Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
My Mother's tongue was gin
She used it best for cursing in

My absentee Father was an Irish rogue
His drunken Dublin drawl a joke

Uncle Jim lisped through his cheek
A stroke survivor with a bad mouth leak

Billy, my cousin, rattled on repeat
Stuttered like a Gattling Gun on heat

Old Nanny Mabel whistled like a flute
****** and tutted on her one black tooth

Our Mam's deaf younger sister, never Auntie
Spoke with her hands cos of Meningitis

All the Teachers talked with slippers and canes
All the Police just clipped us behind the ears

All the Posh Nobs said nowt, but looked
Down their noses with pity at us

Everyone, and i mean everybody
Smelled of drink, smoke, and unwashed bodies

Everybody, and i mean every mouth
Ate while they spoke, and spat stuff out

I haven't escaped the old Mother Tongues
I revert to the speech I knew when young

Yes, I still speak the Gallus when I'm up there, Whitby bred -
Strong in the arm, thick in the head
You can take the Poet out of the town, but... Etc Etc

Gallus is the old dialect name for that rough part of Whitby where I grew up. Most of the town couldn't understand us when we spoke and we were thought of as a rough lot.
Come I’, Sit daahn, Shurrup,
Wor t' fust thin 'a' ah 'eard.
So ah grabbed uz buk fra t' back.
‘n prepared for summa’ absurd

An exam ont’ fust day ah exclaimed!
As uz face exploded wi’ rage
Ah dead eyed ‘im fra across t’ room
‘n reluctantly turned t’ page

T’ year continued like ‘dis,
‘n uz nem appeared ont’ board
‘n ta quote wah’ I’d learnt fra’ uz studies,
Ah felt wretched ‘n abhorred

Tahhm passed by,
‘n 'e 'n class began ta connect.
n suddenly 'a' dislikin,
turned inter respect.

Tahhm went furtha,
as 'e yelled 'n laughed 'n cussed,
‘n suddenly ‘a’ respect,
turned inter complete trust.

‘e’d lern wee randa facts,
‘n sha wee gormless vids.
'e’d respect wee li' adults,
'n nivva' treat wee li' kids.

'n even when ah wor glum,
‘n wasn’t feelin missen,
‘e’d finn' eur way ta use 'is words
ta nurse uz back ta 'ealth.

‘n when 'e sez 'e wor leavin, everybody’s 'eart cried,
We didn’t want ta seh tarreur,
teur t' bloke who’d bin ah guide

Sa t' best we can doa is come togetha,
‘n gatha orl wee folks.
'n wish t' best o' luck ta ah ‘un 'n onny,
Yorksha bloke.
Loameo, Decomposeo, Scaremoleo, Romeo RIP.
A sazhen deep l/ a kulak, kozy.
Down here, hic jacet Jared, or some other
hick l/  me, face it. Grauballe greenhorn's chia
pet ***** moss my roof, arbuscules anagenic.
Ignomio in nightsoil, netty Chthonically kerbkicked.

Dirt heart of dark heath, a daft felodese.
What did my dark daffodil periscopes see?
A merry widow that reneged midway on the pact.
Ethereal barefootedness on my deadman's doormat.
No Elysian toejam on  brazen untumbling Jill.
Julie Judas, whose stayed hand waives a ne'erdofarewell.

Her sweetheart leprous w/ wet weapon seepage
of winterstices. Yellow leather thews fuel spoilage,
foison of the fomes my former foison bequeathed
to Nitrogen's garden, gravestrewn global glebe.
My mournedover mould, from my Morlock Tafilafet,
sprighettis dustland & brushbowl, on rebound from Juliette.

Waldeinsamkeit my plight, but a lil' lower
down I floundirt. The dead autistic as the flower,
that strains past the compost of my final
season of gas & mellow fertilicer, mortal fruitful
-ness, l/ that ribburst Deianira
(her freewill blackball, plucky gibbous bloodpear).

W/ that valiant apple, Apple Lily unravelled
zombie Eden. Julie-Eve  d'aujourd' hui resiled
tho'. Thus alone I fell thru this mortuary
orchard,  l/ a worm thru stewed apple, to dormitories
of mouldwarps. Atop my catabolism,
postapocalyptic allotments! No voar for alyssum,

not even upon the fullblown Ides. Her betrayal
harvest has the ecology gross w/ her turned tail's
martyr. Putridly, I pullulate a larval *******
of laurel bandages, Avalon Mole by recycling carnage
of some Pomona Braithwaite int'a Seamus Heaney
Swamp Thing sludge loved. Spleen spores, organic bicne.

