My words fall upon deaf ears
I might be blinded by my love for you
but you are deafened by your love him
I write you poem after poem after poem
and you are his after just a few words

I could tell you in ten words,
what he couldn't in a thousand
and I could write a thousand words for you
in the time he could barely say ten

but you are his, and he is yours
and I just sit here, an observer
You are my muse and perhaps it is for the best...

that I sit here, the lonely wordsmith
until the day I give up and become just another lost soul
wishing things were different

and so here I am, the lonely wordsmith
writing yet another poem you will never care to read

Reality is treacherous.
Its conformity is maddening, and the rules insanely sane,
The walls of uniformity are clouded with illusions that seem delusional,
And freedom and constrictions seem one and the same,
I am a dreamer, yet I fancy myself a creator,
I build worlds from the shards of a life that lacks flavor,
I prefer the freedom of love, hope and death,
And I crave the obsession of life and birth,
I am a dreamer, and so a world of facts and truths I shun,
I am a dreamer, a dying race, under the setting sun.
But the optimism of a dreamer is maddening,
Filled with hopes and dreams that are inherently saddening,
I am a wordsmith, a romantic and some might say a visionary,
Creating universes and queens from the extraordinary,
I am a romantic, and I desire the audience of the stars,
I am a romantic, and carved on the walls of my heart are a million scars.
I am a wordsmith, building walls from worlds torn at the seams,
I am a dreamer, fleeing from the banality of life through my dreams.

Now When It Comes To Lyrics...
I'm A Rhyme Specialist...
And TRUE WORDSMITH... !!!

Because I Flip Scripts...
With Lyrical Twists...

That Twist And Turn...
Through EXPANSIVE Verse...
That Speaks On The World...
In Ways That Work...
Like... Spock And Kirk... !!!

Combative Like Captains...
With Logic That’s Valid...
In Finding What’s Best...
To Express Through Poems...

Which Is Why I’m A THREAT...
To... IGNORANT Heads...
Whose Mindset Lends...
Itself To The DEATH...
of... Common Sense... !?!

I’m A Lyrical Vet...
Wordsmith And Poet...

Whose Use of Diction...
... REFUSES Fiction... !!!
Because It’s Descriptive...
of How We’re Living...

From Vibes of Racism...
To Limited Thinking...
That Keeps Heads Imprisoned...
And Restricts Their Vision...

It’s A Gift GOD GIVEN... !!!

But NOT The Type of God...
That Most Heads Think of... !!!

It’s The Gods of Verse...
Who Have Blessed Big Virge...

That’s Right I Mean ME... !!!
To... Lyrically Be...

A Wordsmith Who Deals...
In Poetic Straight Speech...
That’s REALER Than REAL... !!!

Because It’s Themes Are REALITY...
NOT Fantasies Or Fallacies...

But Wordplay Driven...
To Give Descriptions...
of Peoples Submissions...
To Political Villains...

And Soldiers Killing...
To Fuel Divisions...

So My Words Don’t Deal In...
... Vicious Missions... !!!

Or The Type of Pictures...
With Impossible Visions...

My Wordplay Delivers...
Rhythmic Scriptures...

Like Those In Egypt...
In Restricted Crypts... !!!

So Are VERY WELL Hidden...
By Those Who Are Smitten...
With LYING To CHILDREN... !!!

As Well As The Heads...
Who Are Now SUBJECTS...
of Her Royal Highness... !!!

Who Clearly Think LESS...
Than A Man Who Is VEX...
And Is Ready To Vent...
Through EXTREME Violence... !!!

While I Use Rhymes...
To Define What I Find...
To Be Truth And Lies...

By Using My Mind...
My Thoughts And Pen...
To Write Poems...

That Prove That I’m THIS...

A Lyrical KING...
And TOP NOTCH...

..... “ Wordsmith “.....

If I were a Wordsmith, with power in my pen,
I would write your demise, a slow, painful end.
I would cut you so deep, with my words you would bleed,
The pain overwhelming, with each word that you read.
You would choke on every promise that you had ever broken,
You would hear me loud and clear, though no words ever spoken.
My emotions catch fire, and now your suffocating,
You begin to understand, but all this time I've spent waiting,
Has made me cold and numb to all you may need,
Your cries fuel my fire, my thoughts gasoline.
If I were a wordsmith, with power in my pen,
I would make you feel the pain and the weight of your sin.

a Wordsmith's ambition,
it is not something grand.
It is pleasant, and common,
though it's honestly bland.
For each world we desire,
all so beautifully planned,
there, no words can be written,
well, at least not by hand.

