"interpreter" poems
He will not light long enough
for the interpreter to gather
the tatters of his speech.
But the longer we listen
the calmer he becomes.
He shows me the place where his daughter
has rubbed with a coin, violaceous streaks
raising a skeletal pattern on his chest.
He thinks he's been hit by the wind.
He's worried it will become pneumonia.
In Cambodia, he'd be given
a special tea, a prescriptive sacrifice,
the right chants to say. But I
know nothing of Chi, of Karma,
and ask him to lift the back of his shirt,
so I may listen to his breathing.
Holding the stethoscope's bell I'm stunned
by the whirl of icons and script
tattooed across his back, their teal green color
the outline of a map which looks
like Cambodia, perhaps his village, a lake,
then a scroll of letters in a watery signature.
I ask the interpreter what it means.
It's a spell, asking his ancestors
to protect him from evil spirits—
she is tracing the lines with her fingers—
and those who meet him for kindness.
The old man waves his arms and a staccato
of dipthongs and nasals fills the room.
He believes these words will lead his spirit
back to Cambodia after he dies.
I see, I say, and rest my hand on his shoulder.
He takes full deep breaths and I listen,
touching down with the stethoscope
from his back to his front. He watches me
with anticipation—as if awaiting a verdict.
His lungs are clear. You'll be fine,
I tell him. It's not your time to die.
His shoulders relax and he folds his hands
above his head as if in blessing.
Ar-kon, he says. All better now.
by Peter Pereira
.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 1:02 AM UTC
You’ve read of several kinds of Cat,
And my opinion now is that
You should need no interpreter
To understand their character.
You now have learned enough to see
That Cats are much like you and me
And other people whom we find
Possessed of various types of mind.
For some are same and some are mad
And some are good and some are bad
And some are better, some are worse—
But all may be described in verse.
You’ve seen them both at work and games,
And learnt about their proper names,
Their habits and their habitat:
But
How would you ad-dress a Cat?
So first, your memory I’ll jog,
And say: A CAT IS NOT A DOG.
And you might now and then supply
Some caviare, or Strassburg Pie,
Some potted grouse, or salmon paste—
He’s sure to have his personal taste.
(I know a Cat, who makes a habit
Of eating nothing else but rabbit,
And when he’s finished, licks his paws
So’s not to waste the onion sauce.)
A Cat’s entitled to expect
These evidences of respect.
And so in time you reach your aim,
And finally call him by his NAME.
So this is this, and that is that:
And there’s how you AD-DRESS A CAT.
3.2k
I played with whipped cream last night...
Coated my fingertips...like candles snuffed at their prime...
Each fingertip returning to its original cleanliness under the spell of my tongue...
Circling the shape of my eyes...the maps that guide my soul into motion....
Tracing the slope of my nose...interpreter of the sensations that surround me...
Amazing the sensualities that are carried on the wind...
Scaling the outline of my lips....filling every crease and curve...
Jealous my body becomes...taking in the delights from above...
Shoulder slope...slippery slide...collar bones coated...nipples nestled...
The tips of my fingers crave more canvas...more skin...
Sticky steam caresses me...bubbles spawn webs of lace upon my skin...as for the rest?
Delicacies dancing within me.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 5:56 PM UTC
God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.
Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,
He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sov'reign will.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.
His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding ev'ry hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flow'r.
Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain;
God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain.
