I didn’t feel like running today
Some days I don’t—but I do.
I’ve never finished a run thinking,“I’m sorry I did that.”
I always feel empowered, powerful and ready to deal.
I have blisters on two toes but that doesn’t matter.
Pain is an administrative problem—I just wrap them
with paper surgical tape and run.
I also buy these 1" Polyurethane foam sheets (from Amazon),
that I cut to fit my feet—stuffing them in my socks for padding
—as if I were a professional athlete.
We don’t flinch beneath the heat, cold or rain,
and we don’t prevaricate or complain.
While I believe that life, otherwise, is pretty much nonstop compromise,
I reserve a protected territory for self-respect—where I practice small acts
of discipline—which I can track.
.
.
Songs for this:
Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen
Somebody's Going to Get Into This House by Jane Wiedlin
Once a week, on a Friday
I have the most delightful way
I escape from all household chores
When Friday comes, I shut all the doors
To trouble and woe,
Then off I go.
I take Friday slow,
And savour every second
Because I know
That Father Time will beckon
And the time will pass too fast,
I don't mind,
If the weather rains or shines,
It will be fine for me.
On Fridays, I feel free.
I spend hours in a cosy cafe.
I reserve a window seat.
I have lunch there every Friday.
It is a tasty treat.
Their coffee is the best,
That I have ever tasted.
And would stand up to any test.
And not a drop is wasted.
I love sipping my coffee,
And watching people as they pass.
It's like I can see the world more clearly.
As I quietly sipped coffee behind the glass.
orange devil went down to reserve a clown
he promptly found confusion in stereo sound
first time in the dreaded basement of hell fire’s encasement
clown in entertaining mode flashed devil a warning code.
mo one else likes me halfway this much.
soI have decided to stay with my friend Clutch.
it’s your opportunity to go up levels, orange devil said.
no, clown replied. I am glad that I here, truly dead.
clown taught orange devil a lesson that significant day.
attitude is everything, please leave. Honey, just go away!
devil decided to open his closed up horizons too.
began leveling up, toward the sky and land of the blue.
For Love's Sake-- you're no mistake!!
Reserve a wish on your birthday cake
For peace of heart with nothing fake;
God's Love cannot bring heartbreak :)
He's the Valentine Who won't forsake
Anyone here who does not reserve a raise?
Please hold your hand up high
I thought so ~
All of you have broken arms
If evermore this must last,
Through the warmth of sun's wrath,
Holding onto the memories of last,
The frightening night of cold's decline.
Humming the tune of ancestors past,
Hoping this will burn out at last.
Pulling the lever to refer,
The old prophecy's prefer,
For this cold world's end
And to find a hero to mend.
To put off the sun, To prevent the heat.
To revel with him, And to reserve a seat
Beneath the stars and to flee
To motherland Neptune and conquer the sea.
I've never been much of a worrier,
Others do that far better than I,
Nor am I renowned as a scurrier,
Which is not to imply I don't try.
My small circle of close friends and loved ones
Is diminishing one at a time,
And one of these days
I'll wake up to discover
That it's my turn, and I'm next in line.
But if, indeed, that's the next big adventure,
I hope it's a pleasant surprise.
I'd love to prove, or disprove,
All the theories I've had
About life and love,
And good and bad,
And wisdom and learning,
And ethics and such,
That faith is a pillar
And not just a crutch.
But, of course, I’m not worried,
I don't do that, you see.
"Que será, será",
What will be, will be.
But on the off chance that there is a hereafter,
I'd like to reserve a small space there for me.
And should any of you get there before I do,
Try to grab us a nice window seat with a view.
They wonder
Why?
I just sit
And sigh
They just see
Me
Reaching
Again
That toxic fluid
That madness
Fermenting
Somewhere
Deep
In her mind
Like an addiction
Of hers
Or mine
I see it
I acknowledge it
But she
Is still human
Like us all
Just
With an insatiable
Appetite
That I
Can not
Say
Is wrong
Is right
Is benign
I can
Forgive
And still offer
A little
Love
Thoughts
Reserve a little
Peace
Within
My own
To offer her
On my phone
Distant peaks
A little peek
Of my life
After
Our peak
In life
When money intervenes
There is little resistence
When man thinks of money
There is no place for others
Not even God
Whenever man thinks of God
There are too many requests
Money, power, happiness, longivity and many more
But man always
Forgets to reserve a place in the heart
For "Him", the almighty god.