But our Pen is our Bible,
and We bleed it with sighs,
and I'm pleased to announce,
that by writing, We survive;
For the words that we've written,
every line we provide,
puts the world on our shoulders;
brings our image to life.

dear, you cut me off mid-sentence.
for all my skills, techniques and terms
here's a thing i can't find a way to convey.
a narrative even beyond comprehension to it's protagonist

a girl without a simile or metaphor applicable?
somebody to leave me laconic, short in syntax, unstructured.
will we discuss possessive pronouns now?
for in subtext, i am the possessive one.

i'm so lacking verbally
but i'm sure you'd understand it contextually
to punctuate: i can be the ellipsis, the implication of my omissions
but you're in my text as the most eager mark of exclamation

she is outspoken and bold
bold like the sun
bolder than an army of boulders
falling from a hillside
she is an avalanche
when there is nowhere left to run
she is despised by some
and others wish to fill her
with some old fashioned whisky
i am sanctified by her ways
and returned to my former glory
as this poem has tasted far better days
she is a morning glory
her eyes are like the petals of a flower
she is the Wordsworth of the decade
a wordsmith dancing in her own decay

i am essentially a target
a lost projectile in the arrow's path
she has coaxed me back to sanity
with her sardonic gestures
and her sarcastic use of wit
i am a nitwit she said
so i laugh and pick the flowers from her hair
slowly and soporifically
i am seaweed adrift in her bonnet
sandpaper scattered along the shoreline
remove the blind spectacles
and eat the lines i’ve written
a poem is just a candle anyway
to spray the eyes of infinity with lightning
mars is retrograde regardless
so i’ll just sit here and pretend
that i’m not too much of a target for her beauty

.that's what the term: Slavic, implies... slave?! what?! not in my language, etymologically speaking... słowo, słowianin, word, Slav, respectively... i don't know where these quasi-Germanic peoples of the anglophone world get their ideas from, esp. from a, "missing" epsilon. wankers.

- and the main difference between a Slavic
language and a quasi-Germanic language
akin to English or French?
                   clarity of syllables,
   and a pivot on pseudo-Roman graphemes,
albeit not concentrated (for aesthetic
purposes) on crafting graphemes out
of vowels... more or less consonants...
English has this concept already...
   cheap as chips...
             prime **** of the shire
    (CH                                SH)
but the main difference is...
                            we don't use the surd
conundrum...
                e.g.?
                         ­        g'bur
                   syllable count: 2
                                  you say the first letter,
have a nanosecond pause and the second
syllable enters:  g'boor...
                   which is a word, roughly defined
as: someone who's boorish,
               a noun, not an adjective...
but in english?
                                   (g)nostic....
    wait...     diagnosis...
                            so like an electron clouds
surrounding a nucleus...
   (electrons do not exist in orbits,
clouds, quantum clouds to be precise,
they enter the antimatter dimension,
pop up and disappear in randomized
places, within a definite spatial complex
that constitutes what is known as
an atom)...
              too many ******* particulars
in the anglophone language...
         which is probably why i love it so
much...
        and because the englischzunge
has so many particular instances of
"correct" speech... and no diacritical
methodology... well...
                     hmm... a ******* rainbow of accents!
i love the Indian: bud bud... bud bud...
hearing it feels like riding a *******
camel over uneven ground... bud bud...
note - budwasserscheisse -
who, in their right state of mind -
ferments rice, and adds it to the fermentation
of barley?!
   o.k., the alternative... budscheissewasser...
take your pick...
    it appears that my original ambition
was to speak the native language better
than the natives...
   have i succeeded?
                  perhaps...
               god almighty and all that is
glorious about hell's pandemonium...
   i miss the trill of the R...
      either tongue numbing in English...
or a ******* hark in French...
but as i was sometime ago informed...
the French used to trill the R...
  they: rrrrrrroled the rattle and found
a snake...
                      trill? when you pass a breath
that slaps the tongue against your
hard palate...
                     like a rattlesnake...
   i'm so happy that it still exists in certain
languages...
        it's a hark in French,
             and a tongue numbing heimlich
maneuver in English...
like the tongue was injected with an
anesthetic borrowed from dentistry,
                or some other random *******.
- and yes, i couldn't learn French,
because i was already investing my efforts
and observational tactics in spotting
the oddities in English...
            surd-letters, a slack in syllable distinction...
you name it...
                            g'boor contra
                  (g)nostic....
                          ­    invited to a session
of psychiatric diagnostics...
             oh i speak the orthodox better than
the natives...
  the natives have to resort to slang...
or as i like to call their version "of events":
the **** of shlang.

p.s. but this is going to be an example
of where English, and French meat...
****, sorry... meet...

   a surname to exemplify:
   Trudeau...
           i'm not going to call the French
żabie udki (frog-thigh eaters),
i just call them the suffix eaters...
point blank... watch how this GH
   grapheme pops up, but is "invisible"
in the said, French surname...
   although...
                           see it?
   Trudeau...             now you don't!
******* that i am surrounding
spewing linguistic *******...
   even i'm starting to think:
                    neat observation,
well tailored for the given times of...
how do you censor an investigation
into grammar and phonetics?

p.p.s.
    and well know where the English
borrowed their notion of H as a surd...
bindi-Hindi...
                          'indi...
     '   (this denotes a surd,
**** it, leave the letter out) -
esp. in names, like Khahn -
                        some variation of Ghengis,
Khan...    i suspect...
      oh yeah... the macron above the vowel
looks plain ugly: Kān...
   the literate can't reconfigure that word...
they need two languages of the same
tongue... the optical (Khan)...
             and the phonetic (Kān)...
look at you pretty people...
           you're bilingual already!