2.6k
In a parallel universe
A universe of opprtunities and justice
A universes that gives people their rights
People would each follow a path
That truly represents what's in their hearts
Instead of a doctor
I'd be
A ballerina
An architect
An interpreter
A writer
I would be
All the dreams that were stolen from me
In a world so damaged
To fulfill a child's dream
Therefore it destroys the talents
Before it grow beyond its rein
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 5:10 PM UTC
Poetry is when I play interpreter to my heart
Fumbling to find the right words
Stumbling to convey love beyond a four letter word
A million things get lost in translation
I inscribe loneliness most times
Happiness she prefers left unwritten
And you, she'd rather kept hidden
But I know you from all the unintended traces that spill unto everything she says
I try not to write about you
Or at least eclipse you in between the lines
But it's impossible when you're the one all her words are meant for
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 12:21 AM UTC
God, if you only knew the things these eyes have seen. I feel as if I’m the only one to have felt this heaviness in my soul. It breaks me down. I’m scavenging for survival. For hope, for humanity. I wait patiently in the dark hoping to watch as the light breaks through this darkness I live in. Will the sun rise? Will the moon give in to its brutal blows? Or will I be left again, left wondering where I’m meant to travel to next. I watched my family torn from the places once called sacred. The treasures they held once before meant nothing, their lives were the only treasure they had left. The only treasure I had left. Some tore their way out of that hell. The mental affliction that caused them to drown in their own murderous screams. They moved on with their quest for a purpose, ripping away the flaws and scars left by the pain experienced. Becoming something new, remade. Still beautiful, they didn’t break. They persevered. I watched as others tied the fear and pain to their ankles, always dragging it with them. Others would notice the chains they pulled, but never say a word. Never reach out a hand to search for the key to these aches. Just watching them survive, I watch them survive. I survive. But the worst of all to watch was The Interpreter. The ones who fell for the lies that got them with me in this black hole. The ones who never coped, never wanted a purpose, they wanted revenge. Revenge on the ones who tore their soul apart, piece by piece. The ones who took every bit of sanity they had and laughed as it fell unreachable by any man. I watched as something once so beautiful, miraculous, pure and true turn into something that made me want to cringe. So hungry. Always remembering the starvation they suffered from and using it as a crutch and weapon to fill the hole that cannot be filled by things as such. I try to help but they snarl in defense, forgetting that once I was their friend. Only thinking of the world as an enemy, and everyone in it an enemy as well. I try to stop them, plead for them to stay, just to here a few words. Just to know that they aren’t alone, I’m here in the darkness too.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
Mother of Light, and the Gods! Mother of Music, awake!
Silence and speech are at odds; Heaven and Hell are at
stake.
By the Rose and the Cross I conjure; I constrain by the
Snake and the Sword;
I am he that is sworn to endure -Bring us the word of the
Lord!
By the brood of the Bysses of Brightening, whose God was
my sire;
By the Lord of the Flame and Lightning, the King of
the Spirits of Fire;
By the Lord of the Waves and the Waters, the King of the
Hosts of the Sea,
The fairest of all of whose daughters was mother to me;
By the Lord of the Winds and the Breezes, the king of the
Spirits of Air,
In whose ***** the infinite ease is that cradled me there;
By the Lord of the Fields and the Mountains, the King of
the Spirits of Earth
That nurtured my life at his fountains from the hour of my
birth;
By the Wand and the Cup I conjure; by the Dagger and
Disk I constrain;
I am he that is sworn to endure; make thy music again!
I am Lord of the Star and the Seal; I am Lord of the Snake
and the Sword;
Reveal us the riddle, reveal! Bring us the word of the Lord!
As the flame of the sun, as the roar of the sea, as the storm
of the air,
As the quake of the earth -let it soar for a boon, for a bane,
for a snare,
For a lure, for a light, for a kiss, for a rod, for a scourge, for
a sword -
Bring us thy burden of bliss -Bring us the word of the
Lord!
2.1k
Touch
You cannot lift or load it,
over your shoulder, throw it,
to best assay its weight -
is it ponderous, full of big *** gravitas
or a snack, a parfait desert,
a haiku delight?
You cannot touch it,
but it can touch you,
It can grasp both your shoulders,
shake you from complacency,
put its hands upon thy throat,
gasp emit, a scream demanded,
paint whimsy lines on thy face,
from ear to ear.
See
With yours eyes, by a mere glance,
true reveal its length,
stanzas multiple or an itty bitty ditty,
but this gives no value clue,
Ogden Nash vs. Tennyson,
in two minutes make you laugh,
in twenty, make you beg, mercy!
Smell
Some Poe poems do stink,
befouled mushrooms in
a dank place, some require nerve to read,
but your olfactory be ill suited for
poetic deconstruction and criticism.
