"consonant" poems
What smouldering senses in death’s sick delay
Or seizure of malign vicissitude
Can rob this body of honour, or denude
This soul of wedding-raiment worn to-day?
For lo! even now my lady’s lips did play
With these my lips such consonant interlude
As laurelled Orpheus longed for when he wooed
The half-drawn hungering face with that last lay.
I was a child beneath her touch,—a man
When breast to breast we clung, even I and she,—
A spirit when her spirit looked through me,—
A god when all our life-breath met to fan
Our life-blood, till love’s emulous ardours ran,
Fire within fire, desire in deity.
9.2k
A brand new breeze is blowing it's way up north,
It only carries one word but I want to say more.
So many things that I need you to know,
But I thought of one word and leaned out of the window.
I whispered it so delicately to ease the load of travel,
In hopes that when it reached your ears, it'd slowly unravel.
So you could hear each consonant and vowel of the word,
And hopefully it'd erase all the pain and the hurt.
I'm hoping that you get it, the word I said was "forever"
I want you to have mine, no matter the weather.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 3:44 PM UTC
My "place of clear water,"
the first hill in the world
where springs washed into
the shiny grass
and darkened cobbles
in the bed of the lane.
Anahorish, soft gradient
of consonant, vowel-meadow,
after-image of lamps
swung through the yards
on winter evenings.
With pails and barrows
those mound-dwellers
go waist-deep in mist
to break the light ice
at wells and dunghills.
3.9k
i'd like to expand your consciousness
darling tell me how to accomplish this
dwelling in sheer confidence
where existence can't seem to conquer it
a look of pure astonishment
pronouncing every consonant
your words fail to reach my grip
as they melt off your tongue and lips.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 11:59 PM UTC
Anthropos apteros for days
Walked whistling round and round the Maze,
Relying happily upon
His temperment for getting on.
The hundredth time he sighted, though,
A bush he left an hour ago,
He halted where four alleys crossed,
And recognized that he was lost.
"Where am I?" Metaphysics says
No question can be asked unless
It has an answer, so I can
Assume this maze has got a plan.
If theologians are correct,
A Plan implies an Architect:
A God-built maze would be, I'm sure,
The Universe in minature.
Are data from the world of Sense,
In that case, valid evidence?
What in the universe I know
Can give directions how to go?
All Mathematics would suggest
A steady straight line as the best,
But left and right alternately
Is consonant with History.
Aesthetics, though, believes all Art
Intends to gratify the heart:
Rejecting disciplines like these,
Must I, then, go which way I please?
Such reasoning is only true
If we accept the classic view,
Which we have no right to assert,
According to the Introvert.
His absolute pre-supposition
Is - Man creates his own condition:
This maze was not divinely built,
But is secreted by my guilt.
The centre that I cannot find
Is known to my unconscious Mind;
I have no reason to despair
Because I am already there.
My problem is how not to will;
They move most quickly who stand still;
I'm only lost until I see
I'm lost because I want to be.
If this should fail, perhaps I should,
As certain educators would,
Content myself with the conclusion;
In theory there is no solution.
All statements about what I feel,
Like I-am-lost, are quite unreal:
My knowledge ends where it began;
A hedge is taller than a man."
Anthropos apteros, perplexed
To know which turning to take next,
Looked up and wished he were a bird
To whom such doubts must seem absurd.
3.5k
you're drinking, and then you can't control
the reaction upon entering the tetragrammaton...
one h is for hushed up laughter, for sighs (ah),
and then the alter deja vu
is a cocktail of:
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha,
yeah, so many, so you can look at it rather than
say it... it's a sunny day, go out and play
or something... leave me with the anchor of ****
humanity dragging us down, or simply basing us
in the underwater fudge of mud to a standstill...
it's sunny, go out and play, ride a bicycle or something...
you know, living 20 odd years in an english society
i never had an english girlfriend, i'm told she's a real
firecracker fortune-cookie... my hands are cold,
i swear by the oath of the old Bailey i never touched
her thighs... scouts' honour, cross my fingers
and wear woman's underwear with a bowler hat
to match my serious demeanour...