A thousand words, never to be written,
too many moments to translate.
An unnecessary task, but a preferred one.
It should be easy, I am a wordsmith, as you said,
but my fire is merely embers,
my hammer, lost,
The billows need patching.
Discouraged, I sit by my dying fire,
a pile of horseshoe memories by my side.  
Broken plough hopes,
iron backed words.
All once glowing red,
now solidified in time,
by the cooling tears in a barrel.

Wordsmith
Writer
Of songs
Of sounds
That roll
Quietly full
From his lips
In short shallow whispers to himself
He sings
He breathes
Stories
Passion, love, belief
From grief
Then right on through to gladness
He climbs mountains
With slippery letters for feet
And sails the seventh sea
Pieces of flotsam forming tidings
Of vision, rock pools of  indecision
A collision of the imagination and tangibility
Penning of peril and threat
Breaking cold sweat
Cigarettes and coffee stains
Window sill
And rattling chains
He shakes cobwebs down
With etched verbose
For a broom
In his clandestine room
That serves as a scribers sanctuary.
Sewing, threading
Silk worm stitching
He is itching
To fill
To spill
To take the thrill from his heart
Straight onto the page.

He had been away. Just a few days, but long enough to feel coming home was necessary. He carried with him so many thoughts and plans, and the inevitable list had already formed itself. But the list was for Monday morning. He would enjoy now what he could of Sunday.

Everything can feel so different on a Sunday. Travel by train had been a relaxed affair for once, a hundred miles cross-country from the open skies of the Fens to the conurbations of South Yorkshire. Today, there was no urgency or deliberation. Passengers were families, groups of friends, sensible singles going home after the weekend away. No suits. He seemed the only one not fixated by a smart phone, tablet or computer. So he got to see the autumn skies, the mountain ranges of clouds, the vast fields, the still-harvesting. But his thoughts were full to the brim of traveling the previous November when together they had made a similar journey (though in reverse) under similar skies. They had escaped for two days one night into a time of being wholly together, inseparably together, joined in that joy of companionship that elated him to recall it. He was overcome with weakness in his body and a jolt of passion combined: to think of her quiet beauty, the tilt of her head, the brush of her hair against his cheek. He longed for her now to be in the seat opposite and to stroke the back of her calf with his foot, hold her small hand across the table, gaze and gaze again at her profile as she, always alert to every flicker of change, took in the passing landscape.

But these thoughts gradually subsided and he found himself recalling a poem he had commissioned. It was a text for a verse anthem, that so very English form beloved by cathedral and collegiate choral directors of the 16th C (and just that weekend he had been in such a building where this music had its home). He had been reading The Five Proofs for the Existence of God from the Summa Theologica by Thomas Aquinas, knowing this scholar to have been a cornerstone of the work of Umberto Eco, an author he admired. He had also set a poem that mentioned these Five Proofs, and had set this poem without knowing exactly what they were. He recalled its ending:

They sit by a lake where dead leaves
Float and apples lie on a table. She
ignores him and his folder of papers

but I found later the picture was called
‘In Love’, which coloured love sepia.
Later still, by the time I sat with you,

Watched your arm on the back of a chair
And your hand at rest while you told me
Of Aquinas and his proofs for the existence

Of God I realised love was not always
Sepia, that these hands held invisible
Keys, were pale because the mind was aflame.

He remembered then the challenge of reading Aquinas, this Dominican friar of the 13C. It had stretched him, and he thought of asking his wordsmith of thirty years, the mother of his daughters, to bring these arguments together in a poetic form for him to set to music. She had delivered such a poem and it took him some while to grasp it wholly. He wondered for a moment if he actually had grasped it. But there was this connection with the landscape he was passing through. She had mentioned this, and now he saw it for his own eyes. She had been to Ely for the day, to walk the length of the great Cathedral, to stare at and be amongst the visible past, the past of Aquinas. He remembered the first verse as only a composer can who has laboured over the scheme of words and rhythms:

The Argument from Motion

Everything in the world changes.
A meadow of skewbald horses grazes
Beneath a pair of flying swans
And the universe is different again.

And no sooner is potency reduced to act,
By a whisker’s twitch or a word,
A word, that potent gobbet of air
Than smiles and tears change places.

And everything has changed. Back
Go the tracks beyond seen convergence
To a great self-sufficient terminus
Which terminus we might call God.

And so it was in such a spirit of reflection that his journey passed. He had joined the Edinburgh express at Peterborough to travel north, and the landscape had subsided into a different caste, still rural, but different, the fields smaller, the horizon closer.

Alighting from the train in his home city on a Sunday afternoon the station and surrounding streets were quiet and the few people about were not walking purposefully, they strolled. He climbed the flights of stairs to his third floor studio, unlocked the door and immediately walked across the room to open the window. Seagulls were swooping and diving below him, feeding off the detritus of the previous night’s partying in the clubs and pubs that occupied the city centre, its main shopping area removed to a mall off kilter with the historic city and its public buildings. What shops there were stood empty, boarded up, permanently lease for sale.

Sitting at his desk he surveyed the paper trail of his work in progress. Once so organised, every sketch and plan properly labelled and paginated, he had regressed it seemed to filling pages of his favoured graph paper in a random fashion. Some idea for the probably distant future would find its way into the midst of present work, only (sometimes) a different ink showing this to be the case. Notes from a radio talk jostled with rhythmic abstracts. He realised this was perhaps indicative of his mental state, a state of transience, of uncertainty, a temporariness even.

