"enunciating" poems
Voice Rejoice
by Roger W Hancock
Victory Voice,
voicing calmly,
enunciating clearly,
slow deliberate talking,
battling the stuttering.
Fighting the stammering,
during my conversing,
when heard clearly,
spoken calmly,
Victory’s rejoice.
© 12-07-2011 Roger W Hancock, www.PoetPatriot.com
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 2:56 AM UTC
If god were real
When he’d appear
It would be out of nowhere
In mysterious ways
God would be dressed as a clown
His front top teeth are missing
And he slurs like a drunk
Sometimes you can’t understand him
He does this on purpose
God was never cryptic
He just had trouble enunciating
DON’T BE MEAN TO PEOPLE
JESUS CHRIST
You have trouble looking at his face
It is hard to take the message of a clown seriously
So you look down at the globes of the tip of his shoes
Red shiny bulbs
Inside the reflection
You are ant sized
You feel small in that moment
God says something but you are busy looking down
You see other ant sized people walking behind you
Towards work
To get food
To go to school
God makes you a halo
Out of balloons
It is white because he ran out of yellow
Before he puts it on your head
Turned sideways
It looks like dangling handcuffs
He makes you a sword and belt too
You have just been turned into an angel
A human angel armed with the necessary tools to fight on his behalf
You don’t feel strong in that moment
You still feel like an ant
God gives you a holy water balloon
Just in case things get hairy
You decide you might be able to surprise baptize someone with it
Then god walks a way
But you totally feel better because he just gave you a halo and a sword
You cry that night
Because you have never felt so small and helpless in your entire life
You never felt so silly
Wielding you faith as firm as a balloon sword
Wearing your blow up halo as a badge
So you throw them away
Not your faith
Just the balloons
DON’T HURT ANYBODY
God says
His tongue pressed to his gums to prevent lisps
Then he begins to pump up another balloon
He honks his horn
And you are so confused
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
He said “Cult of Simultaneity”
in such a sultry way
it made we want to kiss him
in that “Gay guys are attracted to me”
sort of way.
An English major taking an
upper level history course
as an elective—
When he smiled at you
in one-on-one conversation
his Irish emerald eyes gleamed between
slits (as he squinted his eyes
in a merry, amiable way).
He wore silk dress shirts and vests
every day with pressed tapered
black dress pants and
gleaming black oxfords.
His well-trimmed red beard
enwreathing the doorway to his mouth
made his lips (full, lush;
I swear they were glossed)—
evermore tantalizing.
I gave him a cute nickname
that was just his name shortened
but with a y, like Jimmy
and Bobby and
I hope he liked it—
He spoke with such finesse
carefully enunciating every syllable
running his tongue smoothly
across his teeth lips and
the roof of his mouth
free of spit and stutter—
every phoneme imbued
with his placid charm,
I ate every crumb
with my eyes glued to him
across the classroom—
Vain and straight,
straight in vain.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 5:11 PM UTC
I once knew a girl,
back when my posture was good,
we wore matching shirts,
jeans and shoes.
She kept her hair long,
to hide jealous shoulders.
All the loud voices
didn't have a thing to say.
They didn't resonate,
hammering on doors,
denting ear drums,
enunciating mispronunciations.
I played football in times square,
passing glances and stairs,
had rock climbing races
to higher elevations.
My badly tuned feet couldn't run,
ankle bones off key.
There's a saltwater film
frosting my eyelashes,
clinging to my tongue,
holding down my yells
to the quiet machines
that toss boiled eggs in the air.
Up to their knees
in the dark left behind by streetlights,
they rolled up their pants for wading.
They lingered in docking terminals,
standing still,
becoming dust collectors.
Somehow we're all just wanderers,
citing passages we herd
in front of us like mountain goats.
Ambling across empty intersections,
walking in handstand through cul de sacs,
picking up litter from busy streets.
Books for readers wear little letters,
use big words with four syllables.
They showed me how to fence with trains,
ride red wagons down hills,
win marmalade coated cricket matches.
I never judged the typos to be out of place
(I accepted the bits they forgot to erase)
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 3:47 AM UTC
Going back
is a Fool's
Paradise
Its un-
truth is
its
Per
Fec
Tion
the delicate
bead
of your kiss
A tongue
enunciating
what the
present
Can Be
makes
it all
So Clear
Worth
while
Good
night
but not
Good
bye
to us
maybe
but
You and I
still stand
strong
think
clear-
ly
have twisting
desires
guns
in our backs
for some tattered
and tear-stained
piece of Truth
We cannot
be
Con
Tained
within the realm
of
Re
Collec
Tion
Let us bleed
out
into the
frightening
cold
of our stark
Day
Light
Dreams
Jesus, I own
thoughts that
align me
with you!
