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Wake! Face the Sun, its early light:
The fire that made the raging night
         Is out, no more to burn and blind
The hope and dream, the main and might.

Rise! Rouse the soul, the heart, the mind
If grace you seek and aim to find;
         I am reborn from ashes strewn
To work your stars so misaligned.

Shine! Shimmer like the forming Moon—
The glow above, arriving soon—
         On words I say, you can rely:
Go, burke the bane, then bag the boon.

Soar! Ride with me across the sky,
With breezes calm, we are to fly;
         Your baggage fling, excesses fight,
To reach it fast—the highest high.

               Manna Cruz.

               [Interlocking rubaiyat
               from the Splendifery collection]

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.

               [Free verse
               from the Cruz Poética collection]

Now more than e’er, so great is my faith
More than e’er, so great is my faith
Than e’er, so great is my faith
E’er, so great is my faith
So great is my faith
Great is my faith
Is my faith
My faith
Faith

               Manna Cruz.

               [A nonet
               from the Invincibilia 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.

               [Free verse
               from the Cruz Poética collection]

I sit on a tuffet
to eat curds, whey, and then some;
from a pie, I pull out a plum
and exclaim like a mad scientist,
“What a genius I am!”

I ring around a rosie as I realize
I can become an Internet sensation
doing incredible content creation
of something totally worth
a doozy of attention.

I go up the hill with some friends
to fetch a pail of ideas that enthrall;
I find my quiet spot and sit on a wall,
careful not to break my crown
or have a great fall.

Along comes a spider
that almost frightens me away,
but, “I come in peace!,” it does say;
so, after introductions and whatnot,
all becomes well; everything, A-OK.

The eight-legged dude hovers
and announces as I ponder,
“You are to explore the vast yonder,
while I attempt to weave you
into the World Wide Web of wonder.”

I go to the meadow thus,
near the sheep and cow in the corn,
then a boy in blue blows his horn
and hurls at me snaps and snails
loaded with spite and scorn.

I flee and end up by a giant shoe,
where an old woman is there living
with children sore from her whipping,
whose beady eyes scream at me,
“911, you should now be calling!”

I resolve the social-services matter,
return to chasing after my dream,
which is a long shot, it may seem,
but, nonetheless, a potentially active,
forever-flowing income stream.

I shall try hitting YouTube pay dirt
by posting videos for tons of views,
turning jerks into prime-time news
or, better yet, spreading rumors
oozing with slimy juice.

I phone my beloved sister
who is tops at giving advice;
she keeps a lamb and is wise—
all sugar, no spice;
not naughty, just nice.

This sage turns out quite contrary
to my vision with learning curves;
so, I shrug her off as she deserves,
as her snow-white fleecy pet’s baas
start getting on my nerves.

I turn to my beloved brother,
whose reaction is nimble and quick:
“Fodder? Go viral? Not your shtick!”
At him, I feel the urgency to throw
brick after brick after brick.

This moron apparently has
his wits all torn and tattered
on the floor, they are scattered
but sharp enough to leave
my each and every hope shattered.

I later run a bath,
my pulsing temples, I rub-a-dub-dub,
with chai to chug and chips to grub,
with salts and room-temperature water
to fill the comforting clawfoot tub.

Again comes the spider
to check in on me vis-à-vis my goal;
I quickly lash out at this tiny troll
that has pushed me deep,
deep down a rabbit hole.

I tell the little animal,
my siblings decide I am no good fit,
bringing bad news just will not cut it;
but if I do not sow intrigue,
my entangled self will have to quit.

The arachnid agrees
but gives its two cents, er, nine,
“You will become a superstar online,
unless the reputation of people
you endeavor to malign.”

I pop my eyes and drop my jaw,
blaming the bug for getting me caught
in some latticework coming to naught;
now, my blockbuster wish is ruined,
and I am officially distraught.

I seek solace from dear Grandma
and raid her stocked-up cupboard;
our conversation leaps far forward
when she kindly suggests I shun
making videos with no holds barred.

I look out the window
and see a diamond in the sky,
twinkling up above the world so high,
much like brilliant material that,
in the YouTube galaxy, will surely fly.

I come across an epiphany of sorts,
remembering the shoe hag’s brood,
who only really need enough food
and, for their impish innocence,
to be fully understood.

Yet again appears the arachnid
or, as I have nicknamed it, “Spidey”;
I now dig its being bossy and nosy,
so, over to a brainstorm,
the two of us prepare to mosey.

Spidey and I take a walk,
seeking the stuff epics are made of,
that are with kids hand in glove,
and which audiences near and far
will admire, adore, applaud, and love.

We go around the bramble bush
on this neither cold nor frosty night,
but how to make the videos right
remains a source of dread, despair,
and, well, dashes of curious delight.

Spidey roams and roves,
pronking and stotting crazily about,
climbs up a diddly-squat water spout,
from which fresh, pure inspiration
all of a sudden gushes out.