He was probably too tired to work effectively now, just off the train, but the sense and the relative peacefulness that was Sunday was so seductive. He didn’t want to lose the potential this time afforded. This was why for so many years Sunday had often been such a productive day. If he went to meeting, if he cooked the tea, if he ironed the children’s school clothes for the week, there was this still space in the day. It represented a kind of ideal state in which to think and compose. Now these obligations were more flexible and different, Sunday had even more ‘still’ space, and it continued to cast its spell over him.

He put his latest sketches into a sequential form, editing on the computer then printing them out, listening acutely, wholly absorbed. Only a text message from his beloved (picking blackberries) brought him back to the time and day. There was a photo: a cluster of this dark, late summer fruit, ripe for picking framed against a tree and a white sky. Barely a week ago they had picked blackberries together with friends, children and dogs and he had watched her purposely pick this fruit without the awkwardness that so often accompanied bending over brambles. He wondered at her, constantly. How was this so? He imagined her now in her parents’ garden, a garden glowing in the late afternoon light, as she too would glow in that late-afternoon light . . . he bought himself back to the problem in hand. How to make the next move? There was a join to deal with. He was working with the seven metrics of traditional poetry as the basis for a rhythmic scheme. He was being tempted towards committing an idea to paper. He kept reminding himself of the music’s lie of the land, the effectiveness of it so far. It was still early days he thought to commit to something that would mark the piece out, produce a different quality, would declare the movement he was working on to be a certain shape.

And suddenly he was back on the train, looking at the passing landscape and the next verse of that Aquinas poem insisted itself upon him with its apt description and tantalising argument:

The Argument from Efficient Causality

We are crossing managed washlands.
Pochards so carefully coloured swim
Where cows ruminated last summer
In a landscape fruit of human agency.

And I think of the heavenly aboriginal
Agent of all our doings in this material
Playground of earth I can pick up,
Hold and crumble and cultivate

And air that is mine for the breathing
And the inhabited waters that cling
As if by magic to a sphere. What cause
Sustains the effects we live among?

For there is no smoke without fire
And as we sow, thus we reap. Nihil
Ex nihil, therefore something Is,
Some being we might call God.

So ‘nothing out of nothing, therefore something is’.  Outside in the city the Cathedral bells were ringing in Evensong. The sounds only audible on a Sunday when the traffic abated a little and the sounds in the street below were sporadic. He thought of going out into the Cathedral precinct and listening to the bells roll and rhythm their sequences, those Plain-Bob-Majors and Grand-Sire-Triples. But he knew that would further break the spell, the train of thought that lay about him.

He sketched the next section, confidently, and when he had finished felt he could do know more. There it was: a starting point for tomorrow. He could now go towards home, walk for a while in the park and enjoy the movements of the wind-tossed trees, the late roses, the geese on the lake. He would think about his various children in their various lives. He would think about the woman he loved, and would one day assuage what he knew was a loneliness he could not quench with any music, and though he tried daily with words, would not be assuaged.

On the molded plastic black keys
Tip- tap tipping away  
Smiling wickedly
With self-satisfaction
Words deliberately in a sociopathic array

Crazed Eyes agleam
Thoughts rambling across the planets
In and out of reality
Both far and away

Each letter vibrates with its own life
The deranged wordsmith's release
So the clicking and typing
Systemic vacant sounds
Never seem to cease

To the mad poet
The combinations of descriptive words
Overpowering
Promotes the disease
Hypnotizing
Beguiling
Calling in a sweet voice
To the mad poet
In letters A to Z


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),

Tammy M Darby

I'm enslaved by these words,
in the cages of these pages.
My thoughts are shackled
by unforgiving metaphors
and vile rhapsodies

As I wait for Liberty to
contemplate my fate,
for freedom to scream my name,
for my skin to shed this layer
of shame.

While Time takes its time,the pages slowly turn,
the ink dries,
the chains rust
and I emerge
out of this metal cocoon,

armed with chisiled mementos
of yesterday's glistening
defeat.
I'm well on my way
to becoming a Wordsmith.