yep, an Abbey Road's standstill... a fifth beetle
chatting cheeky chat chat of a chirp...
gurgles of fizz in carbonated wine known as champagne,
well that's me... or as the roadrunner said to
speedy Gonzales... hark a sayonara when changing
the gears to a 100m sprint world record.
the Mayan disease? ah right... excess spontaneous
laughter, unstoppable like a tide;
got chatting to a ms. khan... Genghis' great great...
great great great great great... great great granddaughter...
a doctor from pakistan... nice english accent
gets you all the pleasantries so everything can
go to hell... the sleeping pills prescription is waiting...
now the sick-note... so i don't crash a plane
into the Swiss elevations by "accident"
while sitting on an arm-chair of nails while everyone
else is farting into cushions.
honest to god, the tetragrammaton is like a brick
wall for vowels, you hit the ball against the four
walls, and the vowels are either ****** up
or they extract the consonant stability of the four letters,
and your safest bet to express them is
to laugh;
well, i do call it a Mayan disease... because
my stomach is aching from building a six-pack with
the giggles.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
For Helen
who wrote it first,
who wrote it better,
and in doing so,
makes me see more clearly
the why
~~~~~~~~~
no poem should ever be untitled-
every face needs a name-
every poem needs just
one read for completion
but more than that, it is
a orphan still,
deserving of the due,
the entitlement to be titled,
a parenting of sorts
what was the thought that born it-
what was the emotion that conceived it-
what was the sight that demanded sharing?
this is the age of summary and synthesis,
140 and not one more,
so give direction, enable me to make
snap judgements, with so much on my plate,
we must predigest your concepts,
my multi-tasking slowed to levels unacceptable,
so I can adjudge you,
you worker poet,
before or never reading
after all,
why read anything untitled?
more than this however,
for the few who chew
each morseled vowel,
ken each constant consonant,
celebrate stanzas that halt the breathing
and then,
god bless the whole child,
flaws and all,
they more than anyone deserve
your consideration in return
for the title is the essence spark
of you-
and all the more so,
of what you have chosen to share,
your essentials honored
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 6:33 AM UTC
It's not all that hard, it's so easy to learn,
Each and every one of these simple rules.
You see, I'm not even American,
But not even us Mexicans are such fools.
I know this language like I know myself,
I never laid hand on the shelf,
Where everyone placed their literature books,
Just to drop it for looks.
It's easy to remember,
Why can't you see,
English is so easy,
Or is it just me?
No.
That wouldn't make sense.
Spanish was my first language.
Yet I've come to know English better than my native tongue.
You're not North American, British, or Australian?
Alright whatever, I'll let it slide.
But really, born and raised here?
Come on, it's a free ride.
Deosnt it btoher you taht erevy wrod is speled rong?
Notice can't that you is order your wrong?
Proud to be an American, it isn't really saying much.
Cuz it lik jus syin I cn bearle evn speek such.
Yes, I think you're stupid, every time you spell wrong,
Because it's so easy to fix even a word that is long.
It makes me wonder wether your autocorrect's off?
Because that simple thing, knows each time that you're off.
Is it really so hard to put in that one vowel,
Or put in the consonant so your spelling's not foul.
Or correct the double-negative, you know it's not true,
It's easy to do, just proofread right through.
We all have the ability needed learn,
Yet it seems your ability's been placed in an urn.
You've got a big brain, so why don't you use it?
Trust me, I know, you shouldn't abuse it.
If you have pride in nothing else,
That's fine,
But it's good to have pride in the fact that you know,
YOUR LANGUAGE.
Be proud that you can communicate well,
Be proud that even the nerdiest of nerds can't use words you won't understand,
Be proud that you know how to use correct punctuation,
Be proud to know where "ph", "gh", "ou", "eau" and the silent "t" are used,
Be proud to know which words comes first, and which one comes last,
Be proud to know English, you can learn it all fast,
Be proud to know the art of words,
The art so many ancient cultures knew,
The ancient Japanese, and Romans, and even the French,
Yet America has forgotten how to use words.
