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ConnectHook Oct 2015
Oh Language, where hast thou hid thyself?
Thy once-bright spires decline to dust.
The calm, well-reasoned flow of wisdom
a bygone memory. I’ll not trust
these tween-to-twenty-something’s prattle;
endless babble of self-absorption
centered in pleasure-maximizing:
narcissistic thought-abortion.
Dude—they’re SO not app’ed for language
used by dad ten years ago.
I’m totally DONE with their, like, verbiage
They’re all: Smartphone Teenage Show.
It’s just, like, TALKING—without words
in language ghettos; texting proud . . .
Their lack of precision offends my brain—
They ought to be ashamed (out loud).

Vygotsky’s vaunted Z.P.D,
and Bakhtin’s heteroglossic crack
along with Roland Barthe’s pet parrot
Are SO like totally talking smack.

Bilingual Baby Boy Does Not Spill A Word.*

Trilingual Dances
Imagined by
Impecccable Space
Poetic beauty
William Keckler Nov 2014
If the tiles of talking
are replaced by something else,
say, lexical snowflakes,

where will our linear minds be?
It's not that we don't understand
weird, multifoliate simultaneities

in dreams, in anguish,
or in ecstasy. It's just
the rest of the dumb time

we stand there and pull
from our mouths a usual
piece of numb string.
Elijah Corbeau Aug 2014
Once there was a simple song, from which all songs did spring,
It was smooth, soft and sweet - 'Twas a pretty thing.
But the song grew tired - For so long had it sung alone
That bereft of a simple love, it returned to it's single home.
And through the morning forests, and through the far-off seas,
The early things set to waiting for the Song of Autumn Leaves-

And so this song was one day borne, into a waiting world
And captured in the softened form- Of a baby girl.
And this girl would travel the world, blessed with a gift of singing
Praised for her golden voice, revered for her hope and dreaming-
So the forests began to rustle, and the seas soon went to discussing
About this sweet and simple girl, to whom to they turned to trusting
For she was borne to help the healing of a troubled land
Asking nothing in return,to give everything she had
As the years went passing by, she slowly came to think
That no one loved her for her, they only wanted her to sing.
Then she swore to silence, so the forests and seas began to craft
A wooden man with a heart of pearl to help her love and laugh-
Set at the foot of a far-off coast, The wooden man began to look
For the hiding place of the Autumn Song, and as it was it took
Years before he found her, And the winds grew colder on each,
Without her voice to guide him, she was never within his reach.
So he climbed to the top of a mountain, and gazed out to look afar
And spied her lying in a moonlit field, in the Valley of the Falling Star.
So quickly he went to her, and in the valley set to easing her mind
Tickling her with a leafy branch - She laughed for the first time!
And he told her stories, of things he had done and seen
When trying desperately to find her, so that her eyes began to gleam.
And then quite gently, he asked her what was wrong
And smiling so beautifully, she obliged him with a song-
And the song moved him so, that the wooden man began to cry,
And when his sappy tears touched him, the wooden man came alive!
And the joy the two discovered was a thing of natural beauty,
And their love became a legend - It was so soft, sweet and soothing
That it stood in song for ages hence, an example of what could be
When mankind mingles with sound, of when music and nature meet.
A song for the dreamers...
Lyra O Jul 2014
At this advanced stage
of our labiodental skirmish
& alveopalatal explorations
Words won't come anymore

Only mangled morphemes going
in & out of you going
in & out of me
Only tangled utterances tripping
over themselves in utter haste
Shapeless & shameless

Proper articulation is abandoned
along with all other senses
of propriety

& The critical period is past
& The critical period is coming

& Words won't come at all
but even if they don't

Using my tongue
I can still make you
I'm just going to dump all of my old + new poems here. This one's from a few days back.

— The End —