sample precursor: there are three binding directions of a chemical group (e.g. CH3) to the benzene ring - the ortho-, the meta- and the para-... but i'll ask a different question: what is copernican north what is copernican east a copernican west or a copernican west without a "flat-earth" / how else to read / navigate a 2D map going from point (a) via vector (c) to point (b) along the short-cut of the hypotenuse - which, isn't a short-cut, but the logical conclusion of walking neither the middle path nor the right path, but the logical path? we're no astronauts... we didn't see the proof... we can only entertain the "idea" of a 3D object we live on, but we're still strapped to a "flat earth" in order to navigate... endless stories of how GPS tech. fooled people off the edge of a cliff... "flat earth" is no reverse psychology ploy... i'm no ******* astronaut... i never stood left right or center on the moon to have the foggiest sense of admiration for that awe-balancing moment that leaves so many deluded in it being otherwise: first come first served, last come: what's there's to serve that last man if not merely the drudge-report of a commute? besides... trans- and cis-, why are people borrowing from chemistry and attaching gender to what is exlusive to chemical compounds? look at them... pop chemistry... cis-trans isomerism... fine, let these people have that... my new n.e.w.s. (north, east, west, south): orthography, something clearly missing in the anglophone world (no diacritical markers, i and j do not count)... ergo? orthography = east... paranormal = west... since the west is obsessed with either aliens or hush-hush military projects... now... both north and south are meta- coordinates... on the basis, on the basis of what? two words really work well to establish a foundation: from ars poetica? metaphor (borrowed from a change of mind - meta- and -phren - mind, a change of mind, all mental illnesses are changes of the mind, alternatives to alleviate the stranglehold of the commune of the greater picture known as society)... but... there's also metaphysics... which is in the interest of philosophy... how else not to explain the obvious, how else to treat both the reader / audience as the well informed genius(es) but mistreat them as would be grander genius(es) if the socratic endeavour of "pretense ignorance" was not to be established? it's a hard juggle... east is already well established in orthography, west in paranomal... literally: metaphor - a change of mind, literally metaphysics - a change of groundwork physicality of things... a rock remains a rock in either "heaven" or in "hell"... metaphysically there seems to be a direct translation... this is why i'm terrible at crosswords, this whole puzzle structure of either working from a direct definition to the word itself, some random geographical posists, some historical posits, some outdated out-of-vogue words related to specified period idiosyncracy, a tinge of the therausus... my current crossword is an interchange: meta-phor, meta-physics, meta-phot, meta-physics and on and on it goes: even with the isolated prefix of meta-, if i return to the words: as they are... would: denoting a change of thinking (state of mind) or... denoting a change of physics, i'm met with metaphysics, i.e.: a branch of philosophy that deals with the first principles... sounds like a priori physics, yet all i can fathom if i wrestle this word to its casual use: isn't it a posteriori physics?! the what comes after physics? i should think that most people understand metaphysics on an a posteriori basis rather than an a priori basis... hence the question: what happens when we die? last time i checked: death happens last... birth happens first... any question-worthiness (according to heidegger) should begin at: the beginning rather than begin at the end, in the same way that all questions should be sought in a medium of predating the dates of events, rather than with a spirit of hindsight, hindsight belongs to the "what if" of history in that dynamism of expressed time... on the canvas of an infinitely expanding space: we seem to be riddled by a very cul de sac concept / expression of time: our quill - given that ****** didn't learn from napoleon when it came to russia... perhaps finding out what copernicus found out: "we" figured: get me off this ******* celestial carousel where i can't even feel the dizzy immediate of a ferris wheel! again: i'm terrible at crosswords, sudoku? no problem... but words: if not gushing out of me, waiting like a lizard predator for a linear narrative spew? count me out... i don't play with words, i use words... i'm a wordsmith, hence the ethnic origin denote: słowianin: slav - i don't know where these west-saxon punks derived their etymology from: słowo = word... *****-liquor juice teens thought it was: oh fo' sho' smart... still: metaphor, metaphysics... metaphor... metaphysics... disgruntled with the immediate compound readied for pop use... meta-physics... the vector is the prefix... why do philosophers push metaphysics so much, but in turn rely on the crutch of metaphor? to change their mind, if metaphysics is an abstract theory with no basis in reality, then the schizoid / metaphorical mind is an abstract in an abstracted theory of the mind - which has "no" knowledge of reality, or rather: "reality" excludes such a mind from ever absorbing an expression in it... a schizophrenic can't explain the reality of a person who can solve crossword puzzles... just as someone who solves crossword puzzles with a fear of alzheimer's: who treats the fatty tissue that's the brain as a muscle... given that the cells of alzheimer's disease are killer proteins... proteins as the antithesis of white blood-cells that feed of fat tissue... after all: what else could the brain be if not fat and water? slow burner... first the sugars, then the more complex carbohydrates, then the fat: last? the proteins... the process of starvation... you want up? you want down? again: metaphysics / metaphor... ta meta ta phusika... the things after the physics... so what's with the inverted: prior things? hence people associated a life after death... hence how philosophers have to escape into the poetic realm to quickly change their minds on the definition... a change of mind is much easier than a change of what physicality entails... most spew metaphors but keep on course... after all: given the genesis of the metaphor, a metaphor is just a tool, a humble stop-off pause... born from humble poetics: it's only a literary tool, it's not some grand pillar of morality associated metaphysics, which nonetheless dictates: first principles come last and last principles come first... here's my crossword puzzle: metaphor, metaphysics, meta-alpha, meta-beta, metaphor and the meta-alpha, metaphysics and the meta-beta... etc. etc., i will not solve this crossword puzzle, even though it doesn't look like a crossword puzzle... it's a narrative crossword puzzle, i'm just looking for the sort of fixed point people associate with prime words: red, left, blue, right, up, fox, dog... words of readied vocabulary, readied vocabulary dissociated from puzzled vocabulary... i want to established a fixed permanence of the dissociated close proximity grounded in the meta- prefix of the words meta-phor and, meta-physics... i'm starting to find this impossible, given how the words have dissociated themselves from the grounding in the meta- prefix... phor alias phren (mind) and the whole gush of isolated metaphysics of beginnings: meta a priori vs. meta a posteriori - and of course: meta a- apriori... hell if i can't solve crossword puzzles: since i already have a crossword puzzle in my head... what am i to do? try writing pop?! a dog does what his master orders, a jester tells a joke his king would find amusing... i'll just treat this enclave of an audience as a bunch of people subscribed to ulterior forms of voyeurism (dissociated from pain / pleasure gratification, esp. that of a ****** nature).

