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Patricia Drake Mar 2013
First you need  to learn that they are blocks

compressed meaning and solid like rocks

individual meaning expressed

but combined a new thought is expressed

with a suffix sometimes they merge

and become other classes of words

thus relate becomes rela -tion and added a ship

to relate something becomes rela-tion-ship

the prefixes un-, post-, and de- , be-,for-, and  re-

alter words and direction, you see

but the real tricky thing

is keeping  track of the strings

of meaning and  –fixes, and inflectional endings
Rohit Mane Aug 2018
Sitting at my workstation I kept swirling my chair around,
Battling the strenuous drowse that tried to yoke me to the ground,
“How could this happen? This is the first hour of my job,” I wondered,
I chuckled. “How fool of me! It’s Monday today,” I remembered.

I peeked to my left to see an empty chair,
“No-one to talk around; hey, that’s so unfair!”


I cringed viscerally at the thought of spending the day without uttering a word,
I tried to re-task my focus on my computer screen when a soft voice I heard,
Made me turn, and as I did, I veered myself to the source of the euphonic voice,
I felt the dumbfoundedness of a person bewitched by a magical spell, twice.

For some moments I couldn’t decrypt the words that her lips uttered,
As I just kept staring into her graceful eyes, helpless and all cluttered.


She asked with a soft smile, “Is this person absent today?” and  motioned to the workstation on my left,
I felt my dopamine surge at the possibility of what might happen next,
I nodded as soon as I realised my tongue has gone numb,
She ensconced herself and smiled, her cheeks as rotund as a plum.

I swallowed a lump in my throat that I didn’t realise had formed,
I wasn’t hoping for anything like this but I liked what my day had unboxed.


“What is she? Are humans allowed to be this beautiful?” I questioned my mind,
Was she a manifestation of my dreams or an angel in disguise!
It seemed like her eyes possessed a power in them like Midas in his hands,
A sight of innocence that could even force the flying time to land.

I leaned forward a little to catch a glimpse of her pretty brown eyes,
She turned to me with a gaze of a doe and my tongue again got tied.


“Any problem?” She questioned me with a raise of her brow,
“Yes, your eyes. They’re too beautiful,” the response I couldn’t let out,
Instead I shook my head and turned my eyes away from her,
My peripheral could see her blushing; it seemed the bubble has finally burst.

I tried to venture a conversation but failed to remember the morphemes,
The anonymity between us allowed the nervousness to sweep in.


I sighed deeply and turned about to do what I’m paid for,
But her presence beside me made it harder for me to stay calm,
An unexpected “Hello” came from my left and an introduction followed the greet,
Although stunned by the suddenness I tried to smile at her, from cheek to cheek.

We exchanged our names and conversed a little for a while,
Before she got engaged in her work and I in mine.


After hours of punching the keyboard buttons I stretched my arms and yawned,
She giggled at me and I took it as a cue to move my first pawn,
I embarked, “I’m going to the cafeteria to have some tea”,
I hesitated for a moment and resumed, “would you like to come with me?”

She rolled her eyes and I understood she has refused my kind and genuine offer,
I began to walk away. “Wait a minute, let me lock my PC,” and then I saw her got up.


We walked our way to the cafeteria, slower than two people normally would,
My chivalry erupted as I held the door open for her as she entered the room,
We occupied a table for two and  it appeared like a date-night is about to happen,
With she in front of me and  the stories that we shared, it seemed like all the troubles in the world didn’t matter.

I mulled over the thought that I might have a crush on her smile,
But there was an absolute certainty that I had fallen in love with her eyes.


She shared some cheerful stories about her childhood and also the moments in her life she remorse,
She had a way of crinkling her nose adorably that made her appear cuter than she was before,
“You may have a body of a woman but you have a sweetness of a child,” I abruptly blurted out,
She smiled deep into my eyes and I could feel the brightest smile I ever had form on my mouth.

“That’s the sweetest thing someone has ever said about me,” she flushed a little while she said this,
It took us a moment to realise that we’re holding hands; the touch of hers was something I couldn’t resist.


We got up as we finished our beverages and sauntered our way back to our daily routine,
I tried to rein my thoughts that our day was  about to end, but my efforts were all just futile,
I just wished this night shall never pass as I wanted to spend more of my time with her,
We logged out of our PC’s as our shift ended but I craved for one last conversation with this girl.

While ambling towards the exit in silence I turned on my heels to look into her beautiful brown eyes,
I sighed as I looked at her and tried to settle down the feeling to hug her that was about to rise,
“I spent this beautiful day with a beautiful girl I wish I could see more of,” I said with truthfulness in my voice,
She smiled at the ground and then looked up, “You will. Tomorrow at 8. Here’s my number. The place is your choice.