Spidey beams from ear to ear,
“I know this lady from down the lane,
who is a senior but snubs the cane;
she wears a lovely red bandana,
for she is vivacious and vain.”

I ask how the lady is relevant
in the quest for sensational material;
“The woman has all the wherewithal
to make your every other vid,” it says,
“nothing short of phenomenal.”

And so we meet the lady vain
who is a gander saucy yet gracious;
I present my problem so vexatious,
and she effortlessly responds
with the one solution so precious.

The saucy gander shares her poetry
that the young and old can watch;
thankfully, there is not any catch
in this deal of ours that no one
can absolutely ever match.

And so, I roll up my sleeves
to animate the rhythm and rhyme;
my now-bestie Spidey, meantime,
sets out to help me conquer
the Web and social media sublime.

Suffice to say,
the YouTube channel is doing well,
with awesome vids to show and tell,
alongside amazing nursery
and kindergarten merch to sell.

I sit on a tuffet, taking five,
to eat pastry, whey, and curds;
out of the pie, two dozen black birds
sing me sixpence’ worth of praises
for smash hit videos free of turds.

Along comes Spidey, as usual,
proposing we all act like royalty
and be merry old souls so free—
tweedle-deeing, tweedle-dumming
in a grand, frolicsome fiddling spree.

Everybody is now having a ball:
Grandma, Saucy Gander, Spidey, and I dance;
my siblings, friends, and subscribers prance;
the monetized YouTube machine cha-chings
in a seemingly endless, happy trance.

               Manna Cruz.

               [Free verse
               from the Unwhole Kit and Caboodle collection]

There was this wood in Micklederry,
where flora and fauna made merry
until the grass, the flowers, the trees,
along with the birds and the bees,
began behaving to the contrary.

               Manna Cruz.

               [A limerick
               from the Mother Nature’s Cornucopia collection]

I’m certainly not one to complain
about not having wine in the cellar,
knowing there can’t be any cellars
where threats of big floods are
this bold, beautiful, blessed land’s
most prominent perennial features;
not forgetting for a moment, too,
about the alcohol intolerance earned
from years, er, decades of experience
trying to thaw my ice-cold spirit.

But I’m about to fly off the handle,
having just opened the fridge door
to none of the lactic tang my saliva
is turning drool, drivel, slobber for—
right now, I don’t really give a damn
if it’s a mere crumb off the cheap block
from the store down the sunk road,
either sharp or mild will do, seriously,
for, if I can’t be the salt of the earth,
I must have even just a quarter
or half a pinch of its semblance
for my dear old unsavory tongue.

               Manna Cruz.

               [Free verse
               from the Horribilia collection]

Crisp, clear, clean is the air
Breathing life into the earth,
With pure caution and care,
Bringing to the world its worth;

Breathing life into the earth,
Giving soul to the fire,
Bringing to the world its worth,
Taming passion and desire;

Giving soul to the fire,
Stirring spirit into the water,
Taming passion and desire
For the son, for the daughter;

Stirring spirit into the water
With pure caution and care,
For the son, for the daughter,
Crisp, clear, clean is the air.

               Manna Cruz.

               [A pantoum
               from the Mother Nature’s Cornucopia collection]

I tried doing an Ehrmann
by being myself, not feigning affection,
but with too many vexations to the spirit,
I’d had to deal with so much affliction.

I tried doing a Brothers Grimm
by living happily ever after;
I didn’t know it wasn’t for solo,
so, I became the butt of laughter.

I tried doing a Longfellow
by shooting an arrow into the air;
I hit darling Cupid in the process,
and made his little nostrils flare.

I tried doing a Saint-Exupéry
by seeing things invisible to the eye,
then The Little Prince blindsided my heart
and left me alone in the desert to die.

I tried doing a Kipling
by meeting with Triumph and Disaster;
I’d get stuck with this nasty tandem
for, hopefully, shorter than forever.

I tried doing a Horace
by joining Instructions with Delight,
with no idea what next to do,
I’d end up more wrong than right.

I tried doing an Aesop
by never being in haste;
I took my time to write a rhyme
that eventually went to waste.

I tried doing a Henley
by thanking whatever gods might be
in the bumble, in the stumble,
amid my lack of creativity.

I tried doing a Khayyam
by seeking paradise in a jug of wine;
forgetting my alcohol intolerance,
I’d have rashes riddling my waistline.

I tried doing a Confucius
by rising every time I fell,
but on my way to Heaven,
I paved the road to Hell.

I tried doing a Jesus Christ
by believing in everlasting life,
but Doubting Thomas meddled,
and all I’d face next was strife.

I tried doing a Mother Nature
by playing neat and making nice,
but moods, like climates, changed—
so, surprise, surprise, surprise!

               Manna Cruz.

               [Free verse
               from The Dear Collection]

Rhyme to the snob is never enough,
Unless it comes from them superior;
Rhythm from raw musings is fluff.