Hear
Wake you with kisses upon thy face,
inject love poems into thy ears,
straight to the brain verbal crack *******
yet even the hearing the whisper
of words from my lips,
is an insufficient,
sensorily speaking methodology,
of how a poem, to best comprehend
How then?
If touch, vision, smell and cursory hearing alone
can't essence capture, what then, weary reader,
is the supposed Laureate's approved analytical tool?
Taste
Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member
in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction
with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows, and the one that follows.
Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....
Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.
Feel the light pressure of the tongues tip
upon the roof of your mouth
and the exalted exhalations of
air rushing past thy cheeks
as you messenger breath from
your chest to be shared with the world,
over the poem's interpreter, your tasting lips.
*As I lay each word down,
a brick by brick edifice construct
of mine own design, I am sated, fulfilled only,
when with I see your lips move
as you savor my words,
my taste you share,
and we are closer for it.*
***Deaf, dumb and blind,
all such travails can be conquered, assailed,
but when I cannot, no longer anymore taste
my poems upon thy lips, then I breathe no more.***
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
THIS Mohammedan colonel from the Caucasus yells with his voice and wigwags with his arms.
The interpreter translates, "I was a friend of Kornilov, he asks me what to do and I tell him."
A stub of a man, this Mohammedan colonel ... a projectile shape ... a bald head hammered ...
"Does he fight or do they put him in a cannon and shoot him at the enemy?"
This fly-by-night, this bull-roarer who knows everybody.
"I write forty books, history of Islam, history of Europe, true religion, scientific farming, I am the Roosevelt of the Caucasus, I go to America and ride horses in the moving pictures for $500,000, you get $50,000 ..."
"I have 30,000 acres in the Caucasus, I have a stove factory in Petrograd the bolsheviks take from me, I am an old friend of the Czar, I am an old family friend of Clemenceau ..."
These hands strangled three fellow workers for the czarist restoration, took their money, sent them in sacks to a river bottom ... and scandalized Stockholm with his gang of strangler women.
Mid-sea strangler hands rise before me illustrating a wish, "I ride horses for the moving pictures in America, $500,000, and you get ten per cent ..."
This rider of fugitive dawns....
1.8k
I saw a dream
once upon a time.
Don’t know when
but often it seems
as old as time.
Until comes the interpreter
goodness knows
where that’s feet are.
No one was primping
but the meaning shows up
all in all is a mirror.
Oh, when did it all begin?
Now, looking at the mirror
often it makes me wonder,
is there a past or future,
besides an omnipresent like now
truly a full moon picture.
Aug 6, 2021
Aug 6, 2021 at 1:00 PM UTC
I was doing research in Hubei
Where they executed Yu,
That deity soldier glorified
By Buddhists, Taoists too,
I sat perusing manuscripts
That dated from the Ming,
And came across a reference
About Yu’s finger ring.
A ring of gold so broad that it
Would fit a peasant’s wrist,
For Guan Yu was a mighty man
His ring, an amethyst,
Set round with groups of diamonds
It was lost the day, they said,
That Sun Quan had ordered them
To lop off Guan Yu’s head.
They lost it for a thousand years
It turned up with the Ming,
Was lost again in battle with
That mighty force, the Qing,
I’d heard it round the market place
A whisper, now and then,
That ring, it might have surfaced
In the village of Maicheng.
I scoured the streets and alleyways
For signs of old antiques,
Researching as I went, I walked
Around the town for weeks,
I found a backstreet corner shop
One night, and open late,
Run by a dodgy Chinaman
A total reprobate.
He had links to the Triads, they
Would come into the shop,
A shifty group of gangsters with
Their stolen goods to pop,
From where I sat with manuscripts
Up on the second floor,
I’d look straight down the staircase
Watch them come in through the door.
One day they brought in a bundle
Tied up in a burlap sack,
Threw it down on the counter, said:
‘What do you make of that?’
Fang Zhang then opened the parcel and
He pulled out a giant hand,
The flesh the texture of leather with
A monstrous golden band.
The ring was almost immoveable
The hand, with fingers spread,
Could grasp a maiden around the waist
Or crush a warrior’s head,
I held my breath as the Triad tried
To disengage the thing,
And all the while the diamonds flashed
On that massive golden ring.