.you know like in latin you had the interchangeable tongue twisters æ and œ? well... english resurrected one more... au... oh stralia... auntie; ******* hell i've been speaking this since aged ate and i still can't get my tongue into that phonetic plughole... or what's that onomatopoeia for: it really hurts? awe... nah... aw... aw... well no cute kitten about to say aww.

well it began with the usual... i wish i didn’t...
sitting in the autumnal garden
drinking coffee and eating a nicotine croissant,
watching the fog recede into nothing
while the earth showed its naked cleavage
after what seems like centuries of arcane dryness
befitting a story of an egyptian idol...
then the panic set in...
what to cook?! what to cook?!
my mother is away visiting her parents in poland,
who celebrate the feast of all saints with the usual
tackle formidable in poland:
forget the paris fashion week, forget the london fashion week...
forget the next gucci advert...
all the action happens in poland’s annual all saints’ fashion week...
through the cemetery (ahem) cat walks
(more like death on rollerblades donning a tutu
and looking fatter than size 0 models)...
because that’s when the fur coats are worn,
the make-up is heavier and everyone comes
to discuss the materialistic jealousy of a small town...
it is a small town after all...
death knocks with all the nine cat’s lives just to prove
the point...
anyway, so i’m the head chef, and in panic
i search for a recipe... i’ve only got pork on the ready
in the recognisable frozen state...
but i also have shrimps... tiger prawns...
so i look through the usual suspects... thai green curry...
ah ****! no coconut milk!
what’s it going to be? prawn korma curry
(better mild than hot i say, with all this maple syrup
and honey colours about... talk about decay),
active ingredients? chilli powder (1/2 tsp), cinnamon
(1/2 tsp), turmeric (1/2 tsp) and ground almonds (2 tbsp),
there ready... looking suntanned my gorgeous twirls of seabed manure...
enough to spare my father making himself sandwiches (i always
disguised my “dyslexia” by associations... sandy witches...
the t broke the barriers and the floods entered)...
with toasted nannies / au pairs... relatives of some sort...
then onto writing my father’s invoices:
project plaistow hospital and some housing development near
the city airport... beckton we call it... backwards and forwards
stink crowned with drinkers regurgitating on the pave...
now that is a *******... recycling centre or horse manure?
then to tesco... for the nightcap...
oddly enough tesco has become a friend of mine once more,
i divorced the turkish shop, they added 10 pence to the polish beers,
now i’m on the sedative medication of this bottle bavaria beer
and whiskey... 1 quid for the former... 10 quid for the latter -
i’ve sold my soul! never mind...
then to the beacon that’s home... it’s night... it’s spooky...
it’s essex: that non-touristy place in england people with passports
never dare to visit, shambles.
well one thing came out true... none of the above though:
you ever consider the theory of the aeroplane syndrome in writers?
you know, like with rock stars you get the full package,
you get the aeroplane and the retrieved delay of the engine mushroom,
but with poetry (which is competing with music,
philosophers just wait in that queue for the cheese, wink, whine and wrinkle)
you only get the sound... that delayed mushroom...
you see the poet but never hear him...
it’s a typical delusion i’d call parallel or even adjacent to narcissism,
you walk down the street and the closest you come
to someone recognising you is a stranger uttering out: ‘hey richard!’
‘name’s matt mate.’
‘oh... sorry.’
it’s this aeroplane syndrome theory... it’s perfectly acceptable...
you have the image but don’t have the delayed sound...
you have the delayed sound... but you only get a photograph...
you have the english national health service mental health unit crisis...
and then you have people shunning intellectualism
trying to cure people by burning / not reading philosophical books;
the day ends with drinking and reading
an article about keith richard’s antics in the sunday times’ supplement
and the thought: well i gave her a stabbing chance
at feminism... she thought the active ingredient in anti-contraception
pills was placebo... she phoned and gave birth to me...
i said abort... you’re no post-teen mum at university, you won’t be...
******* was great but i’m not that much of a match from a cosmopolitan magazine quiz
(as duly taken on my way from st. pestersburg to moscow to see
metallica play), plus there are no roofing jobs in scotland...
the scots have mountains already... there’s no point building
scratched sky skylines with mountain ranges nearby...
so even though i went to a catholic school...
i did my first redemptive act by reading about gnostic heretics...
and not getting confirmed being the second...
i would have not taken first communion... but playing the xylophone
at the nativity play was too much fun...
plus it is the only salvador dali bit of the story...
after that you have st. sebastian...
plus you see where this is going... the greeks translated
the tetragrammaton into the gospels
of st. matthew, luke, mark and john...
and the romans were duped into the legality of
things... first name, second name, confirmation name...
surname.

Everyone said I had such great potential:
A bright eyed lad, adept with word and song,
an angelic voice, a wordsmith like a lawyer.
They look at me now and wonder-what went wrong?


If I could put my finger on the problem,
Procrastination did beget my fall.
I had, at times, an ambitious plan and project.
I just never got around to it, that’s all.