========================================================­===
I wrote this poem for a girl I have a crush on (read: hopeless crush!). She works in my organisation only but in a different location than mine so I get to see her only once or twice in months.
When I first saw her it was the last week of March. For some reason she came to the location where I work and sat beside me for the whole day! But I didn’t get to talk to her or even ask her name as she was a complete stranger and also she was immensely busy with her work. (She was working on some important document.) During that day I only got to see glimpses of her beautiful brown eyes and her sweet smile but it was enough to give me butterflies in my stomach.
As fate would have it, after some weeks we ran into each other again!
She visited my office that day for some important work and asked me to help her with the printing machine as I was walking across her while she was having trouble with her prints. I immediately recognised those pretty brown eyes and the beautiful face but she didn’t recognise me. For her I was just a stranger that was helping her but for me she had become my crush.

That night while riding back home a couple of lines sparked in my head:

“I mulled over the thought that I might have a crush on her smile,
But there was an absolute certainty that I had fallen in love with her eyes.”

I instantly had a thought of writing something about her and what I did write is completely in front of you. I never had any intention of giving this poem to her and woo her with my writing abilities. I just used my affection for her as a muse to do something for me that I’d feel proud about. The above poem is the fictionalised version of the day I spent with her when she sat beside me for the first time.

I sincerely hope you guys enjoy the poem. :)
Sarah Michelle Mar 2015
Drop the rocks
Full-grown pop in the jaw
Bleeding gold
Won't save your soul
Moving again and again and again and again
Until the pacific
Closes behind your back
because criticism smacks
kids out of whack
Morphemes-phonemes again
and again
Given the knowledge
of a recycling bin of
letters

Use them again and again
Won't save your soul
Atom smash logic replaying
and playing before your eyes
Some days it's too much
coal to mine
Mouth covered when you
step in time
Won't make your life
I'm a goner if I can't
stand on the rocks
and if the laundry doesn't burn
If the grim reaper doesn't speak
nonsense words from one
state of consciousness
to the other

Drop the bomb
Call the mob
Stock our shelves
Grow the letters
Feed all those starving
tongues

Let me tell you a story
Once the grim reaper
dressed like an old woman
and bought denture cream
just to know how it feels to
grow old
A human is an animal
Some think an olive is a fruit
A dog is a wolf on the inside
Begging to learn the trick
Speak

Next in line most wait
for straight prose
pinch their noses misguided
Want blood to bleed red
Don't want ideas to smash
their bread
Won't save their minds
from a punch in the gut
Mine closing in their faces
and their Atlantic drowns
shattered glass
encasing words upon words
owned by streams of

Consciousness running
all around
Those nonsense words
running aground
can't swim though all
the world's frowns.
Kind of proud of this one, because I've never been so liberated before I wrote this. The anecdote: After listening to a TON of 90s-nonsense-Beck, Odelay in particular, I realized that I really really really needed to write a poem but didn't have a solid idea. So in AP world history, instead of learning about patriarchy/autonomy/etc. I started jotting nonsense, because listening to Odelay made it seem like a good idea. It was an awesome idea. It felt cool and radical. I think I understand Beck a little more now. Thank you Beck.
chrissy who May 2013
Six days left
In this oasis
In this escape
In this reality we’ve created for ourselves.
Six days left
And it already hurts.

Three days left
Where did my time go?
She’s one floor below me, and I miss her this much
What is twelve hours?

Half a day.
This will be the only thing about our relationship
That isn’t easy.

She has an early morning tomorrow.
Sleeping in our respective beds,
I don’t remember how to sleep alone.

If words could describe perfection,
I would paint a picture of phonemes and morphemes
Of syntax and semantics
Of beauty and wonder.
If words could describe her
I would bridge together vowels
Consonants
Punctuation
Grammar
If words could describe this
Trust me,
I would use them.

Shakespeare
Made up words when nothing else
Seemed right

I’m beginning to see why
He and Mr. Geisel
Were so unsatisfied
With the language at hand.

