I'm the vessel of your verses
The voice of your vice
The product of the dream you nurture
The nature you hide
I'm the vessel of your verses
For better or worse as
I killed as much as I healed
For your own selfish causes
Though like I
Sprinkled in time – a wrinkle in time
Distort this course of pattered patterns
As we try to advise
I come from a plight your voice invites
Yet through that noise my choice is mine
I'll rhyme with vice from time to time
But rhyme my course through what is mine
To frame my words:
Picture my verse reversing a curse and nursing a hearse
Purging the urge to merge with the merchant of murder or worse
Piercing the person that persecuted my pride
Piercing the Plight that worsens the worth of the words I write
Purging my urges, the grudges held from the judgment of hurt
Purging my hypocrisy, when it gave you hurt much worse
The stanzas alliterate to reflect the repetition
The verse of illiterate veterans on a mission
To verse you in their permanent "medicating" religion
Most mean love, while most only deliver what's given
We’re taking a trip.
I’m nervous, but packed.
Anxiety worsens
With age; that’s a fact.
Yet off we will go;
We’ll give it a shot
And might have the time
Of our lives, or might not.
At least it’s a change
From our daily routine,
With a visit to places
That we’ve never seen.
We’ve worried and planned
But, like reading this poem,
In a flash, it will seem,
We’ll be flying back home.
I’m thinking of a person
Who is strong and resilient.
Big in personality but size is small.
When mad, they turn a green pigment.
All is lost when anger worsens.
Tantrums raging, escalating.
Tired now, limbs in a sprawl.
I’m talking about toddler phasing,
A daily battle of exertion.
Time creates wounds
Time exposes old wounds
Time worsens wounds
Time can become a wound
Time reshapes wounds
Time lessens wounds
Time transforms wounds
Time can mend a wound
The phone rang.
Saying “Hello,” more quietly.
Saying nothing.
And the nothingness worsens over time.
Times of hopelessness don’t exist.
It’s just hopelessness.
Not any particular time.
Not any particular tear, or frown.
I’m just some perfect circle, who is shaking imperceptibly.
Nothing really happens.
I am dead in a sparkly way.
Now I am.
Saying things about hurt, but I don’t think that exists.
If someone asked my favorite memory?
It would be me telling everyone about how sad I am.
They would just stand there.
You can’t know what they say.
Just murmuring, maybe.
People abuzz, whispering, making me happy with rumors that are real.
I’m depressed and now they know.
That never really happened.
I still live, anyway.
I won.
Your bedroom with a garden view
Includes a view to the field
Here we are, looking through
Leaning on the window sill
It’s calm, the early dusk hour
My favorite time has come
I sense the smell of every flower
I breathe the tune you hum
Down in the sitting room
Comes Pippa to lick your face
She’s jealous, you say, and the fume
Of your blackberry vape fills the space
Then our images blur, the sound worsens,
Interrupts, and the call fails
We're too good for the real persons
Just two characters of a tale
It’s over now, all of a sudden
I can’t bother less, you’d say
I’m promised another garden
See you sometime, one day
Did silent lullabies make you fall asleep peacefully
while some child of your blood squealed in his cradle: He was left alone.
He wished you had stayed longer
and yearned for a better life.
You gave him promises,
You gave him hopes,
But none of those came true
Until he realized it was a hoax.
Did you think he misjudged the situation,
concluding you were not a good example?
Contrary to your proud wife’s opinions,
You are the delight: A source of joy.
So tell the boy he is wrong.
You might love how things went downhill for him when you left.
He thought that you enjoyed it.
He had a lot of questions to ask,
But no one from his clan wanted to answer his confusions:
“Why is life getting more eccentric as time passes?”
“Why did you leave him so soon?”
Do you know that his pain gradually worsens each year?
It drives him to the depths of delusion.
Still, he hoped to celebrate this day,
But he could not find a reason to say, “Happy Father’s Day.”
All he thinks about is…
You are not a good father.
Never were, Never will be tomorrow,
Not even in his midnight musings.
Use 3 or more words in a poem
1. Bow
2. Lean
3. Park
4. Saw
5. Tear
6. Wound
The Saw That Separates
Saw in hand, my tight grip pushes,
teeth bite into fragrant pine.
They tear at the wood like your
sharp words wound my heart.
I lean into the work as I try
to erase you from my thoughts.
The pain worsens as the saw cuts deeper, and I
must bow to the inevitable.
I can’t forget the last time in the park
our heat and fire boiled over.
Anger replaced love, we separated forever
just as the saw separates the pine.
The World Cup went to Argentina.