You are
a confusing cup
of cigarette tea
And we
are working
to let
our meat
be malleable
our minds
supple and
our tongues
agile
in the warm
embrace of
the other's
Mouth
Heart
Eyes
Another
universe
of dangerous
Pos
Si
Bi
Lity
To hell
with Duality!
The past
is Simplicity!
**** what is
wrong
Know what is
Right
and live to see
the probability
of Tonight
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 5:59 PM UTC
Every evening
she beams into my living room
bringing me the news of the world
Juanita ***
looking at me with her large eyes, gently tossing her coiffured blond hair
demurely enunciating ugly words through her beautifully shaped mouth
another insane event has occurred in some far off country
and Juanita *** has nice red lip gloss on tonight
a boat load of desperate people has reached our shores
only Juanita *** can make the word "asylum" sound ******
more bikie gang trouble in the city
if I had tats and a Harley Juanita, would you ride off with me?
a ********** released on bail
you shouldn't have to read such filth Juanita
the Government’s economic policies are working
who did you share your stimulus package with Juanita?
another loutish sportsman has disgraced himself in public
Juanita, let the sports reporter read that stuff in future
Parliamentarians hurl foul language at each other in Canberra
I love it when you talk ***** Juanita
debate continues about the best way to tackle climate change
if there was an ETS Juanita, would you trade emissions with me?
she is telling me that tomorrow it will be warm and moist
and Jesus Christ, Juanita *** has two buttons undone on her blouse
There will be another news update in an hour
but not from Juanita ***
and without Juanita ***
no news is good news
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 4:39 AM UTC
Muriel, when our eyes first met and your name rolled off my tongue with a fine ring,
felt, I was charged with your sun-filled-sea-radiance from inside out
just the cadence of a name has an unctuous something! I've never known that before,
just saying it evocatively few times, I felt touching your heart; a golden thread did bind us then.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 10:39 AM UTC
all my life
wanted to write just
the way
Joni (Mitchell) sings
seesawing
rising unexpected,
write the changing temperament
in the pitch,
of now
yawing, oscillating,
speedy slow,
enunciating the whip of
love crazy
twist to fall into a
double-time
bass baritone insane
from and into a higher pitch,
switch on the
en garde,
blue ink
onto cloth napkin poetry
plain plaintive,
rendering the scene,
rendering my heart,
it's crazy high-lows,
emotion backyard
swing set
*Oh Joni!
I could drink a case of you*
that is was what I
told the single girls
when I was a wooing man
send me home,
high and crying,
thinking uneven,
creatively,
drinking you,
pounding the dashboard,
sing our palpitating poems
thinking up
the in-between
songs of
till next time
that they loved so much
they begged,
sing it again and again
I drank them all
and think now of poem love songs,
vintages that never caged,
never aging,
those songs I wrote for them,
back in the day
when Joni
taught me how to
see life in verse
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 6:17 AM UTC
I - stricken biped
Reside
Arranged on patina of dust
Compacted from its own breadth and comingled humid vacillations
Misplaced intent resides carking upon my ribcage
Cerebral reliquary reprises
Enunciating: distaste – mediocrity – insufficiency
Clandestine exhalation configuration obliges principal
Luminous descants evade ebullition bound in stained crystal
Eupnea elapsed - foreboding
Enigma binds frame to pith
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
I haven't slept for two days now. The nights pass by slowly as I am in deep thought, my grandmother’s radio plays at full volume in the other room, and my parents and uncle talk loudly into the ears of their loved ones an ocean away.
I hear my father tell his brother to search for his son among the bodies of the dead, I hear my mother asking for the latest news and picture her standing there holding her breathe as she listens to the tired frantic voice of the person on the other end of the line, and I play the scene over and over again where my grandmother walks slowly into my room, with a back, hunched because of years of hard labor. She stares at me with a wrinkled face and a look in her eyes that I recall seeing only a few times but only when she speaks of her past, during the rough times.
She asks me if I know what's going on, and I tell her yes. Then she begins to summarize anyways, speaking in a lowered voice so that is just above a whisper enunciating each word clearly and I understand despite the usual misunderstandings between me and her, I nod my head, and release noises known worldwide to reassure someone who is speaking that the audience is listening.
And as her words become separated by seconds that tell stories in themselves, and that look in her eyes, she says in a grave voice and in a language that seems so familiar yet foreign, “chi we dak, chi we dak” then she turns around and walks out of the room in the same fashion in which she came in.
I ponder her words as I sit there.
“The world has broken, the world has broken.”
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 6:36 AM UTC
I hearkened thee enunciating,
“Those who oft visit thy swevens in sooth miss thee”.