Fang Zhang paid over a block of notes
That looked more like a brick,
There must have been a million Yuan
From what I saw of it,
The Triad left and I caught my breath
Fang Zhang had pulled it off,
He threw the hand in a ******* bin
And then I left the shop.
He hid the ring as I walked on through
I had to get some air,
I’d caught a glimpse of a famous ring,
A thing I couldn’t share,
They’d say it didn’t exist, that I
Was dreaming, if I tried,
They thought that it had been lost to view
The day that Yu had died.
I went back down the following day
The Police were there in force,
They stood out front and barred the way
From normal ***********
They told me through an interpreter
Of the ****** of Fang Zhang,
His face was black, for around his neck
Was a massive, ringless hand!
David Lewis Paget
(Pronunciation: Guan Yu - Gwon you
Hubei - Who - bay; Sun Quan - Sun Chu-arn
Qing - Ching; Maicheng - My - cheng
Fang Zhang - Fang Shjang (soft J))
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 9:26 PM UTC
"Don't work with the Americans."
"Don't help the Americans."
This is what some of the Afghan interpreters are saying
After their poor treatment by the United States government
The Afghan Interpreters are angry
And they have a right to be
After most U.S. troops have left
Some are stuck hiding in Kabul
The Taliban tell the local people
That they are infidels
The Taliban **** many interpreters
The Afghan Interpreters struggle
Only about 30% get their visa
Some only have enough money
To make it to Greece
They live together
Barely any money
No hot water
Persecuted by the local police
One interpreter saved the life of an American soldier
The soldier helped him put together his visa packet
His visa took three years!!!
This interpreter had fought with them for 7 years
Had saved the lives of five American soldiers
Had been the personal interpreter for 12 U.S. senators
One interpreter
Did not leave on a flight approved by the U.S.
He had to leave on the next flight
Because the Taliban was threatening to **** him
Thankfully the U.S. soldier
Had a place for him to stay
And could give him some money
The soldier promised him
He would help him get resettlement benefits
Even though the U.S. government stated
He was not eligible to receive his benefits
Because he did not arrive on a U.S. approved flight
The Vice Interviewer
Learns from the lawyers working for the interpreters
That there is a massive bureaucracy
The Department of Defense doesn't consider them veterans
The soldier tried to get a bill introduced
That would streamline the process
And increases the number of visas
To help the Afghan Interpreters
No legislation regarding immigration was introduced
Because of bickering among Republican members
The program ran out in September of 2014
So now thousands will be stuck in Afghanistan
One interpreter that was interviewed
Was stuck in Afghanistan
Working as a taxi driver
Fearing for his life
Many of the Taliban prisoners
Have been released
Now he fears for his life
He doesn't know what will happen
6,000 applicants
For 280 available visas
As of July 2014
May God bless the Afghan interpreter
Trying to live his life in peace
May God bless the Afghan people
It seems things never change for them
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC
My father.
Old sailor.
Old farmer.
Old carpenter.
Old interpreter.
Old archive of facts
And history. He knows
Our ancestory by heart down
To the 1600s. Born 1946, 68 years
Old today. Bought me my first pen,
My first book, taught me English
From the age of five. Told me I
Had the gift of language and
Expression. And that I was
A stronger boy than any
Anyone had ever seen
By the time I began
To learn English.
I owe him credit
For every word
I have written.
Weak now
With age and
Bad lungs, I still
See him as a giant
Handling a chainsaw,
Smelling of forestry and
Gasoline and winter, smiling
At me with eyes deep blue from
Seeing more ocean and sky than I
Ever will know with my own.
His name to me is pappa.
After a few pints of his homemade
Wine, I sometimes let him beat me at Armwrestling. Then we laugh like
Old friends, remembering how
The roles were different back
Then. I am glad I stopped by
For a cuppa on this day. He
Would never ask me to.
Happy Birthday, pappa.
I'd cut a decade from my lifetime
To add a single year
To yours.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
Gudron graced many a viking's visions,
like a Helen or a Guenevere.