Be proud to be a leader of the generation in the USA,
The generation that brings back knowing our own tongue,
So that foreigners who come don't know us better than us.
Be proud to know the beauty of language.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
They link together,
number and days,
strings of value
punctuated with semicolon winks;
(and consonant curved smiles.)
A grand unifying theory
hanging Baubles, Bangles
and bright shiny Beads.
The impulse Force of changing
momentous Month bending
light years in frequency of days,
mega-Hertz too compressed
up longitudinal mornings
and down transverse evenings
of negative pressure silence.
>intercorrelate.sync.JPC.+.FB
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 10:23 AM UTC
Gray Owl hearkens
the dappled daybreak knell
echoing through
the wildwood forest stand;
rock doves and frosty stones abide,
where a marooned heart doth dwell,
disrobed by the longest night's frigid touch
Timber stand grips tight
red clay and bedrock of ages,
postured tall and strong
as eagle's spirit throne
Pine cones hide
in the low drifting clouds,
ripe acorns tumble down alone
unto a windblown
shallow earthen grave,
hillocked beneath
the sky-high canopy
Bones of branches,
furrowed bark from burled oak,
wood-grains of pith,
natural gnarled achings
peeled by the shivering
wind's breath
Paling autumn memories
grow dim as the receding sunlight,
recollections of ebbing Jasmine's
mellowing fragrant balm
waft aloft in a favorite fading fantasy,
the edge of winter metamorphosis
bears down with a prodigious weight
of a different kind of retreating light;
brindled Queen Anne's lace
hold sway across
the tawny frostbitten meadow
imbuing the poignantly
whetting breeze
The blink of an eye winks,
to catch sight of
an intimate glimpse,
an unspoken
solitude holds forth,
the mesmerizing coo of rock doves,
reverently mirroring
the sanctity of the forest wildwood
lingering amongst the frosty
ferns and stones
The harmony of tranquil silence wanders;
only the bowing resistance of the boughs
manifest the shapeless wind’s
whispered breathe
swirling above the labyrinth threshold;
therein lies an unfractured fault line
rooted deeply beneath
the earth’s crust
like the sonorous heart
of a sanctuary hearthstone
Hence there is symmetry
felt in silence that only whispers
in the deep toned consonant
of our own harbored sighs
a holy human blood link
born of heritage wilderness heartwood
beats keenly alive
written by: harlon rivers ... December 2017
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
Seldom am I so direct,
Like Wayne, Parker, Kent,
I prefer my subterfuge.
But these words are penned
(figuratively speaking)
by the penultimate,
tumultuous,
and often callous wordjockey
yours truly.
As I've said, I'm seldom
more than the sum
of my company kept
*[let slip,
reacquainted,
self-righteous reconciliation,
regret, repeat]*
And today, I find
myself
writing thrice,
twice toward pride,
once of consequence.
Que sera sera.
I'm lead like a horse
who had to drink -
or perhaps imbibe?
your softly streaming sentences,
words which kicked like a mule.
Remember, I was hoarse,
parched.
On that parchment, I find these words:
I am a cause...
Truth at last, truth at last,
Thank God almighty...
...you know the rest.
I stand on this principle -
that I cannot stand at all
sin ustedes
your words the salve,
my words the therapy.
"Progress."
Just Cause.
Now, waxing on
toward the triumphant,
anthemic Aye!
If you are the cause and the casualty,
then each daily account
of what might be made martyrdom
should be cannon.
Am I eliciting allusions and assumptions?
Inadvertently, but then precariously so.
So the pieces fall,
the causality, literary
the eventuality, progressive.
Aye, we are naught but what
we are made of by others.
So each concussive consonant chips and chisels
off the ol' block.
