#accent
so now, do I, I do,
he favors the the top of my breast ,
where the spaghetti strap leads
his eye lower, to the fulsome swelling,
curves he favors in a linear
world
these magnets of human flesh are
attributes of me, unsolicited, part
of my “collegial endowment” and
yet,
no denial,
this egg of my accent,
a fullness employable, knows well,
full employment
ah, mon oeuf d'accent,
the accent of my accidental,
for lives are just linear lines
warped occasionally, nicely.
swelling in wonderful frailty,
the curvature of the human
eyes, that draw curves of
human spirit,
^that are drawn by sprites
with wickedly humorous
insight*
Dec 6, 2023
Dec 6, 2023 at 3:55 PM UTC
I'm that girl with the Australian accent
I'm the poet who writes in the corner
When the party is getting boring
You'll find me with my journal writing scribbles with my blue pen
I get easily distracted
I tend to feel fat most of the time
Sometimes I seem to lose my passion
Until I hear Ani DiFranco and my heart is set on fire
I fall in love so ******* easily
I'll see your ocean eyes and fall upon my knees
Suddenly I'll see your face on every street
Secretly hoping that one day you'll want to marry me
I'm that girl that got bullied all through school
I think that being different is a fun activity to do
I might get rejected on a regular basis
Rejects tell the most interesting stories
I'm that girl whose got bipolar and anxiety
I've been hospitalised for both of these things
I lost my faith in the mental health system
I know that no one has the decency to fix it
I'm that girl with the Australian accent
I'll always love even if I don't receive it
My best friend has always been Jesus
When I die I'll leave behind the words I write with this blue pen
Dec 31, 2020
Dec 31, 2020 at 1:27 PM UTC
Aristotle at my fingertips,
not locked in soliloquies I may perform,
but heard from an Oxford don I have
in my pocket,
as I lean into each lesson and trudge
up and down my morning
constitutional,
where the firebreak meets
chaparral alive with cottontail
this morning, when I almost said, "it's too hot."
C'mon, walk a mile with me… like
on the road to Emmaus, but Christ, no;
this character,
a soldier in me, about to salt out, bids me,
walk a mile, "not two, one
does the trick."
The thought comes
as a dare from the Ralston Purina guy,
and I stepped onto my trail.
I dare think Aristotle's thoughts after Plato's,
thinking
I could have known this when I was younger,
but not to this degree,
if I had not dropped out, and never knew,
by rote,
to pass a test, that
"All men by nature desire to know."
This is
Curiosity, right? I suspect it is a gift.
The joy we find in sensation, proof
offered the gainsayer,
I say again, that which is good for nothing
never
never
naturally exists, so
what tool forms an eye to notice that…
see, through the window
of my poetic-pathetic e-thoughtic soul
a feathery
family of phoebe birds, flits by,
if that is the proper name
{Tufted-Titmouse, my AI replies},
tails reflecting a smokey blue hue,
they swoop and flutter past;
I see
in a non-imaged flashpast pattern
from a time in the summer of 1969…
Disneyfied trails
from Cinderella's dressing room
scene, not seen, but reminded of seeing,
the pattern, in this phantomind dance,
being witnessed now, as
this old soldier once saw it
performed by bluer birds than these…
Time skipper
shifts to another bubble intersecting mine
and
I hear a worried neighbor fret about the fire.
I almost say,
"One of the benefits of being
backedup to the cloud,
nothing to lose."
But I remember, she collects purses and shoes.
Sep 7, 2020
Sep 7, 2020 at 12:16 PM UTC
Here’s hoping that you never lose that accent
That once brought me so much joy
That I forgot all about the war outside-
No guns ringing in my min,
Just words of yours blowing in my ear
Like a cherry blossom wind
In the morning
With the sun climbing up the ivy
And pressing his face against window
To look in envy at how you love me.
Here’s hoping you never lose that accent
That I knew when I was just a boy,
Oh very young
Playing in your room
And there were lines falling from you mouth
Like orange water from the jug
All over my chest
You froze my heart, baby,
Froze it so I couldn’t breath.
Something about the way you fed me
Made me want to believe.
I hope you kept that accent you had,
The one that used to drive me mad
When we were both eighteen
And you were the only woman I had ever seen,
In the days when I would lie with you
Knowing in my heart that I would die with you
In the days before I ever knew
That I was, in fact, only born to lose you.
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 4:50 PM UTC
_Did you decide who I was before or after you spoke to me?
Did you decide to speak to me - or not - because of how I was dressed, what I looked like, my job, my education, my choice of beverage, my height, my accent, or my scintillating conversation with your plus one about the benefits of suburban parking spaces?
And who are you? Do you know? Are you sure? Did you dress yourself or did your date choose that sweater for you? Did you grow that ironic beard for her? Are you happy in your work, or just pretend to be to keep the peace? Did you miss taking up that scholarship because your family moved out of state?