Those who like it still drink Maltina:
In Nigeria, few, for love of France;
If France had won would have done some dance.
I guess Maradona had caused it;
Would have Super Eagles trounced and throat slit:
He was talking about some Six - Nil,
Sure he would not be climbing a hill...
And, since, it's been Football Enmity
One wouldn't guess its enormity
'Twixt Argentina and Nigeria,
Where Football Loss worsens Malaria.
That's Maradona as Muhammad Ali,
Hypes trying and seeking Staunch Ally.
SHENANIGANS
Shenanigans and hullabaloos of the Westerners worsens our sins in this societal ruins,
washing-in it's wastes and wildness with unrest
just like Amazon delivering parcels with its crest.
The thief with the aim to survive hunger got an arrest
but corrupt wealthy well paid politicians goes for free,
Others hoard or pilfer treasure troves from every tree.
Neither envy unknown affluence of any type
nor thrive in the glory of other people's hype.
Don't live in the prison of other people's opinion.
Or meddle in their false esteemed & established union.
In all fairness, let the world handle it's business;
And despite life's shenanigans, show finesse.
You're one man army just as the people to the world.
The unpredictability of life got the world enamored.
Let the world face and stifle it's own thorn,
Don't be the bunch, but in your own sphere be the one.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright © December2022.
Someday soon
a season that is very harsh
will overtake us -
be it in the summer
(when the lack of rainfall
and autumn's chill are obliterated
way past the fall,
leaving mouths parched and bodies sweltering
beneath an unrelenting sun)
or whether it be in winter and beyond that season -
(when fierce frigidity worsens
and below zero temperatures
have people freezing
in their very own homes),
this fifth season will come upon
all people of the world.
Many will wonder . . .
what does it mean?
Those in the know
will be prepared, not just physically,
but spiritually, emotionally and mentally as well.
Prepare yourselves, good people
who understand my meaning.
Be prepared and stand not in fear.
Nov. 7, 2022
For Anthony Biaanco's "The Fifth Season Poetry Contest
Stillborn
Still dead
Still arms, legs,
And a head
Still eyes open
Spoken
Still ripped from utero
Still time to go
A dream instead
From cells molded
Knees folded
Named like me
Who was she?
And the word stillborn
Dreams torn
Word so bleak
From eyes
Tears leak
In coffins buried
Procession not hurried
For two lives gone
Having never seen dawn
Developed with them
Born with them
Then why me?
Why was I
Determined to be?
To exist and they don’t
To feel and they won’t
I’ve made memories alone
Without them, on my own
Existed into adulthood
Stood on ground -
But oh the sound
I cannot imagine it
My mother screaming
Her voice turned grit
As the doctors and nurses
Worked as it worsens
As it was clear breath
Breath was none
It was clear they had
Only a son.
There lives live
With each word I give
To this paper
Their memory; their lives
Will not taper
It's the simple things,
That matter so much.
A kind smile a hug, handshake
Or a gentle touch
Gentle is a lovely word
A word that says it all
Gentle words and gestures
Help others if they fall
There is so much in this world
That causes sorrow and grief
We all need a gentle touch
To unite and bring relief
This destructive virus
Has brought things to a head
Some of our fellow men
Have been very easily led
Believing empty promises
Given by those in Power
Not caring about the
Consequences
That worsens by the hour
Suddenly more people
Are looking closer at politicians
Nobody expects them to be
Jugglers
Or magicians
Every thinking man
Realises if we want to put things right
The thing that we must avoid
Is picking up weapons to fight
Fighting gets you nowhere
It makes a situation worse
Gentleness is needed
To remove us from this curse.
A poem I wrote a few years ago
It's high time we, humans, learn the valuable lessons,
of taking care of our Earth, before the situation worsens!!
the smell of her perfume is still in the air
internal rolling hills with large stones give me blue relief
it has been a few weeks and i am still on the sharp edge of last night
melted snow falls from the sun's red eyes in the sky
my pain worsens, and i know that i have just been fired several run on sentences ago
i am a victim of the hypocrisy of my own advice to previous hypocrites
nothing has been moved but the obtuse angle of my broken heart
i try to move, but the oil to the tin is defiant like hypothermia taking directions
i pray for her to come back, but only the devil answers
attention provides her book of directions on wilted late bloomer time
now the smell of her perfume is like poisonous furies singing teasingly to the smart part of my brain
all i write now right now are poems devoid of solid rhythm
my existence is nothing but a vapor far removed from former glory
i now have a life sentence at a snail's pace with the tortoise winning at hare brained speed
i slide down black hill mountain......white is the bloody fire of regret and shame
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