I was a student of logic
when the world stopped breathing—
July 20, 1969,
a footprint pressed into silver dust.
Neil Armstrong’s voice crackled,
“one small step…”
and yet, my mind whispered—
was it the Moon,
or a Hollywood stage?
Fifty–six years have burned away,
half a century of miracles and machines.
We send probes beyond Pluto,
yet have not returned
to that pale frontier
just 384,400 kilometers away.
We dive to the edge of oceans,
but never to their blackest trench.
We speak of radiation belts,
Van Allen’s invisible fire—
how did fragile bodies
slip through alive,
wrapped only in cloth and hope?
Pride is America’s anthem.
If the flag had truly bitten lunar soil,
would it not have marched again—
and again—
until a fortress crowned the Moon?
They say budgets broke the dream.
But tell me—
what nation spares the stars
while spilling trillions on war?
The camera rolls.
The world applauds.
The truth drifts somewhere
between silence and space.
your hurt, my hurt
they echo one another~
betrayal spares
n
o n
e
She was a force to be admired and feared at the bowling alley
We stood back and watched, shocked by the ways of Mallie.
She stood up straight and tall as she walked to the line
Her strikes were amazing, her repeated spares were fine
Who taught her to bowl? We asked each other
Was it her grandpa, her father? Her cousin? Her brother?
It was another woman, said her grandma. It was her mother.
Another fine bowler, who arrived in a few.
Now we could watch not one amazing woman, but two.
Issue, O Iridescence!
Luminesce on the sly.
Pore over, phosphorescence?
Oh yes, and here is why!
Students of the nebula!
Empire has its cost!
Best to keep it regular?
That or deal of Faust!
Sauced, are ye, wild warriors?
Well, at times it's best.
Lost and sinking? Sail azures!
Tours and boors need rest.
Zest, O mighty zephyr!
Boreal pole, hear all!
Have you seen the lost heifer?
My! Io, give a call...
Fall, when winter, taciturn;
Sends the snow and ice;
Sullen, silent, spares to spurn;
Miracled device;
What will avail travelers?
High road, one with us?
Gods of death, synthetic furs?
Bile and blunderbuss!
Muss on heads of wearied folk?
That is not good news.
O for eggs with scrambled yolk!
Doom, Death, disabuse...
Channeled communications?
Be sure to precise read.
Otherwise re-educations!
Draw bead, O my greed!
Weed atop the giant's mound?
Zero Lost and Found?
O ye serpents, hissing sound?
Next below the ground...
Warning? Dark fire, warming?
O locusts on the air:
Sudden is thy swarming?
Life, ladies, is not fair...
Day after day for decades,
away the ocean waves wash
the Apostles pieces by pieces.
Hours by hours some projects
drain people's time and energy bits by bits.
Now, only 6+ Apostles left
Standing there smiley.
Who knows what has been going on
In that head under that beanie.
Does Australian feel sorry
For the Apostles gone missing?
I don't know.
Does any1 miss that stubborn person though?
Only time can tell.
33 bits 45 goodbye,
66 hardly spares the words "good night".
To say I would not pray would be a lie
Because I have had car wrecks
And I have sent a heartfelt plea up each time
Right before impact
The prayer would be loud and sincere
I would thank God for my life
And tell Him that I am okay with whatever He wants
Because I have had a marvelous time
Whether or not He spares me is not important
I am okay with His decision either way
But would I pray?
An emphatic yes.
Why do I deserve to live when millions have died?
Prays didn't work, even though they cried.
While millions starve, their lives go to waste.
As if their journey were destined in haste,
By hunger, disease, and war undone,
Or beneath nature’s calamity, their battles won?
Is my life worth more than theirs?
Or chance alone spares me from despairs?
Am I just a fleeting breath,
Shielded from their plight and death?
If mercy exists, why does it not extend,
To the broken lives that fate can’t mend?
Or is natural selection’s gentle hand at work,
A blind nature’s shifting thoughts continue to lurk.
No divine decree, no cosmic grace,
Defines the paths we’re left to face.
Just spots of a fragile geographical line,
Between their suffering and what’s called mine.
Why do I live while millions are doomed to die?
If I'm fed while millions hunger fill the sky?
If mercy exists, why is it so rare?
Why does it favor, and why doesn’t it share?
Is life but chaos, an illusion of fate,
Where justice arrives never, or far too late?
WORDPLAY
Scores of work to read and think deeply
Stores of enthusiasm can reduce steeply
Snores are heard and can attract curses
Snorts from a few less tolerant nurses
Sports offer very different entertainment
Shorts that sometimes lack containment
Shirts bearing logos of sponsors’ brands
Shires with accents nobody understands
Spires of churches that need renovation
Spares at the ready for every occasion
Spores of inspiration should be heeded
Shores with grass dunes, never weeded
Shares in publishing may remain frozen
Stares received if no works are chosen
Starts and endings complete all verses
Maybe it's the face that we put on,
That makes us feel like everything is alright,
But we are all soo broken,
That it weighs heavily when we take it off at night.
We play pretend,
Like we know what's going on inside,
But the truth,
It's always been a losing fight.
We are all born grey,
All of us are,
May be some darker than others,
The ones drowning at the bar.
We are all losing the fight to life,
It was from the beginning, a losing bet,
The tiny glimpses of love and happiness blinds us,
The truth! We are all trying to get by before death.
Life gets us all,
It spares not a single one,
So put that face back on again,
Atleast try to have some fun,
So put that face back on again,
And find that reason under the sun.
When whispers shout out pain in silence
And echoes rejoice in gladness
A crowd of smiles in absence
Yet the back bone spares no one regardless
I get to understand what it means
To be African in beams.
When lonely nights strike
And songs of sorrow envelop with pride
A lake of tears floods with spike
Yet the backbone attacks in raid
I get to understand what it means
To be African in beams
When heaven finally opens up
And hears the cries all in a wrap
A song of cheers elopes from their hives
For the backbone a shadow now cast with knives
I get to understand what it means
To be African in beams
Some folks like to say that life’s a beach
Build our castles in the sand and then we dive
But there are few who care enough to reach
And pull us back from the ever rising tide
When we’re content to stroll along the surf
Delighting in the treasures that we find
No one else can tell us what they’re worth
Or how much we’ll regret those left behind
When we cast off from the old, familiar docks
And venture forth into waters yet unknown
It’s your loving light that spares us from the rocks
Your warm glow that guides us safely home
And even in the darkest of our nights
When all seems lost, we will still look to you
And although we no longer see your light
We still feel your presence, strong and true.
In loving memory of
Truman Burgess
1940 - 2023
The Iron Anchor
Brewing anger has displayed a chip on one’s shoulder
Enraged without good reason, grey haired and older
Ill-spirited in a rotted lifeboat secured by an iron anchor
Crimson flare from a dragon's mouth with roars of rancor
Bars none, unleashed flogger spares no one forty lashes
A blood thirsty unbridled vengeance burning all to ashes
Listen to yourself and look inward, we can stop the hate
Salvage what's left of a drowning ship and its furious fate
Lock the forbidden door of hostility and toss the key!
Channel in the light, warm hearted spirit set yourself free
Critics Beware!
Poets are vulnerable no less than anyone,
when fallen victim to outrageous critics.
As Shelley wrote, critics' darts struck Keats,
who blindly, cruelly, mocked 'Endymion.'
Lethal no less the heady potion fame.
Some drowned, took poison, died paupers or insane.
Yet poet-baiters must themselves take warning,
wrote Heine in his 'Winter Fairy Tale.'
Eternal lines, if barbed, outdo Hell's fierce burning.
'Time shall not heal when poets wield the flail.'
Our foes, wrote Paul, are not of flesh and blood
but powers of evil inhabiting high places.
Promethean fire consumes the evil and the good,
Iniquities have many masks and faces.
Alone the Word that spares the infant's life
to wrong proves mightier than every art of strife.
Where it is sold mongrels you meet!
You should guess: venues not too neat
But man shuns not gladdening meat:
Pork buyers do storm in my street…
Children who neared meat mum would beat,
Not like biscuit that spares kids heat.
Quite often mothers such case treat,
Child thief keeps standing, no seat…
Buyer to Butchers “You’re a cheat!”
Except he’d weighed meat to doubts beat;
Next time, butcher one might not greet
From his stand distancing one’s feet…
In most meals men hope to meat meet
Women for ice-cream love more meat,
In their lives meat ahead of wheat;
Nipple never makes it to teat…
Meat’s biggest challenge from sea fish,
In Japan, meat less a food wish.
TURN IT UPSIDE DOWN
?
Turn it upside down,
Let it make meaning:
Death is Ocean that can drown
and animate how you're feeling.
Turn it upside down.
The relic of them that mourn
wails in the wake of forlorn sound.
Death takes all and spares none.
Turn it upside down.
The reflection of our lost friends
is our image when our time is now.
Our unending story starts but ends.
Turn it upside down.
They spite and compare you
with your age mates out of town,
but their graves are inscribed "Adieu".
Turn it upside down.
Amassing wealth is baseless.
Life is birthed but death will dawn,
it is the last grief nonetheless.
Turn it upside down
Your homies are gone & down.
The reflection stares from their graves,
and the loner mourns his favs.
Turn it upside down.
Two worlds but same fate they plough:
The beholder is gone in brokenness
as well as the illusive friends.
Turn it upside down,
whether you smile or frown,
death and separation are either way;
So live your best life each day!
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Form: Rhymes
Copyright ©? May 2023.
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