Did someone ask you to hold their glass while they whipped to the loo? Do you slouch to compensate for those years of dance lessons which make you look too...straight? Are you trying to hide that southern twang? Do you talk ******* when conversing with strangers and tend to come across as a complete *****
I thought so, go figure!_
Nov 9, 2019
Nov 9, 2019 at 3:30 PM UTC
Chance
What's the chance of anything changing?
Rearrange it; rediscover how to say it
And maybe we could avoid failing and aging.
Become immortal, or never thought of.
Chuckle, chortle, show the world your prose.
Your vernacular, may sound peculiar,
To those who speak another language;
But these words are yours, the accent your own,
Do not allow your soul to become languid,
By those who only criticize.
Take a chance and maybe you could say something right.
Maybe you could find a love to believe in
And maybe you could learn how to fly.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 8:07 AM UTC
haaaay you???
you must got me some kind confused?
caused
i mean
did you think i was ever gonna love you,
trust YOU.
better gon'on find another little TRICK
to play cause i ain't no trick.
by gollie you better find you 'nother one.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 3:32 PM UTC
Speak to me.
Your accent brings a smile to my face.
You make the words more beautiful.
I could happily listen to you talk about anything
And I would be amazed at the language you speak,
As it appears to be tangible.
I want to pluck your words from the air before they drift away.
I want to lift you up from any despair;
No harm should ever be sent your way.
I want to save you.
I will try to amaze you by telling you my truth;
I dream about you.
Well, not exactly you; just the image I have formed,
Of the ideal woman. She stands out from the norm,
For she is rather extraordinary.
I hope you are her; I have been waiting patiently,
For love to find me; I’m oh so ready to embrace love.
Are you made for me? Because I am love in human form.
If I were to become yours, would you want to be adored?
And cherished and kissed and merry and picked
Ahead of all others?
My chosen, let’s watch Frozen,
So I can hear the voice of an angel.
I have no need to change the channel.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
money speaks in an accent
few can quite
understand
there's a certain inflection on
the cash forked out by
a hand
a tongue knowing
how to enunciate
will garner favors
which nicely inflate
the dialect is foreign
and of an unusual
hone
those having an ear for it
receive a likeable
tone
talking quids requires
a most refined voice
where the buyer has an
unfair advantage of choice
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 7:22 PM UTC
We can't be perfect
No matter what
At least one aspect
Won't make the cut
Maybe it's all a sign
Can't be 100, so be 99
Life, a list of chores
It's not going to be easy
But it's always yours
You'll start to feel crazy
When it's not all fine
Can't be 100, so be 99
The last percent
Can't be attained
Because it's an accent
Rather than feel stained
Call it mine
Can't be 100, so be 99
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 12:40 AM UTC
He holds it comfortably in his mouth
Like a boiled sweet or a segment of orange
And when he says it , the sound is natural.
As if worn leather or turned wood could speak,
It sounds homely like a crackling log fire
But is also jarring like a metal nail
being dragged across a piece of slate.
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC
I love how you pronounce my name,
so out of accent or character.
You make it sound so special.
as though it may belong to Someone else completely,
But you spell it out of conjecture.
you are always there,
in the back of my mind.
creeping down my spine ,
with everything that reminds me of you.
I wonder if that's the same with you?
I love how quirky and weird you are.
I love your extravagant exaggerations,
I love how I can pick you out of a crowd.
Even when you are walking miles away
with your back to me.
wearing that stupid scarf I gave you.
just so it reminds me of you
The obsession is just half the queer.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 6:32 PM UTC
She kissed your cheek and smiled widely,
the corners of her mouth almost touching her
impeccably tattooed eyebrows.
She was not what you had pictured
from the back and forth email conversations
on quotes and designs and sizes.
She asked you to take a seat as she went to
smoke a cigarette outside the shop with a coworker;
Anna was her name...with two jack russel terriers -
one of them is like a honey badger apparently.
It's funny how the mind remembers certain things...
the way the smoke on her tongue smelled as she leaned in
adding ink to her needle,
or the song she kept humming while you
bit your tongue and stared at the decorated ceiling.
But the pain of the needle depositing the
ink
into your skin was welcome...
It was nothing compared to the internal turmoil you were
experiencing the past seven days.
It almost felt good...
Not adrenaline good, but like good that you were capable of
feeling
something besides sadness and anger.
In the Barcelona airport two days earlier, you made your appointment.
One on your hip, one on your foot
100 pound deposit. No problem.
You needed something to occupy your
mind
from the pain it endured over your "holiday."
So much for a holiday...
Surprise! Your friend is a backstabbing *****
who "secretly" hates you and tried to
ditch you repeatedly.
The needle grazes your hipbone and you wince.
"You okay?" Tota coos in her Italian accent.
You nod, but you know you're not really okay...
You never were...probably never will be OKAY.
