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People are authors
with stories
all their own to tell;
where some pen
full-on raw accounts,
others do
the exact opposite—
or things in between.

People are observers
with news
to call home about;
where some deliver
the whole truth,
others do
everything but—
yet believe otherwise.

People are adventurers
with exploits
to grace their journals;
where some put
God in the details,
others do
the Devil and his entrails—
and create best-sellers.

               Manna Cruz.
               [From Cruz Poética collection]

yesterday, bruised—
rock too close
for the feet to dodge

today, bleeding—
scissors too quick
for the hands to drop

tomorrow, broken—
paper too clingy
for the pen to dump

               Manna Cruz.
               [From Cruz Poética collection]

Er, maybe, just maybe,
the shards
of a broken soul
will cut the skin
that holds together
the inner sanctum,
to flush out the blood
of angst and anxiety
that has forever been
silencing the poet in me;

Or, maybe, just maybe,
the mirrors
of a breathing spirit
will catch a glint
that sequins
the new-day Sun,
to light the fire
of sense and sanity
that has long been
heating through the poet in me.

               Manna Cruz.
               [From Cruz Poética collection]

live births, dead ends
ugly outside, beautiful inside
thick blood, thin water

big dreams, small hopes
easy questions, difficult answers
deep thoughts, shallow feelings

right choices, wrong moves
good decisions, bad habits
fresh air, stale breath

tall order, short notice
clean hands, dirty feet
high brows, low bows

wide smiles, narrow minds
light nods, heavy hearts
hot heads, cold shoulders

wet blanket, dry wit
soft touch, hard hit
free fall, paid price

quiet praise, loud punishment
silent prayer, noisy curse
rich remembrance, poor purse

dull days, bright nights
sunny mornings, rainy evenings
cool earth, warm fire

blunt remark, sharp laughter
naughty friends, nice strangers
sad faces, happy places

crooked paths, straight courses
rough roads, smooth rides
slow drag, fast track

lost loves, found selves
closed doors, opened windows
classic turns, contemporary twists

same folks, different strokes
early risers, late bloomers
old persons, new poets

               Manna Cruz.
               [From Cruz Poética collection]

I am a figure of my speech,
silenced by the cacophony
but prominent when set
in black and white:

Ironies brim
with sheer hollowness
to fill up my torso;

Onomatopoeias cluck
their click-clacking tongue
in my either cheek;

Oxymorons rear
their pretty ugly one
in my awfully awesome head;

Hyperboles barrel
with a doozy of histrionics
into my huge, heavy heart;

Similes rock
like the Big One
to shake my soul;

Metaphors roll
into long, hard moments
to rouse my mojo.

               Manna Cruz.
               [From Cruz Poética collection]

Sunday’s poets
are deep in praise
of their inspiration
so full of grace;

Monday’s poets
are dressed in dreams
of well-woven words
bursting at the seams;

Tuesday’s poets
are robed in hopes
of lingering lines
turning into tropes;

Wednesday’s poets
are clothed in need
of viable verses,
with mouths to feed;

Thursday’s poets
are wrapped in want
of rhythm and rhyme
to flaunt and vaunt;

Friday’s poets
are spouting thanks
to gracious muses,
who break no banks;

Saturday’s poets
are feeling great,
their works in progress
now in a better state.

               Manna Cruz.
               [From Cruz Poética collection]

Where I fail
at writing poems
good enough
to earn the approval
of the world’s
worthiest judges,

I succeed
at writing ones
bad enough
to earn the appreciation
of my catharsis-seeking self
and the company
hosting my Website.

               Manna Cruz.
               [From Cruz Poética collection]

a clean slate
until ink blots
the blank sheet—

a fresh round
of sinful indulgence
keeping the night
long, hard, alive

               Manna Cruz.
               [From Cruz Poética collection]

before poetry—
bustle, hustle, meh,
stuck at square one

during poetry—
razzle, dazzle, yeah,
turning full circle

after poetry—
bizzle, gizzle, nah,
back to square one

               Manna Cruz.
               [From Cruz Poética collection]

The world is my oyster,
and I shall need and want:

         Heed me, dear Master,
         and my artistic wishes
         unconditionally grant.

The world is my pearl,
and I shall hope and dream:

         Read me, dear Master,
         and my creative juices
         unceasingly let stream.

               Manna Cruz.
               [From Cruz Poética collection]

Where
to everything
there is a season
and a time
to every purpose
under Heaven,

         to every poem
         there is a reason
         for rhythm and rhyme
         to show the poet’s
         journey through Hell—

A time to be born,
and a time to die;
a time to plant,
and a time to pluck up
that which is planted;

         a time to start,
         and a time to end;
         a time to write,
         and a time to delete
         parts already saved;

A time to kill,
and a time to heal;
a time to break down,
and a time to build up;

         a time to overarch,
         and a time to underpin;
         a time to bless,
         and a time to sin;

A time to weep,
and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn,
and a time to dance;

         a time to breathe mindfully,
         and a time to blow a raspberry;
         a time to annoy,
         and a time to entrance;

A time to cast away stones,
and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace,
and a time to refrain from embracing;

         a time to discard entire drafts,
         and a time to compile scribbled-on napkins;
         a time to set goals,
         and a time to restrain the many selves
         from wishful thinking;

A time to seek,
and a time to lose;
a time to keep,
and a time to cast away;

         a time to fall for excuses,
         and a time to rise to challenges;
         a time to keep your wits about you,
         and a time to throw self-doubts in the sewer;

A time to rend,
and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence,
and a time to speak;

         a time to rip verses apart,
         and a time to tweak some lines;
         a time to ignore scathing criticism,
         and a time to welcome suggestions;

A time to love,
and a time to hate;
a time of war,
and a time of peace;

         a time to greet your angels
         and muses and familiars,
         and a time to slay your demons
         and hobgoblins and trolls;
         a time to reject negligible losses
         and epic fails,
         and a time to accept simple successes
         and smashing victories.

               Manna Cruz.
               [From Cruz Poética collection]

Pretty please,
take the time
to chase the rhythm,
to catch the rhyme,

of all my verses
with inspiration written
in hopes of getting you
both shook and smitten—

even without the words
set on them fancy Reels,
do let my lines hit you
smack-dab in the feels.

               Manna Cruz.
               [From Cruz Poética collection]

When furor scribendi
graces your existence
with its whirling presence,
the rhythm fills up the space,
the rhyme falls into place:

Rage detonates the passion,
humdrum erupts into hysteria,
method explodes into madness
—Click, flick, boom!—just like that
but all in a cracking good way.

               Manna Cruz.
               [From Cruz Poética collection]