But no ray of light could be shone
on her four disturbing dreams.
Until one day a wise kinsman called,
a dream interpreter, who told her
that she would outlast four husbands.
His foretelling came to pass.
But she never wed the man she loved.
He set sail. Gudron remained.
Iceland's first christian nun.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.
Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill
He treasures up His bright designs,
And works His sovereign will.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.
His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.
Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain;
God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.
1.4k
Poetry lies intermingled
Tangled recognition, interpretation
Drawn meaning like syringe
Conceptual life,
Intellectual dream.
Walking, swimming, fighting,
Forest branches weaving
Filling air, with wooden breath
Growing standing
Still and strong
Wise beards ferns green
Brown coffee time and maturity
Professor, interpreter
Language ciphening
Hourglass ideas.
Sifting sorting exalting dropping
Sliding through grasps of
Clasps of minds.
Grip and resignation
Trains and tracks
Lay directing paths for feet
That fly and touch not ground nor map
Atmosphere, time, space
Wind, water, sand
Scrunched paper words
Crushed branches pasted ingrained
Elements
Nature is poet
Words in the sky that fills our lungs
Breathing as filtered light –
We become,
Complete.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
Talk about the we've been takin thinking about how the sun don't shine. Trying to find myself. Cause im already Missing my mind. Just trying to unwind.Each night follows a shattered day. Everything I hear is unclear.What even matters. Each word spoken like fm static. To me no surprise, I automatically don't deny, existence. In an instant friends flashes past my ride. And I
Chorus I've lost my mind. Ive lost my mind, I'm shaking my mind Loosing my time. Same old saying. Fire melting my brain. Getting high to feel sane. But the song repeats is played in my heart.Tellingme I've lost it all. I was scrambling into halls with no light. Trampled onto the surface of gods I had in store. Shouldn't ignore because there just plain possesion. I've noticed cooperation is your obsession.
Chorus I've lost my mind. Ive lost my mind, I'm shaking my mind Loosing my time. Same old saying. Fire melting my brain. Getting high to feel sane. But the song repeats is played in my heart.Telling me I've lost it all Stuck to mistakes like medal to a magnet. Like tape on paper. I need a mime on the side of my shoulder. No longer trying to decide the things to say. I've needed a interpreter anyway. Can't find Anyone cause everyone silent. Can't try to hard. It figures it over my sense of direction. Falling into the pit of confusion. Walked in and out into walls. I thought I would find my way out.
Chorus I've lost my mind. Ive lost my mind, I'm shaking my mind Loosing my time. Same old saying. Fire melting my brain. Getting high to feel sane. But the song repeats is played in my heart.Telling me I've lost it all
Apr 24, 2010
Apr 24, 2010 at 6:05 PM UTC
I bake my words, served to you with love
Until they've simmered through and through
And although they may seem meaningless
I still recommend you slowly chew
There is a flavor to my words
The ingredients, I myself grew
Each morsel hand picked to be used
For the stew made for just us two
A dash of this and a dash of that
All while conscious not to include trans fat
A healthy meal of friendly chat
That's where I see us, that's where we're at
The stove acts as the interpreter
That transcends consumption into fact
And it's the essence of a home cooked meal
Which allows for opposites to attract
I put my soul in to my soul food
I stir up the fun in my fondue
Just as I do with my advice to you
To be washed down with a frothy brew
I speak with good intentions
I'll use my past experience as proof
You'll see....
I'll have you dancing beside your tastebuds
Before this evening's through
With song in heart and stomach full
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 9:26 PM UTC
How to Read a Poem (Hint: Not With Your Eyes)
Touch
You cannot lift or load it, over your shoulder, throw it,
to best assay its weight - is it ponderous, full of big *** gravitas
or a snack, a parfait desert, a haiku delight?
You cannot touch it, but it can touch you,
It can grasp both your shoulders, shake you from complacency,
put its hands upon thy throat, gasp emit, a scream demanded,
paint whimsy lines on thy face, from ear to ear.