I dallied in my summer’s afternoon,
Listening to other siren’s songs
Now winter comes upon me with a vengeance
I realize now I never sang my song.

But on my cluttered desk, a wooden talisman!
A round wood carving- a Tuit tis
And now, in possession of a round Tuit,
I’ve no excuse for wasting time like this.

I wait longer and longer to hold a
singing family.
They let me go.
(Fire.)
They don't tell me about the show.
I'm another broken promise...
...like words can't hurt me.
Today is another broken promise...
Like a much craftier wordsmith
  will never hurt me.

I am a Wordsmith new at my trade
I learn as I go along each day
My direction is true as is my aim
My end is unknown but I know The Way

I have questions that to some may seem odd
And theories I have to explain
Beliefs so strong that I can't keep them inside
And yes, I write about pain

I feel the need to tell what I am of
And in what I do believe
To find others who feel the same
Is what I aim to achieve

I think about everything that I see and hear
I feel everything all around me
If I don't share all of this in someway
All of this thinking and feeling will drown me

He's a stable smithy
Thinks his genius words are pithy
As he pounds, pounds, pounds
Into the night

Swings his big word-hammer
Never minding lies and grammar
Cuz he's gotta, gotta, gotta
Fuel the fight

With his bellowslike ire
He stokes the fire
As it burns, burns, burns
To his delight

On his huge word-anvil
Pounds rumor and scandal
As they sizzle, sizzle, sizzle
Burning bright

Hones his words untoward
Like a two-edged sword
As they stab, stab, stab
Like a knife

As his words extrude
They can get really rude
As he pushes, pushes, pushes
Wrong as right

He's a stable smithy
Thinks his genius words are pithy
As he pounds, pounds, pounds
With all his might




© 2019 Mark Toney. All rights reserved.

A wordsmith from way far away
Convinced the crowd he had something to say;
“My current work does not show it,
But I would be a great poet
If my words would get out of my way.”

I am a wordsmith
Of glawest kind
My fribbling words
Incilidge most cantride

I zickle the yoast
And triplude in enfrose,
But my words of galution
Jiffer most of my prose.

Trole falough for the gudd
Albeit wickally so
Never mind that the gurdle
Sirth not with galowe

In the end, when knath choll
But my customers not
My frewegy sippen
Go zash to the frott

He crafts the finest ever made

soft speakings of verse and prose

delicately hammered like finest gold

each fragile link formed and forged

by mind and heart with love and and woe

Words together in finest beauty

birth shimmering chains of golden thought

with pauses hung 'tween glimmering links

like iridescent shimmering pearls

Deep hued gems dripped from tongue

dance in jeweled and sparkling splendor

to decorate this work of art

hammered from the wordsmith's heart

Ya Know … They Say When You Age …
That You Should Stay … " ACTIVE " … !!!

Now Physically …  
That Makes Sense To Me …  
  
But NOT IF ... " Mentally " …  
Your Mind State's Captive … !!!!!
Reactive And Lacking ...
In Thoughts ... Attracting …  
  
A Balanced Life ...
In … " Body And Mind " …  
  
So I KEEP Mine As In My Brain ...
Active And Inclined To ELEVATE ...  
And Therefore Maintain A STRONG Mind State … !!!!!  
  
A Thing I Exhibit In My Wordplay … !!!
Whenever I Visit An ... A4 Page … !!!!!  
And Let My Lyrics Become An Array …  
of Rhymes Exquisite When They Are Displayed …  
  
My Words Become Active Whenever They're … " Acted " ...
Or Simply Heard Via Spoken Word From Me … " Big Virge " …  
  
See ... Activation of Thought I Now Explore ...  
As A Way To KEEP Active And NOT GET Bored … !!!!!
  
As I Said Before I DO NOT Ignore … !!!
A NEED To Do MORE Than Exercise On Floors … !!!
  
I Do That TOO … !!!!!  
But Don't EVER ABUSE …   
The Tool That When USED …
  
Activates Tissues ...
NOT USED By … " Fools " … ?!?
  
Who DISMISS Thought … !!!
To IMPRESS These ****** … !?!
  
FLEXING Muscle And STRONG Skin Tones …  
So That They Can Couple … Activating Hormones … !!!!!
  
I'd Rather Be ... " Humble " ...
Than Activate TUSSLES That DON'T BREED Chuckles … !!!
When They OPEN Dark Tunnels Where Fellas Use KNUCKLES …
  
Activating TROUBLE Because They Got Rumbled … !!!
When Having … MORE THAN Cuddles … !!!

With Girls Whose Main Trait  …  
Is To ACTIVATE More Than Their PROSTATE … !!!!!  
  
See I Activate Levels DEEP Inside My Mental … !!!
That Takes Lead From The Pencils of ***** Lil' Devils … !!!!!!
  
Therefore I Stay STRONG And AVOID Problems … !!!
That Come From Loose Thongs And Violent Wrongs ... !!!  
  
I'd Rather Write Words And Poetic Verse …
That Act Like Prophylactics And Give Disease COLLAPSES … !!!  
  
Because My Wordplay … " Snatches " ... !!!
Whips And Gives Out Hangings  ... !!!  
  
To Cats Thinking They … MASSIVE … ?!?
When What They Are Is … TRAGIC … !!!!
  
