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seed in the womb
slow germination

a rickety road
to travel

born into light
out warm darkness

one candle flame
to burn

shoes for shod
complaining soles

stories collected
seeding poetry.
-
Those who remember the suns beauty
Have long gone blind,
For they dared to stare
In a well so dark
Of light and love entwined.

They sought to find true solace,
Not in tufts of white,
But where streaks of lightning
Scarred a face
And shone a body might.

But one must know to love so far —
A love so deep,
To love beyond where
Boundaries meet.

Love can fall beyond your will,
To where tides roared loud,
But now lay still.

Oh, how cruel is the nature's way
To isolate such purity miles away.

Veiled in celestial gowns of space,
Caged behind blinding light,
A face.

Punished by nature's cruel ways,
Mourns a loss in tears of fiery haze.

A fatal curse of never ending pain,
Burdened by the loss of being loved
So true.

It kills its lover who reaches beyond
Barriers and masks of nature's blue.

The sun is bound by nature's wrath
To never dream of love
And be loved back.

So till this day —
Brighter, and louder,
It grieves
The brave hearts it’s killed,
And bound to leave.

-
Even the truest love, when bound by fate, can only burn from afar.

Hello! Long time no see!
Your sins and my sins.
Completely different beasts.
We repent the same.
I woke up this autumn Sunday morning
with papier-mâché clouds performing
like a ticker-tape parade from left to right
a strong breeze doodling fall leaves to flight
The birds are just gliding, no flapping in sight.

Today’s a free day, a don’t mess with me day.
I’ve no homework, or assignments
it’s like I’ve escaped from confinement
even my coffee tasted like creamy freedom.

What do you do when you don’t have to do
anything? Why, I could write a play, like Mozart,
or an opera, like Shakespeare - if I were THAT smart -
but don’t those sound like academic effort to you?

I want to hold hands in the park and promenade,
Peter loves strolling the flower markets by the Seine,  
a gelato at Amorino after lunch at the Saint James cafe,
and the rain or shine street art at Rue Saint-Rustique.

Isn’t boyfriend-time the best way to spend a Sunday?
.
.
Songs for this:
Waterguns (feat. Tom Bailey) by Caravan Palace
Backyard Boy by Claire Rosinkranz
Dreamin' by G. Love & Special Sauce
~for all of us, we wee
musicians of language~

and Moni Nichter

===========

neither linguist or musicologist.
not scholar, not student,
these are not my attributes,
characteristics or skills,
not a confess, just a blessing that wasn't mine to receive

perhaps,
if in my meager possess,
there were a skill, overlapping yours, intermingling,

(do  you hear the music in that word,
the ding-a-lingo-ing of "intermingling"?)


could be, maybe, the heated flush one feels,
when cogently-new-knowing
a patterns of recognition
evolving from the daily oceans of sounds,
sound waves, waves upon waves upon waves touch~clashing,
that traverse, transverse, our collective tissues connective,
upon  crossbeams that support our
consensual commonality of senses,
in whatever language and culture
we primately, or even privately, inhabit,
this

overlapping, I love, I cherish, I take,
to this music with/of lovely words

(do you hear the waves
in my brain, the words I know, washing ashore,
leaving the wet sand,
that's are the building blocks that we all own?)


new words washed up yesterday,
"new scales of language"

language,
the great divisor,
surely, many of us have experienced the
helplessness of infancy,
when we travel to another country where
we are helplessly stranded, shocked by our inabilities,
when senses are shocked by the
scales of language that our brain cannot
iterate, not even once…

a new music, a new scale

I pulse with excited fear,
new music to learn,
how came we to be so blessedly challenged?
                                                                            ­                         

nml.                                                         ­            10/15/25 a progression
Languages use musical elements like pitch, rhythm, and intonation to convey meaning, emotion, and structure. Pitch can distinguish words in tonal languages, while intonation and rhythm form prosody, which conveys emotion and emphasis. Both language and music share structural similarities and rely on similar brain networks for processing, creating a strong link between the two.
I have my biggest enemy,
living in the mirror,
her eyes looks at me with disgust,
whispering poison into my bones.

She starved me with her demands,
shaped me with her lies,
painted over my scars
as if hiding me could please her.

She made me wear pointy heels.
Even when my back cried.
Just to fit the beauty standards,
She even turned my beautiful curls to frizzy straight.

No matter how I bent,
how I changed, how I tried,
she never smiled.
She always made me insecure.

We got into a huge fight
And I ended up hating her...
The first one wrote the second's tune,
it built this place, it picked the room.

The second knelt, all faith and flame,
and whispered back the first one's name.

The third just laughed, unlaced its tie,
walked past them both, did not say why,

unlocked the door and left it wide.
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