To a good Mister John Henry,
my gratitude.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 4:24 AM UTC
Just between you and me,
I'd rather be a saint than a poet...
But to see the world like this:
A huge, shining consonant, lying on its side,
over the very ordinary clothesline,
well,
that's something, isn't it?
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 9:59 PM UTC
I long for what I’ve never known: a word
that captures the foreign feels of speech surging
from my throat, the ways they shake and crack with
fury and failure as I break away
from the safety of silence, in jagged
and fragmented sentences–I’m desperate
to seize meaning, trying words like puzzle
pieces, I’ll force them to fit together
to form the spaces of pieces missing.
My greatest fear is to be incomplete.
And I’m constantly reminded of this
over coffee-talk and shared politics
as I recoil shyly in forced defense
of each vowel, and every consonant
and the myriad of their constructions:
they are stuck behind my eyes. I am left
apologizing for my vagueness and
for the grey shades of embarrassment and
finite language–when a dictionary
is never a long enough read for the
lone, longer walk around the circumference
of my head–or any red eye flight I have
ever caught that takes me from thought to thought:
the moving belts of baggage claim don’t
have to tell me of the luggage I lost.
As possessions were plucked from circuitry
I clung to the emptiness as if it
was mine and took it home as leverage.
I write in circles ’til I’m motion sick.
I write myself into thought-asylums
where silence is another language:
a slow germination of roots lacing
down the bell-curve of my spine.
A foreign tongue, An othered alphabet.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 4:58 AM UTC
I want a mouthful
of truth
without you sugar coating
every word
but those lies that lie
behind your pearly whites
only goes to show
you can't ever tell the truth.
So, I'll keep my mouth shut
bite my tongue so hard
My lips touch
like a kiss from you
Never open, only
Blowing our love out of proportion
because I can't give
my heart to you
with no proof,
just changing gears
and shifty eyes.
You whisper, "Honey,"
But that's your disguise
Executing every syllable and consonant
Like a devout man
but baby you're not heaven sent.
So, pull me close
until you start to fall apart
and to be honest I can't wait
to hear you talk your way
Out of this one
but I'll be sweet enough
to watch you rot
From too many
candy covered lies.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 8:13 PM UTC
Less ‘ave a spot of fun, shall we?
Sumfin fun to do in ma spare time fo no particula reason,
An’ I like ta share it wif you.
Drop the T’s and pronounce yeh U’s like ew’s
Enunciation is key on heavy consonant words.
Forget practicality an be silly wif it.
Pretending fo a moment,
That there is a glob of peana butta,
On the ref of yeh mouf.
****** ell and bullocks only take it so far,
Yew must remain natural wif towne
But, simply mumble mimzy’s
Followed by ratulsnakes ‘n’ wota fawllls.
Tha best practice comes wif accenting ull day.
An than ull tha kids will think its ace!
Dowent get aggro, jus ease into it.
An fa ***** sake its Herb not erb.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 6:18 PM UTC
Butterflies...across my face
Is what you said my words were to you
Wings of brown drifting
across two pools of ice blue
Slender fingers laced with red
Outstretched across the bed
And yet there was a pause
a sudden close of doors
Keys clattered and locks shut
A yes, a no,a sighed but...
Hawthorn high and bluebells droop
The morning star, the endless loop
My mouth formed the shape
and you fell out soft vowel
Mine a consonant, low like an owl
Flash of blue, rapeseed gold
A white lace flower
A secret to hold.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
See them hiding there…behind
The ass-umptions
Peeking within the cheeks of clauses
Phrases
Phantoms daring to pronounce
Your memories
Best forgotten and sullen
Actions
Pole dancing impressions on the axis of
Anxiousness
Sliding silently along the line
From hip to ****
A cocked look from the slit ‘tween
Consonant on vowel
a.e.i.o…you
Know the no-nos
Whispering around conjunctions
Reminding you of other _unts
Too old or too young for sanctified hosts
Oh God…please don’t tell anyone
…still
God knows and my poems…
My poems know your secrets
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
trepidation.
walk on eggshells. Don't make the wrong move. words are more powerful than you know. vanquished by them, yet again. Woulds never heal when written by a blade of sound.
walk away.
hopeless, forlorn. dejected and rejected. failure cuts a knife so deep. why. Never should make a person feel, this way. rejected. a state of being denied, shunned, dropped, jilted or abandoned. Drop-kicked is more accurate. through thoughts and feelings and walls of un-intention. Unintentional doesn't mean, unafflicting. It's not unconditional.
