MARCHING INTO MAY'S MEMOIRS
May, here
Many dead
Memoirs to share
Much more being said
Maybe these man-hunt here and there
Will be finally put to bed
May's dues is due
Many mates mumbles in fate,
May we maneuver through
Memories of many months
Making mask most-sort after
Such that moving without mask
Is a risk more costly than face mask
Why must man mingle through life,
Are we living by the egde of a knife?
New day reality? Don't ask
Many homes have become enterprises,
Houses becomes church premises,
Marriage merriments melts away,
Making any gathering a taboo,
Many money mongers moaning this May,
In dismay, corona holding sway more than we do
Making mincemeat of mankind,
Murdering my moonlight melodies not,
Marinate my monthly muse.
May's lockdown,
Is it about to melt down?
Mask is now the new identity,
May's masking a must for mankind
As we, all let loosed not scared of anything,
Mumbly mulling over what we may find.
VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright © 3rd May, 2020.
Categories:
mumbly, 1st grade, death, may,
Form: Alliteration
a wake
in an Irish
pub where
a toast goes
out to my
Cuban
mechanic
Jesus
"Hope the Devil don't
know that
I've died
til half an hour
after I've gotten
to the other side."
that says it
hit the nail
on the head
while one was
playing mumbly
peg first
the left then right
hand
two were
playing chess
his crowned pawn
is now a king
while three had
rolled more away
then stoned
four were
staggering home
the extra one denying
to his wife
he never heard
last call
three times
leaving me hanging
around throwing
coins of silver over
confessing to
the bartender
i'll have
another
pouring a cup of
recently turned
water to wine
it tastes corked
tastes of vinegar
another bottle please
of Jesus
Categories:
mumbly, muse,
Form: I do not know?
The laugh of the child
Frothy
Sugary
Rampant
Keen
Cuts through the haze
Buds forth the green
Scampered
Syrupy
Velvety
Honestly light
The laugh of the child
The cry of the babe
Frightened and lost
Snickery
Trickery
Spidery fright
Mother sooths
Early midnight
Mumbly
Kushushy
Sleepily lost
The mumble of the old man
Frothy
Brothy
Powdery
Toothlessly smacked
In arguing drivel snivel
Cracked
Yeasty
Doury
Dry
Earthbound
Dust
Categories:
mumbly, age, child, joy, life,
Form: Free verse
In my day, the mail carrier was called the Mailman.
However, I don't recall any women choosing the profession.
He came to our house twice a day.
Once in the morning,
And once in the afternoon.
Time went slower then
and he had time.
He could deliver the mail
and talk to us kids a while too.
Once when he came by
we were playing mumbly-peg.
He asked what we were doing
and we showed him.
He got out his own knife
Balanced it on his finger
and ka chunk, it stuck expertly the first time.
His blade stuck in the ground every time.
Mine came a little too close to my toes
but stuck. He complimented the risky landing
then folded up his knife and put it back
in the mail bag draped over his shoulder.
The leather, old and very worn
gave way on the edge where he reached in
for the letter that needed to be delivered next door.
Leaning into the weight of the bag,
he was on his way.
Categories:
mumbly, childhood, life, nostalgia,
Form: Free verse