I can not sweven thine Eden.
I do not sweven—
Thou bequeathed me insomnolence.
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 12:52 PM UTC
though strictly Fermi, and oh...(en Rico) plus sun
dre other parvenues, a rapture
surges thru me,
when audibly communicating, enunciating,
and speaking English words
as if hi ken run
a marathon, or zip to the moon,
(take as cheesy tong in cheek)
from this pun
gent, who relishes reading for my eyes and ears
asper myself, which purported nun
sense ink reese sees learn'n
den earn an award,
especially wash'n black board
den breathing intelligent dust
from eraser head could awk cord,
I utter Hieronymus Bosch, bing enamored,
and aye actually confess
tubby a model United Nations chimp
pan zee, and/or other
type of survey monkey hook can huff ford
Old Rotten Gotham horde
sliding down into the behavioral sink...
exclaiming "oh me jack lord"
and getting rescued then getting less on,
sans get'n taut how (muss elf George Eliot)
tubby comb moored
flossed, milled, and taut
tubby trained for Operation Ready Date
by a coop pull oof oot standing chap,
named Adam West, who poured
salty epithets (reminding me, as they roared
that life iz brutal, short and nasty),
part tickly ne'r the end
wharf hew scored
and majority got de toured
until emotionally, physically,
and spiritually enlightened
By Rabindranath Tagore and Burt Ward.
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 2:11 AM UTC
trees sunk in dolor as i teach
what i could to the flowers and what they
might say to me in seismic lunges
of dark upon quivering fig
will tremble the environs.
the boughs mimic the serious mien
of sundials — men have forgotten
the primitive yet go rushing murderous
waving bayonets claiming the silence,
the ruin rising above the phalanx.
my glyptic words rise above the foliage
telling all macabre presses against
choked light. the heron,
the nightingale, o'er there yonder
hills tryingly enunciating something
in the hollow: they have traded
us for mere soil.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 4:50 AM UTC
Raw
Flesh collision
Hews the body
Lilliputian flecks coalesce
Dust motes cling
In dilapidated spheres
Dawn’s menagerie
Enunciating their form
In blatant form and elongated shadow
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
Silence—the galactic language—
Enunciating exploding Stars,
A background to the dialect of Humans.
Mar 12, 2021
Mar 12, 2021 at 10:09 AM UTC
Sorry is a word.
It has sounds and syllables.
It carries meaning,
although, sometimes it doesn't.
Is your sorry empty, full, half-empty, half-full?
Do you put the weight of truth behind it to lift it up?
When you make the sounds are you just making the sounds?
Are you simply enunciating the consonants to make them resonate
with the hard "E" at the end?
Is your sorry just a word?
Or is it a feeling?
A feeling that tears you up inside so that you must utter this word
to allow your hurt and pain to escape?
Your mouth, the portal by which the truth slides free,
by which you unburden:
is this aperture the escape route of your anguish?
Or are you just creating noise?
If you are sorry, REALLY, Really, really sorry,
show me that you can put together more than five letters.
I want to feel your word and the honesty built around it.
Show me that you embody each of these letters
with all of the cells of your being.
Sorry is just a word,
but when and if you choose to use it, make certain it is so much more.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 4:25 PM UTC
I don’t want to go to school or get a job
My creative flow and time are robbed
I sob
Just let me be a hermit in my room
Alone with my mind and its contents
My tomb
My lady sings
Of life’s purpose
And how it’s subjective
She write her letters in cursive
She sings
Of endless opportunity
Enunciating with clarity
Hitting high notes easily
The song
My mind has gone empty
The pond has dried up
Cursed with this dry spell
There’s been a drought
Oh no
I’m praying for a rainstorm
I dance
The music sends a message
And it tells me
What I should do
I’ll go back to school and find a job
I head for the door and turn the ***
I’m lobbed
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
enunciating, conversationally
the opposite of yelling at a foreigner
only wishing to be heard
while maintaining my distance from the herd
self-assured closet nerd
flipping the bird yelling
word
to all my muthafukkas
the late night ruckus causes my focus to shift
drifting aimless I try to digress
but elementary recess memories
have me needing to confess long held secret rendezvous
the south bleacher blues
and clues to what this all means…
obscenely, I expect you to follow
and wallow a while here with me
only wishing to be heard
while maintaining my distance from the herd
late model Panel, three channels
aftermarket handle, scandal with Randel
and the move that opened the world
girls and shotgun squirrels, two lucky pearls
and the swirly, I’m sorry…
one black eye. the year of fry. crystal **** high
flying over Wah-Chang sludge ponds
drawing power from the universal force and a
pretty smile
only wishing to be herd
while maintaining my distance from the herd
meeting resistance with distance running
cunningly shunning become a man
planning on dying junked up
canned heat, Sterno and Dante’s Inferno
stomach churning when lacking the black
west coast ****** flunking straight life
lost little girl, I’m sorry…
burnt up rhymer scheming miner
trying to unwind, blindly, but kindly
only wishing to be herd
while maintaining my distance from the heard
flash fire, perspiring liar in dire need of a sign
crime pile out of style ball sack wilding
free range beguiler husting that 20 dollar
wellness balloon
buffoonery…. T’was June, you see, when it spoke to me
the year before two thousand and three
granting thee
needle freedom
preachy?