The wounded lion
There was a calamities
In his land
The brutality of bad politics
Keep burning down
His home town
Time keep passing
Yet this circumstances
Never change
He grew up watching
The rain of fire befallen
His community
This all was an influence
To his braveness
Cos I remember he once said
No matter what the eyes see
It can't shed blood but tears
The wounded lion
As time passes
He grew up to a man
He grew up fearless
Cos what more can he see
To be scard
In an genocidal community
What more can he lose
After losing his land
So his mind was made up
To defend his land
Yet he was hurt
So badly hurt
So sad that out there
He was fear
Yet more sadly they he
Was killed by his own people
So on this quest
I understood the words of the old
I see clearly why the old say to me
When you fight for your people
Reserve a hand for the people
From your people who will
Fight you for fighting for them
THE PEN, THE POET & THE POEM
Perfect picture painting a Poets palava,
And divisible dimensional dilemma:
Like a child surrounded by teddys & toys
To make a confusing costly choice;
Loose the pen & play the pipper,
Or choose between the pen & paper.
My pen I choose, though words reside in me,
The inks temporal ambition is to be
the being inside, on hand to always akin
to superfluity the universe blows in.
I'd write all my emotions all over my skin.
The Poem is the Poets next of kin,
No matter what you think,
in the world's ear his words will sink.
I am a bleeding poet with gush of ink,
words cascading from fountains of imaginations.
With no paper, I'd cloth myself with my muse.
Paint me a poet with a voiceless voice,
words would still speak than world's noise.
The Pen might be mightier than The Poet but then,
The Poet is the life and breath of The Pen.
Let The Pen breath to marinate The Poem.
Reserve a thought for these threesome at the helm.
I'm not just The Poet whose works lies on your shelf
but I am the emotions you feel, The Poem itself.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright© February, 2021.
Oklahoma skies reserve a place for me,
when my last breath no longer is,
shoot my soul to the stars above,
a resting place where I can find peace and love.
Oklahoma skies reserve a place for me,
a change from years of living in strife,
waking up to days of ulcer living and worry,
living life in the fast lane of being in a hurry.
Oklahoma skies reserve a place for me,
as I sing this song for all to hear as a plea,
to find that special place as I play my guitar,
on a shining place to call my own star.
Oklahoma skies reserve a place for me,
where the angel doves fly and coo,
greeting me to a forever and peaceful rest,
adding to the blissful dreams of the best.
I spent the night, but not alone,
For I was with the sea—
Alone with her, my mistress,
And in love with only she.
No other understands me,
My insecurities, and all—
No other knows my heart as well,
And can sooth my weary soul.
And if ever I am lonely;
Needing someone at my side...
I reserve a moonlit beach for two—
Till comes again, the Tide!
I cope with commercials
that sit on my head,
that wallop my westerns,
and leave them for dead.
They shoot me and loot me
till I go to bed.
I scream at a stop light
that steps on my brake,
that raises my hackles
till knucklebones ache.
They turneth me into
a coiled rattlesnake.
I hate when my hamburg
is freckled with fat.
What does "extra lean" mean?
Is it idle chitchat?
I'll be giving the grocer
a crisp caveat.
I abhor dirty dishes
piled high in the sink,
or when morning coffee
is too cold to drink,
or when my dear children
push me to the brink!
I detest barking dogs
when I'm trying to snooze.
Discourteous crows
also fail to amuse.
Perhaps I'll reserve a
Caribbean cruise!
THEIR GREATER SIN
They call one who speaks for Liberty a Fascist
They claim man made end of world as a proven tenet
And to them ‘free’ means imprimatur to ravish
Expressed with many a ‘You know’ ‘It’s like’ and ‘Ennit!’
They proclaim themselves as ‘liberal’ though they favour
The hard politics of socialism central
With a strong taste of Marx in its flavour
That just gives me an affliction in the ventral
Of dark villainy I now seek to accuse
And reserve a special torment to confer
Not for all the sins above from which I bruise
Nor self righteousness they constantly aver
It is the painful wounds for which there is no bandage
Their cruel destructive treatment of the English Language
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