See
With yours eyes, by a mere glance, true reveal its length,
stanzas multiple or an itty bitty ditty, but this gives no value clue,
Ogden Nash vs. Tennyson,
in two minutes make you laugh,
in twenty, make you beg, mercy!
Smell
Some Poe poems do stink, befouled mushrooms in
a dank place, some require nerve to read,
but your olfactory be ill suited for
poetic deconstruction and criticism.
Hear
Wake you with kisses upon thy face, inject love poems into thy ears,
**straight to the brain verbal crack *******
yet even the hearing the whisper of words from my lips,
is an insufficient, sensorily speaking methodology,
of how a poem, to best comprehend
How then?
If touch, vision, smell and cursory hearing alone
can't essence capture, what then, weary reader,
is the supposed Laureate's approved analytical tool?
Taste
*Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows, and the one that follows.*
Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....
Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.
Feel the light pressure of the tongues tip upon the roof of your mouth
and the exalted exhalations of air rushing past thy cheeks
as you messenger breath from your chest to be shared with the world,
over the poem's interpreter, your tasting lips.
As I lay each word down, a brick by brick edifice construct
of mine own design, I am sated, fulfilled only,
when with I see your lips move as you savor my words,
my taste you share, and we are closer for it.
Deaf, dumb and blind, all such travails can be conquered, assailed,
but when I cannot, no longer anymore taste
my poems upon thy lips, then I breathe no more.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 8:13 AM UTC
Why do I smell cinnamon in the corner of the room?
We must begin this taxing slow-dance before my mother hears us.
My Cradle. Your Cradle.
I felt your pulse spike before my back hit the wall.
And we’re both young enough to say this can’t really mean anything.
The sea whisper’d me.
The staunch, scarlet statues.
The ringing phone in the glove compartment.
No, I’ll take paper, instead. The renegade robots are all dead.
This flight. This grip.
Talk to the scumbag rocker in the Primus hoodie.
Did you spy the shoes on the power lines?
Don’t worry – we’ll keep our arms at the level of our eyes.
We bumped into the roses in the closet.
A wasp could sting you then sting me.
Such is the burden of my position --
An interpreter and a translator of the venom
passed through a sting.
The mail-sorter in the dead letter office.
Oh, hey --
Could you stake your paw print on it?
I would take the slivers from this past year’s thigh.
Down a trickle, faceted deep within a pulled star’s root.
I’ll follow that root back to where it came – dig and pitch the grime from a catalyst’s pores.
Times slopes
and our teeth rattle with each somersaulting channel of memories.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:09 PM UTC
Hidden like a treasure inside my chest.
Buried under the palms of my hands.
Well kept, well protected.
Like a secret.
Sustains the unsaid.
Interpreter of the acceptable.
These hands have caught the salty tears
of sweet miseries.
They've known the touch of beauty
in its highest form of perfection.
These hands can melt together in a beautiful interlock
and become one.
Part of a beautiful history they are.
They've folded themselves into prayers of despair.
An extension piece of the inexplicable tongue they are.
So don't tell me that hands can't speak.
They have a code. A voice. They are a language.
These hands will be ready to comfort, to hold and to love.
A poetic instrument they are.
Without them poetry would non-exist. Non-written.
Where would i be?
Lost, like souls without peace.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 10:52 PM UTC
My friends a pizza cowboy
My uncles a interpreter
For the grainery
My cousin lives inside
Dry mouths
and my mother
Makes fake smiles
my other cousin
sticks his pruned up
Hands in rivers of unwanted
pasta
My father makes sure
Boats do not go gently
Against the stolen tides.
I think of the underdogs
Whenever were all together
We sit on the same green couches
Durring the holidays.
The same ones that tell us
No matter what happens
Were going to be ok. We sink
And recline in the coushins
And forget about
Nine to five for a few honest hours.
While we drink and eat and lauph
Underneath the same old popcorn celings.
The same living room
Where every thing happening now
never went unoticed because
Ireland found England after
The bombs after the soccer game
Where she said (after the game)
"I want nothing to do with that *******
Are you sure about that grandma.
Better stay away from uncle george (the keeper)
He wants you to meet his friend (the forward)
Who played for the Blackburn rovers.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC