PENNILESS AT THE TOLLGATE
Wish I had a cat,
or maybe just a friend.
Mother says it's not the end,
but it is.
Reflections in the mirror,
inspections of the interior.
She's gone, I'm wrong,
and the soul can be so empty.
The milk is sour in the sink.
To wish, to think,
over the horizon the sun peeks,
the Blackbird rumbles then it roars.
A morning breeze or maybe the flap of wings
rustles the curtains.
Yes, it's certain.
The sky is not mine, it never was.
Hubris atop the Big Fish, a mighty serpent,
leaping over the waves, and the mermaids too,
thinking I saddled Old Screw.
I'm in the dirt, and it should hurt.
But I am empty, planted none too deep,
feeling little, a carrot or radish,
ready to be reaped.
A man without a spirit I am, I fear it.
A friend would be fine.
A cat? Just divine.
It would help pass the time 'til the end,
'til the end of mine.
Categories:
tollgate, loneliness, lost love,
Form: Free verse
SHATTERED SCREAMS
ECHOES OF OUR SILENT SCREAM,
TORTURE FROM A LEADER'S STEAM,
DWINDLING OF OUR NATIONS DREAM.
WE CHOOSE TO FIGHT AS A TEAM,
OR WATCH THEIR THEATRICS LIKE A FILM.
IF WE FIGHT, OUR VOCIFEROUS WEAPON IS HUSHED,
IF SILENT, OUR FUTURE IS CRUSHED.
TOLLGATE IS NOW THE BLOOD GATE,
WHERE HEROS OF JUSTICE LEARN THEIR FATE.
OUR VOICES ARE STRANGLED,
WE'RE MANHANDLED LIKE A STAR SPANGLED.
THE PILLARS OF OUR STRUCTURE IS FALLING.
WHO HURTS HIS CHILD AND FLOGS HER FOR WAILING?
RELEASING THE CAMOS, WOLFS IN DIRTY SHEEP'S CLOTHINGS
AND BLACKMARIAL TO HUNT DOWN CITIZENS.
INTERNAL TERROR SUMS UP MY ANALYSIS.
NIGERIA, YOUR ACTS DABBLES & DAGGERS MY HEART.
WHERE IS THE LABOUR OF OUR HEROS PAST?
OUR RESIDUE IS IN THE DEN OF THIEVES,
AND THE OLD CERTAINTY OF THE FUTURE HAVE BECOME MERE "IFs".
VickManuelPoetry {VMP}
Copyright© 14th Feb, 2021.
Categories:
tollgate, 1st grade, grief, political,
Form: Rhyme
Cedarville, Route 29, we drive
these country roads reckless
as late spring, stopping
where farm folks sell iris cheap
in extravagant colors – Redwing,
Tollgate, Lavender Exchange –
from fields like the ones
our young dogs love to run.
Triangle Crossroads, Hayfork
Junction. We stuff the trunk
with bags of hunched brown hope.
Back home, tubers dig down
to where we’ve planted
the old dogs,
the ones who used to come
when bidden, and now,
as if commanded, stay.
Categories:
tollgate, animals, death, nature, ,
Form: Free verse