Up, down, turn around. Hide and seek, but words will always find you. Ominous. Noxious. Apocalyptic. Impending and inauspicious, never pending doom. Don't drown. words surround. Overpower and oppress, get in touch with loneliness. Inescapable. Better to surrender. words.
Immobilize. Can't even hear. Things being said, here. take out. shut off. take over. can't control. it's overtaking. seize power. let go. it'll never stop. Beaten. Buried. Conquered. No respite here. Weariness, none do care. Defeated, run-over. a dump truck of cruelty crushing, running over your heart. The soul is next. **** the heart, now defeat the senses. can't, survive. stressed and, suppressed.
The power of a consonant hath never been matched.
Rip apart, tear down from the start. People don't matter when reduced to mere words and petty emotion. Remove humanity. Steal personality. Nothing matters. Anymore. Disheartened and, Decomposed. Striped bare. unaware. doesn't matter, anymore.
forebodingly frightful. frustrating, feeble, failing, falling, faintheartedly framed. Fuddled. Flustered. No solution to this mess. no respite from such unbearable distress. The fright won't subside.
What a great terror, to be left outside. Alone. In the dark. words. tear, destroy. Shut out in the cold, still scared and alone. Abandoned and deserted. Desolate in a land of cruel misintentions. Uneager comprehensions.
Falling, no stopping. Fear suffocating any chance for hope. Fall.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 3:28 PM UTC
The way a child trusts so blindly, I will close my eyes and fall into your every word.
The sugary-sweet scratch of every consonant and the friction of each vowel.
I will trust you with no hesitation.
If I fall, I know that you will catch me.
The way a child clings to it's favorite blanket or stuffed toy,
I will hold onto you and never let go of the feeling you put in my heart.
The way a child finds no sorrow in it's days, I will too, look at the world in a sunlight so bright, there is no room for darkness.
When I am with you, I can know no sadness.
The way a child sleeps with a guardian teddy bear at it's side, to fight off every night terror, I will rest easy knowing you are beside me.
Your body pressed against mine, like perfect puzzle pieces.
The way a child day-dreams of anatomically incorrect hearts, and
cheek-kisses, I will dream of you and all of the butterflies you give me.
And the way a child believes from the bottom of their heart, that everything will be okay, I will give you my heart, and believe that you will not break it.
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 12:08 AM UTC
graveyards have started to feel a hell of a lot more like home than this god forsaken house ever could. it's easier to sit in front of strange graves in beds of grass and weeds than even consider looking at the empty space where your shoes used to block the doorway, where you turned our welcome mat into an ashtray. the comfort I find in headstones from people I'll never know is nothing compared to how I felt pressed against your chest listening to your own voice boom within your ribcage; shaking the walls with every consonant you let escape your mouth. the overwhelming sound of silence across the grounds is all that I can hear in my hallway now that your laughter isn't lingering between the wallpaper and drywall. I swear to god I hear wilting pedals from forgotten bouquets the second my ear touches my **** pillow every night, I miss your snoring. I've found sick comfort in the way the grass is welcoming and forgiving, the way it happily took every poem I wrote about you and decayed them into the earth beneath it. I've left every trace of you I had at that ******* graveyard but I still can't bear to wash my sheets. I'm as good as dead to you and maybe that's why I've found a home 6 feet under every word I've bled out in your name rather than in this house and body you abandoned.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 3:18 AM UTC
Out of despair I've broken
the glass protecting this mind
from our memories, as we see
each recollection begin to leak,
your thought, once again
impossible to make hearts retreat.