Your mind wanders...wishing you were home
and not in London, three thousand miles away from
the only people who seem to care.
"Done!" Tota exclaims.
You examine her work, smiling.
The first time you have smiled in days.
"Get ready...this one is gona hurt!" she says, half excited.
You don't care...nothing can hurt more than your heart...
Too bad that can't be tattooed...
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
top-o-themarnintoyee
bowts&bo;
wts&bow;
ts&bowt;
s&bowts;
-dot.
th’orizon
like-
(c S
C o A n
f T
T e E
t R
R
t E i)
D.
-o’er te blew
th’salty err shmellshlike.
home.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
Panama city is
Where I saw you
In a surf shop
Working your hour
Me an my grandpa walked in
Looking for directions
For the restroom....
Out of all the girls in the shop
He walks up to you
Your amazing beautiful light blues eyes
Are what caught me
With your amazing blonde hair
I thought
(Wow)
Then my grandpa asked
Where's the bathroom?
You answered with by
Five guys
When you spoke I felt
The universe grab me
Your voice took me on a
Psychedelic trip
Your voice the music in my
Trip
I will never forget that
German Accent
6-26-15
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 2:35 AM UTC
your accent is like, cherry-caramel to my ears
my favourite flavour, and it kills
me when you stop talking, to ask if I am
listening; I hear your tones more than your
words, my dear
keep talking
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC
and his voice is melodic to me
captivatingly beautiful
like music
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
your accent is like cherry-caramel to my ears
my favourite flavour, and it kills
me when you stop talking, to ask if I am
listening; I hear your tones more than your
words, my dear
keep talking
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
His voice should be made into a cassette tape,
I'd carry it wherever I'd go,
His eyes are so piercing I'd be afraid if the stars themselves go dull,
Images in my head, engraved in my skull,
I love it when he calls me "love",
Quite ironic if you ask me,
The Great Brit!
The Great Brit!
Great Britain you see,
Where I'd much rather be,
It's much more than what I could have dreamed,
Hearing his voice ring in my ears as lovely as can be,
I think he can't agree,
Agree with me,
He believes his voice is short of magnificent,
His voice is a sweet instrument,
Must I end this right now and here?
For all I get caught up in is his voice in my ears.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:36 PM UTC
she was wearing soft red lips
and blue eyes as deep as the ocean
and a shirt that read “THIS WILL DESTROY YOU”
and you should’ve known then but it was already too late
too late
too late
and you were already moving, already in motion
she made her darkness shine like gold.
she was wrapped in silk and satin
that would have burned you if you tried to touch
and she was sitting by a window
waiting for you.
she wanted to keep her sadness close
and her vastness open.
she didn’t understand what it meant to be the moon
and you should’ve known then but it was already too late
and you were already moving.
she was a wolf, she said
and her knowledge could eat you
alive.
you, on the other hand
have always been a deer.
she spoke with a voice of lush and luxury
and wore her jacket over her shoulders
on the first day of spring.
her enigma was thrilling
and she scared you
almost to death
but not enough to make you leave.
she had hands of ice
and the breath of heartbreak.
she still remembered how to laugh
however cynical.
she was just as lost and dismembered as anyone else
but knew how to hide it
among sharpened knives
and glasses of red wine.
she loved the thought of drowning
but yearned to be saved
and asked you for help.
she let you in
but she was a self-proclaimed goddess
with secrets deeper
than your lungs.
she was water
and you have always been air
and you should’ve known then but it was already too late
and you were already moving.
the whole time you moved within one word
and that word carried you to places she never could:
chance.
she tried to warn you
she knew she couldn’t be the person you loved
yet somehow you still did
somehow you still did
(she) did still you, somehow
somehow you still did.
it was already too late
late too, already, was it?
it was already too late.
before you even met her
before you even saw her turn around in that coffee shop
before her smile
before her accent reached your ears
before your arms touched
before she read her writing to you
before she opened
before she placed her hand on your back
before you watched her walk away down the dark city street for the first and last time
before you met the body behind the screen, you did
you loved the words.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
I'm terrible at times...
So,
I try and salvage what verve remains
after curbing the chaos of my thoughts
to make up for the atrocity
that is me.
Then, I'm not so terrible.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 4:48 AM UTC
spent years wandering halls
cutting the "i" from my sentences
forming words from vowels
and emotions from consonants
hard and solid, but nothing
without that internal structure
guess that describes me pretty well
all consonants, harsh "t" and definite "d"
and the ever-slippery "y", like me
never making up its mind
felt like a half-learned language
still do, really
like someone forgot to learn the proper nouns
forgot to turn the sentence around
grab the sound and speak it
there's an accent colouring my life
awkward and stuttering, unsure
and never fluent enough
to step in time with the music
for long enough to make it matter
words from vowels
and emotions from consonants
hard and solid, but nothing
without that internal structure
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 1:34 AM UTC