Peach Tea?
just like every other fish in the god **** sea………
………………………
…….
only wishing to be heard
while maintain my distance from the herd
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 4:05 AM UTC
Sometimes my anxiety makes me retreat back into a dark cave where I don't talk to anyone and I try not to think about anything at all because if I do then all the other thoughts come rushing in and Im swirling and swirling and swirling in thoughts and I can't stop
So I retreat into my cave and I don't think and I don't talk and I don't do anything.
And the only thought I ever seem to let through for some reason is a depressing one.
I think about how I am wasting my short little spec of a lifetime hiding in a cave from myself and others and I feel guilty and sad and self conscious about all of my decisions.
My thoughts make me come out of my cave and I try to talk to someone. Not about my cave or about how I feel sad, but instead I ask them about them. People like to talk about themselves.
A quarter way into the conversation I start to doubt myself.
I question whether or not I am enunciating or maybe I am being creepy and asking about their life too much? Was it creepy that I asked her if her dog was still sick because she told me that last week and I don't know if she appreciates my remembrance or is unsettled by it.
My thoughts swirl around and around until I eventually just retreat into my cave again.
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 9:43 PM UTC
stheyre goingto find me
thosefeelingsi tried to leavebehing but theyy sswoulndt leave me.
theywalk beside me in thesunlgith sheileding their eyes
and in the darktheysmile stroking my hair
sayingyou;re n o t e n o u g h enunciating eachwordhisssssing
whispers
never ever ever enough youcould ne v e r be en o ugh
too much at the same timg like please picka ******* feeling
shes an oldfriend thistype oflonliness
i know her well
.
Jul 27, 2025
Jul 27, 2025 at 2:07 PM UTC
What a sin
What a grave sin
A fox in
A sheep’s skin
Echoing the mob’s
Democracy-peace-and –unity-
Packed wish
Enunciating bright days
They will soon relinquish,
He touched
In every credulous heart
A sensitive cord,
Cognizant, an all-out support
To him
They will accord.
True, he basked under
Taps on the back
To his expectation ten fold
And laudations untold.
Nothing toothsome he left
In the political rhetoric dish,
With colorful diplomacy
He adored
To garnish,
So he made many
Their speculation
To relinquish.
He also won the international
Community’s “go ahead!”
Abstaining from
Their customarily
“We are afraid!”
They declared
“He has no fault!”
Smirking behind his back
“Congra a Trojan horse
We have got
Who buys all what
We say
Without a grain of salt,”
To solve the paradox
The mob must unmask
And chase
The fox,
A jackal
In a green pasture
Is unorthodox.//
Jul 23, 2019
Jul 23, 2019 at 7:08 AM UTC
Slowly counting backwards from one hundred
if restless, yet most every night/early morning,
when tiredness defeats ability to remain alert
though rarely these days no difficulty to dream
way before mentally mouthing the number zero,
a segue way into unconscious state disengages
awareness, nor does yours truly recount numb
burr, nor REM member upon awakening hours
later how far from first triple digit to nought, I
ceased noiselessly iterated theoretical string of
symbols (representing whole sum quantity), the
likes linkedin to the Hindu-Arabic numeral cyst-
stem attributed to two Indian mathematicians awk
credited with developing mode to abstract former
lee bird den some assignation expressing a short
shorthand to conveniently represent a numerical
value, honor belongs to Aryabhata of Kushuma-
pura developed the place-value notation in the
fifth century, and about one hundred years later
Brahmagupta introduced important symbol for
zero, without such (now obvious) methodology,
this nocturnal primate, would most likely resort
to awkward, bulky, clumsy, et cetera alternative,
sans Roman numerals silently with eyelids shut
tight, thus imagine if ye will this sir soundlessly
enunciating c, xcix, xcviii...praying to dog never
reaching the lowest solitary i, cuz this mister, he
would never be accountable waking bolt upright
resembling a zombie emitting nought a peep, cuz
this suddenly duped frenzied hotmail, would have
zero choice!
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 1:20 PM UTC