as you sleep in the same bed as me cuddling with your ever so soft body often times leaves me liquifying for 24 hours the scent that's left in dent on her side of the bed fumigation starts when I lay down and turn my spirit on rest
cloudbursts never stop
swollen lakes mimic buckets ~
and bogs soggy mops
Because once a time in a round mud hut
at the edge of the bottomless of pits,
I know that a three- or four-year-old roars with his gut
And he wipes snot with a broken jersey that barely fits
Because on the ratchet corners and bended streets
A growing child runs dust on tracks that gone bicycles drew;
And on his shined cheeks a laugh draws and sweeps
And he basks in the pastoral sun like a songbird and crew
Because the year is 2000 or 2001
And a child’s barely grown father must run to the city.
He must beg— (for working’s sake) ‘til pride comes undone—
The city that spurn him benches, toilets, parks, opportunity
Because ghosts of the ghoul that a people slayed
still lurk and parade office parks and boardrooms,
a child’s barely grown father must wade relics of Apartheid
In spaces of bigheads where he dances mops and brooms
Because a three- or four-year-old is now twenty
And the heirloom in his father’s stock is but lack;
I must work the same zero and struggle as plenty.
I must be black.
Randolph floating about twelve shops,
From the one to the other hops:
Hunter wishing to remain tops
In a brisk business for food crops…
Then, one day, off a guy’s arm chops:
His salesman’s after profit drops;
The blood-smeared walls and floor wife mops
At the speed of light against cops:
The place now worse than ones for shops…
A doting wife crime hides, not stops:
Never towards Justice Gallops.
Prayer that a move by foes flops…
SPOUTING INKGASM
Time heals, season reveals,
It invigorates artistry & obliterates skills.
Profligacy of time mops up a beautiful mess,
saturated on the ageless smile of my empress.
But just like the simple touch on the nipples
that dabbles reasoning in sweet sequels,
and invites esctasy-like stimulation,
so your embodiment beguils my imagination;
extricating syntax from my indelible pen,
and causing a flow of inkgasm now & then.
VIck Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Form: Rhymes/The dizain.
Copyright ©? 5th April, 2023.
Too much temptation
Blocking my road to redemption
The devil is good at what he does
Offering a variety of ways
To get your buzz
be it the vein or the liver
satan is one generous giver
the poison he does deliver
of daily drops
for your cerebral mops
he never misses a beat or a hook
He is the chief cook
to bring your fix
and keep you in the mix
of your tasty addictive licks
Yum yum
why so glum chum?
So what if your a bum
I’m still gonna give you some
just enough to keep you hungry and weak
I’m cooking up more misery
As we speak
anticipation for the meek
lick your lips
and lets meet
have a seat
and spread an orifice
I know it’s the fog you miss
Blind, unaware, and without a care
My favorite minion without a pair
Keep sucking the sewage
Of my daily spewage
Till your heart submits
and finally quits
and rests in my pits
of the soulless
and mindless twits
who never had a chance
simply because it was failure
they always wanted to romance
I love you to pumpkin
now submit and get in
I win…..
Next!
Eric (and sometimes not)
Who hears the pain she shows in her eyes?
And who mops tears when she cries?
Who would look past her purple hair,
To hear the story, she has to share?
In public she wore a mask so bright,
And in the parlor she danced in delight.
She chooses shirts in the brightest of hues,
And adorns her feet with playful dance shoes.
Just a moment my eyes locked with her stare
And I saw the hurt she refused to bare.
Screaming through the mask she reasoned tight,
Beat the heart trembling in fright.
11/28/2022
Pick a title, Vol 33 Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
My mop and I have a long history,
Some of it fun,
Some of it misery.
Riding around town making horsey sounds,
Turning you upside down,
Look what a friend I've found!
Sailing with grace over land and sea,
Just my mop and I,
Always free.
Then there was the time,
Mop and I braided our locks,
Took three hours to disassemble our flocks!
Oh what fun we had,
Till mom came by,
My friend had to wash the floor you see!
Still clear and sunlit
are the tanned, weathered faces
of the fisherman,
their bloodshot eyes,
beanies and checkered shirts,
how they
stood hip deep
in their boats
looking up at a gathered crowd,
the fish arrayed in neat rows
with glistening scales,
caressed, turned
and splashed with seawater
by reverent hands,
translucent mops
of squid and trays
of crabs whose tormented
writhings rippled beneath
blankets of wet
hessian bags.
I can hear accented
voices yelling out prices
and frenzied seagulls overhead,
a haze of smells
and noise jostling
in a silvered morning,
when all was spliced
and wound into a bright
necklace of wire
from which a dozen
or more fish hung
to carry home,
a ring of “tommy ruffs”
fit for the pan or to smoke
in an old tea chest
until they became
a sweaty glaze
of amber flesh,
a filet of sunlight
and good to eat.
A briefly wrung-out sky
is blotched with clammy clouds.
A humid air clings to my chest.
Damp squirrels hang limply
from dripping branches.
Desultory birdsong mops
but not much.
I yearn for the cold slap of sea-spray,
chill cheeks and fresh lips
not this damp-dive-walking
through a moist miasma.
Maybe the day will shake itself free
of its mope?
Perhaps this drizzle will tip over
into a cresting surf of sunlight,
or anything that smacks of a
rolling ocean
that can dry-out, rinse and clean.
A crow swallows a
biscuit piece
at window
Mops its mouth
with mango twigs
First sunlight
enters room
Sketching stripes
on your neck
Deep down inside
A four inches long plant
in a small glass pot
turning violet _ a rivulet
No I won't disturb the
sunlight crayons in delight
Rather let me bring out the
camera with small aperture
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