The explanation I'm deserved;
forgotten, as it's now stained with forgiveness,
in order to attempt a different tactic at recapturing
the heart, of which a picture, I keep in this attic.
Can you read the words
of this asthmatic?
That my voice is finally
calm and not frantic.
Hate my enemy, to it,
no longer an addict.
That to you this seems
as me trying to keep
sparks lit with static.
Correct you are lovely lady,
and if you read this in content, get in contact
with man whose name begins with a consonant,
keep communication constant and let us
learn to walk before jogging.
At the moment too overwhelmed and
if the tattooed [two] were to appear
I'd steer the [conversations] onto revealing
I'm held up in investing a relationship with fame.
The pieces are starting to fall into place.
I'd tell you in detail,
but for now I'll keep this tongue tamed.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 3:15 AM UTC
Chaos
The buzz of constant sound
Heavy percussion beating, beating
My heart that longs for you
The music of my love grows;
Crescendos, at the mere grace of you
Every chord is consonant, never dissonant
As is the good character of your person
Love, like music, is never perfect
It's full of too many sharps and flats
Accidentals. Accidents. Mistakes.
But sound pleasant to the unknowing ear
These mistakes are what make us unique
Different from anything composed before it
For isn't that what love truly is?
A perfect melody only we can share
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
I needed you to promise me
that everything would be a vowel
followed by a consonant-
that I could have your bigger littlest finger
ready to loop through mine if I needed it.
I didn't need a mountain rescue or a lottery win
or a mason jar of stars,
I just needed a vowel followed by a consonant,
a hug from the lashes of your eyes
telling me it would all be
ok
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 8:52 PM UTC
i simply exercised my vocabulary in tantra-yoga... you mistook poetry for its expression of freedom curtailed... and while i did my tantra-yoga bending and pointing at unseen geometries... you simply ran a 100 metre sprint, elongating the hyphen into a boa eating itself with avarice the pepper & salt.
0i preferred the haggis / czarna kiszka
than my retrospective -
i'm doing mine early, for reasons not
necessarily true, or for that matter worthwhile...
but nonetheless assuring -
had i too the gift for painting,
and the nerve to keep a young girl captive
i'd too succumb to fathom a Grimm's tale...
live the secluded live, secluded to the point
of incubation - i'd lived it like an
Arctic explorer, by the fireplace
talking drunk tales of escaping polar bear
hunts - within a pentagram of limbs intact,
greasy Glasgow my farthest stone throw of heart...
furthest the Føroyar Øer - if only i kept my heart
as stern of the body to mind as the atom of ego
in my mind to be lost among the carousel
of weathered abstracts known
as the four winds and the thrice winding clockwork -
what abstractions to bear
from now on? a memorial service?
only in poseur marginalising tomorrow as only
a change of attire for today; so too the
semi-clad conservatives of supposed workmanship
English? takes two to a woad; whatever Argentinian
*** did to you in tango... takes two to a woad!
but there's you apish and impish entwined for
coerced blue of some other Newtonian prefect
of argument, when the painting screams far from
Norway the distinction between azure and
aquamarine is very far between
suggestion of marriage... i've ate my liver as if it were
a heart by drinking salute! to a marble stone all hopes
to have my life back! i mistook my liver for a heart!
i did that! you mistook more than i care to remember
having been forced a forgetting...
those 3 years in Edinburgh meant nothing... nothing!
spend them in South America, in Antarctica!
i will not swallow another breath with a vowel coupled
to a consonant.... until the remnants of me
believe the words: Europe united, only when Scotland
is free.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 10:01 PM UTC
to set the world right again
would take your eyes
round and black
as a child's
and your hand
smooth as polished
stone
and soft as cake flour
the wind came up
I wasn't looking
it's been a decade almost
the world and my heart
askew
one consonant,
two vowels
to right it all,
you
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 8:03 AM UTC