TRAGIC … "Little Captives" …  
Using … FOOLISH Tactics …  
That Put Them On My Blacklist … !!!!!!
  
of Those Worthy of LASHES …
See Me I Prey Like … MANTIS …  
Or Like Man From … ATLANTIS … !!!!!!
  
I Pray Upon An AXIS … !!!
Symmetrical And Balanced … !!!!!!
  
UNABLE To Be ... Challenged ...  
By IGNORANCE That's Captive …  
In Minds Now LOST And SAVAGE ... !!!!!!
  
Long After I'm ... NONACTIVE …  
My Words Will Still Be ACTIVE … !!!!!!
  
That's Why I Write And Post Online … !!!
So That When I Have … Physically Died …  
  
These Words I Find Inside My Mind ….  
WILL Stay ALIVE … " IMMORTALISED " … !!!!!!

BEYOND My Life ….  
That's Where My Pride TRULY Resides ….
  
In A Place Where Thoughts …  
CREATE Wordplay Beyond The Wars We See Today … !!!!!!
  
I Hope One Day People Will Say …. ?!?

"That Big Virge Man, played an active hand,
in the betterment of, our race of humans,
and left us seeds, to activate dreams of finding peace,
and living for more than, fights on streets, and vanity !
That Man for sure, wrote poetry,
that's active now he's no longer around !"
  
But While i'm here My Mind Adheres …  
To Activating Verse That CLEARLY HURTS … !!!
  
Chickens And Jerks Whose Form of Work … ?!?
Activates NONSENSE Causing PROBLEMS ... !!!
  
I Have An Active Body And An ACTIVE Mind … !!!
So My Work's FAR FROM Shoddy Because It Feeds The Blind …  
With The Kind of Insights THAT ... DON'T Invite ... !!!!!

IGNORANCE and PRIDE To Be Aligned With A Positive Life …  
The Words I Rhyme Activate Like STARS Shine In The Night ... !!!
Because … From The Dark There MUST COME LIGHT … !!!!!
  
So As I Approach These Last Few Lines …
NO Time To Reproach or Criticise … !!!
  
Because These Words AREN'T … " Faddish " … !!!
And Won't Take ALL Your Bandwidth  … !!!!!
  
I Am A Wordsmith Whose Pen Writes Scripts …
of TRUE LYRICS … " PROACTIVE " … !!!!!
  
These Words Are NOT Just RANTINGS …  
They're DRIVEN And ... EXPANSIVE … !!!!!!!
  
And PROVE That Like My … " Writtens' "
When Big Virge Was Here … " LIVING " …  
  
My Brain, Body & Spirit ...
Were Attached To Being …  
  
….. " ACTIVE " …..

I ponder, perhaps too much, of how I've lost my touch. I wonder if, in my delusion, it was just a dreamed haven. Somewhere in the hours of meditation, someway I've lost my salvation. My thoughts are trapped and closed like a man-lake is cement opposed, like soaring eagles discover they are just gifted wren actors, or the chlorine stinging your eyes is the spray of ocean waves crying. I feel like a snuffed candle trying to burn, a cloud wisp trying to rain, a parched rose trying to flourish, a winter breeze trying to warm your fingers. Suddenly I feel a kith with the discarded plastic bottles littering my beach, for, like them, I am searching for a purpose out of reach: the woes of a cursed wordsmith.

I could not produce a perfect sentence,
so instead I killed my family.
Intricate webs woven,
and little seeds planted.
Words that will not touch a page
let loose a vindictive voice.
That's why your inner voice
finds words like onomatopoeia funny;
it's sharp.

As you project your frustration
into a headache, it passes along.
You try to remember if your family
history has been linked to cancer.

Yet some people will say:
Words Don't Hurt.
But they know.
Because they once
had families, too.

I know today the world celebrates you
But in my heart, your festival plays all season
To craft songs in your praise is honour
And this wordsmith is honorable aplenty

I know I'll never know the pain
The way societies have pushed you when
You blinded them with your radiance
Now enlightened they can only apologise

Justice is the cry!
Tell me it is not my lone heart
I do not strive to appease,
it is just what every woman deserves
Even if I lend my hand to
just the ones close to my heart
They say intelligence comes from one's experience,
and wisdom from those of others'
Wise I have become,
so I pledge to be better than my fathers

The English language falls
terribly short of giving me
the ability to describe how
I feel on a day to day basis.

Confession...
Pssst… I’m not a poet, I’m a wordsmith
No, seriously… I’m no poet; I don’t do it like you
I have no idea what to do with a haiku
I just write
Early in the day, late at night
Any writing time feels right
But seriously… I’m not a poet
If you don’t believe me, I dare you...
To read my last ten pieces
Don’t some of the things I jot down just scare you?
Some pieces are just dark… It’s like I woke up on that  day and decided to engage in a horrific activity
Paranormal blacktivity
The only reason I got into this…
Was because I heard that the rules of grammar don’t necessarily apply when you do this
Then all of a sudden… BOOM!
Rules… techniques… Et cetera
The fun just left the room
Way to ruin it for a ‘poetic’ veteran
But just to remind you… I’m not a poet
I know you’re a smart person
You had already figured it out
I know that you knew it.