Infusorians party in my tears. An epic lettuce
gloats where cartilaginous flap over my glottis
fingered stops of pickup artistry after Petrarch. A
backtracking princess of dwales, to Proserpina Harker
ceded me.  Bride of all corpses, bog queen boss of bosses
cannibalised Loameo, ironically, for locus amoenus.
frankie Apr 2018
with each word that you speak to me
i am blindsided with a false reality
that there is still and us and we never ceased to be
but then i am reminded that those words that drip from the lips i once kissed
are from a platonic tongue that i do not want to know just yet
i’m still clinging onto a dialectic of romance that had kissed after each syllable and made my heart melt with each phrase
this change in language i cannot accept and it hurts too much to be exposed
A T Bockholdt Jan 2018
Lucy, you’re all white
bone-dry hands
but ya face ain’t calm—

Said you were almost complete
dancin on your two feet
but that rouge never lasts till dawn.

Girl you’ve walked the night
long as we can remember
whole worlds seen your hips sway—

Ever wish your secrets had stayed buried?
Baby, s'too late to worry
you’ve been embalmed in fame.
Fun fact: only 51% of young Americans (under 30) believe in evolution. Which means 49% do not, and that statistic is higher in older demographics! Lucy is the oldest, "most complete," skeleton of a human (female) that we have found to date! She's 3.2 million years old
Carlos Oct 2017
My own points of view,
Distilled in a dialect of disjointed truths,
Don't know how best to say this,
But without artistic expression every other word is tasteless.
Can't stop, can't become complacent,
But the other side watches me from perspectives placed adjacent.
Wish I made it,
Wish the whole world was just a little bit less abrasive.
Can't say I understand it much at all,
But maybe you could decipher something worthwhile in my cryptic scrawls.
Easy to see the whole world as corrupt,
But I'd much rather see it as majestic as ****.
Brent Kincaid Mar 2017
They’s times when I
Jess cain’t say it good
And times when I am
Jess plain amazing;
Then teachers and snobs
Seem to all agree and
Subject whut I say to
Harsh degrees of hazing.

It seems like they ain’t never
Said the wrong word before
Whatever, they jess don’t
Seem to put me on ignore
And move to importanter things
Than grammarical stuff;
As fer me, I’m jess turnin’ them off
‘Cause I have had me enough.

I only had me an education
Up to the eleventh grade or so
A whole buncht of that silly stuff
I got told  but I still don’t know.
My dad and my mom too
They got taught just like me.
And I talk good enough for them.
Change my perfectly acceptable talk?
Really now, the chances are slim.

We say ain’t and cain’t and acrost
And other such acceptable words.
And some of the more ‘proper’ things
Ain’t nothin’ but jess plain absurd.
Like widdershins and tatterdemalion,
Sequipedalian, octogenarian as well.
If I’m expected to talk like that
Y’all can just go straight to hell.
Scarlet Keiller Jan 2017
His words are fluid yet languid until
he changes tongues and becomes another
person entirely. His sounds become strong
and incomprehensible as he weaves
his way from language to language, dialect
to dialect. He is the manager
of worlds, the linguist. In his mind, his original
language is not his, for he is only
relaxed when amongst the foreign nature
of other languages. The rasping, uncommon
tongue of home is not comforting to him
anymore, so he will rapidly intake
other places until he finds another
sound that resonates within him.
~~ Take me anywhere away from home. ~~
Chris Neilson Aug 2016
I noticed blackberries in my hedge
juicy, ripe and ready for picking 'em
ran for something to put 'em in
don't want anyone else nicking 'em

Washed 'em, rinsed 'em, put 'em in a bag
had a notion to freeze 'em
sealed 'em in a freezer bag
labelled 'em and dated 'em

When my mam next makes a pie
she'll have 'em then defrost 'em
no one makes blackberry pie as good as my mam
when she bakes 'em, she should sell 'em

We sloppily drop our "th's" round our way
if you see other poets, don't tell 'em
Where I live in Northern England, people don't live in our neighbourhood, they live "round our way". i,e "yes, I know Dave Smith, he lives round our way"
Äŧül Aug 2016
Just why, baby...
But why, oh baby why?
Ditched me, just         because
      I could not               find any time
                                  Free from my
                        Efforts to get a
         Decent life
For both
Of us to
Spend
Our
Life
Dear
Love?
A Haiku of a different kind.

Concrete Poetry

Kaiku simply means "why?" in the Tapori dialect of urban South India.

My HP Poem #1110
©Atul Kaushal
Next page