Huff, puff, scratch your scruff,
For your poetaster’s art is inferior;
Rhyme to the snob is never enough.

Absolutely no writing off the cuff,
Or you will never be a revered senior;
Rhythm from raw musings is fluff.

No clichés on the tumble and rough,
None to appear amateur and junior;
Rhyme to the snob is never enough.

But you can choose to do your stuff,
Ignoring that, from interior to exterior,
Rhythm from raw musings is fluff.

So, just get going and stay tough
As an artful poetaster and storier!
Rhyme to the snob is never enough,
Rhythm from raw musings is fluff.

               Manna Cruz.

               [A villanelle
               from the 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.

               [Free verse
               from the Cruz Poética collection]

I am one to talk because this is my being—
so made by the Prime Mover to enjoy pure air,
to walk and run in freedom across the good earth,
to build and keep in my belly a raging fire,
to dance and sing praises in the calming water,
to take my proper place in the element fifth.

I am well embedded in the element fifth:
body, mind, heart, soul, spirit—My entire being
covers length, width, and breadth of the water,
travels north, east, west, and south with the air;
it warmly welcomes the bright tongues of the fire
and coolly cradles the dim shades of the earth.

Planted I am deep within layers of the earth,
true to my promise to the element fifth,
all the while stoking the flames of the fire
that purifies the core of my being;
thereafter, I will whistle for wisps of the air
to conjure up the splashing of the water.

Stirring I am with the waves of water,
I prepare to fly above the expanse of earth,
high into the stratospheric currents of air;
and though I strive to be of the element fifth,
I am to take command of my own being,
and be quite ready for my baptism of fire.

Ignited I am now by the cleansing fire,
I emerge from the crests and troughs of water,
proudly, yet humbly, presenting my being
as a rich contribution to the earth,
a fair entity within the element fifth,
and, rather hopefully, a breath of fresh air.

Spinning I am in the midst of sanctified air
to celebrate having been forged in fire,
I am in harmony with the element fifth:
faithfully strengthened by the wild water
and thoroughly solidified by the raw earth,
reaching the fullness, the ripeness of my being.

The air is my spirit and so is the water;
the fire is my soul and so is the earth;
four elements and the fifth shape my being.

               Manna Cruz.

               [A sestina
               from The Dear 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.

               [Free verse
               from the Cruz Poética collection]

In times you can’t figure out
How to cast away self-doubt,
Remember what smart souls say:
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

If you need some more advice,
Since the phrase doesn’t suffice,
It’s what wise hearts all apply:
“Do as you would be done by.”

And if you’re held back looking
For words on the best timing,
Don’t dare wait until you rot,
Strike while the iron is hot!

               Manna Cruz.

               [A tanaga
               from the Cruz Poética collection]

Where is the police officer
When you need him or her,
Or “them,” as the case may be?

         The dude was up and about
         But would curiously clock out
         Once the winds barreled in from the sea.

Where is the firefighter
When needed to pump water
Into the worst-ever conflagration?

         That fellow into thin air vanished
         And could be outright punished
         For seeming remiss in an obligation.

And where are the soldiers,
Who are sworn to protect others,
Now that there are threats to the peace?

         They went far and away,
         To where exactly, no one would say,
         But likely in the jungle, beyond trees.

So, who are these people
As cold and as stiff as the steeple
Of a church with bells slowly tolling?

         The police officer, the firefighter,
         And many a soldier, for whom
         Prayers we will soon be reciting.

What the hell must we do that for,
When they deserve the lowest score
For duty’s damning dereliction?

         They drowned, they were charred,
         They were felled, boots on the ground,
         Having quietly left spotlight and opinion:

         Without question or complaint,
         Without condition or restraint,
         So we could freely, all too liberally,
                  carry this conversation.



=========
In memory and honor
of all the unsung heroes
and heroines in uniform,
who had risked life and limb—
and made the ultimate sacrifice—
in the name of public safety
and area security.

               Manna Cruz.

               [Free verse
               from the Something or Other collection]

Wait! Need and want our world does feel
When thirst dries up our throats for real
         When hunger pangs are biting hard—
What we would give for one small meal!

In doom and gloom, we wish for stars,
For all the wounds, for all the scars,
         To grant us soon some great rewards
Earned well across life’s many wars.

The taste so sweet of blessings sought—
The breath, the pulse, the verve thus brought
         Through prayers thrown to skies above—
Deserves much care in deed and thought.

As mercy grants us, so we use,
Not one, not all, we will refuse—
         The nourishment is now within,
With fine ambrosia to amuse.

We join the feast and share the grace—
Our souls and hearts and minds embrace
         The gifts of faith, of hope, of love;
Our bodies brim with glowing praise.

Our songs of thanks now loud and clear,
The heavens see, the heavens hear:
         Mellifluous with gratitude—
Our laughter pure, our voices dear!

               Manna Cruz.

               [Rubā‘iyyāt
               from the Invincibilia collection]