Five days in and I'm
Keeping myself busy so that I can ignore
The Aching that comes.
That always comes.
I'm afraid to hope that she'll
Be different than the others.
But she seems genuine
And I'm so satiated
When I'm with her.
Trying to be a better person for her,
I've never been with someone who could
Keep the panic over grades and schoolwork
To a dull roar.
I think I've got something remarkable here...
And I miss her.
Sethnicity May 2015
How
I retry
Backside Pen Slide
Lyrics spirits quips glide
Elbows Shins Blood Blot Dried
When Wind Blows Wicked Words Rise
Idioms Soul Grind Infinite rails Applied
Thoughts Ollie Pop Manual quill Pipe bomb
Ultra Stick Ink Drips 360 Plot Shov-it Twist
Push Kick I Pedal Prose Skate Tricks, Morphemes Stick.
Perpetual Pendulums Prop People to Place Peckers in Potato Grits

Times Up!
this is how I land A "10 Set" Bomb.
Experimenting with new structures.
Kick-Flip to Fakie Lyrical 180.
Taylor Sullivan Feb 2010
What are words, but mere images of time,
Leafy similes that tend to rhyme,
Melodies that fade away to memories,
Written abstractions, proof of obscurities?

What are words, except strange tries,
To express emotions made of ice,
Mere tribulations, left unjustified,
Vague articulations that tend to die?

What are words, when I cannot find,
Adjectives, verbs, nouns, and signs,
That reaches the innermost, essential soul,
Of my deepest feelings, our very goal?

What are words, that leave you speechless,
Stunning languages, sounds, scribbled messes,
Answers of diction, silly confabulations,
Stirring tools, to test descriptions?

What are words, which reach the limit,
Text, talk, vibrations that fit,
The pieces missing, the definition,
Lingering in every other exhibition?

What are words, what are morphemes,
Speeches, utterances, lengths of keys,
To the secret reassurance humans need,
Sensations of steady expressions in a mind?

What are words, boundaries of lines,
Vowels, consonants, verbal binds,
A stem, a phoneme, a lexeme, a note,
On which we all deliberately wrote?
Copyright 2008
Written 4/2008 through Baylor University
Lyra O Jul 2014
At this advanced stage
of our labiodental skirmish
& alveopalatal explorations
Words won't come anymore

Only mangled morphemes going
in & out of you going
in & out of me
Only tangled utterances tripping
over themselves in utter haste
Shapeless & shameless

Proper articulation is abandoned
along with all other senses
of propriety

& The critical period is past
& The critical period is coming

& Words won't come at all
but even if they don't

Using my tongue
I can still make you
I'm just going to dump all of my old + new poems here. This one's from a few days back.
Alyanne Cooper Jun 2014
What does a poet do
When words fail them?
When the vernacular
They so heavily relied on
To convey every navy blue,
Indigo, violet hue of the midnight sky,
Dies on the tip of their tongue?
When the morphemes
That gave life to the phantoms
And pantomimes in their heart
Come out as Neanderthalic grunts?
What does a poet do?
When the discourse once so comfortable
Becomes stilted, halting, and forced
Because their brain has blanked
On their particular patois?
When not even the thesaurus or lexicon
Or revered Oxford English Dictionary
Can provide the adequate locution
So as to appease the poet's need
To be
Understood,
Acknowledged,
Fathomed,
Decoded,
Interpreted,
Heard.
Because that's all we want.
And that's the impossible
When we have writer's block.
Alyanne Cooper Jun 2014
Sometimes it happens like
Butter on toast,
Smooth, creamy, and delicious.

Most of the time, it's stilted
And halting.
Like hobbling through a parking lot
On crutches with a full leg cast.

Sometimes it comes from
The haunted recesses
Of the traumatized human mind.

Other times a frog
Or butterfly
Or other passing fanciful inspiration
Invokes the need for

Rhyme,
Meter,
Syllables,
Phonemes,
Morphemes,
Words,
Language,
Prose,
And poetry.

We write to describe the world around us
But much more, the universe within us.

Our words give life and tangibility
To the impalpable things,
And they take away some of the fear
And pain and grief and unconscionability
Of the corporeal things.

And in the weaving
And shaping
And forming
And rhyming
And jotting
And sketching
And rapping
And moulding
And writing
We find emancipation and satisfaction.
And thus...scrumpdillyumptiousness!
Ken Pepiton Aug 2021
Banners over us,
reminders of the first signed sigil waved
to mean something
to watching eyes,
fleets follow the highest flown flag,
designated leader, the kings sigil says so, so
as pledged, we go where the flag leads, then

just yesterday, I learned
of this ritual,
and I recalled the honor
of learning
to fold this flag.
This symbol,
for which it is noble
to die,
some do even dare
to teach this ritual to a select few,
fatherless, fearless, fungible future
first team something common sensitive.
exchange aitia cause for excuse
-- this world is folded implicitly, syllable
after
thump whump sigh,
a cough, to clear a lacquer of phlegm,
syllable, forming peace in time,
sit back, truth or dare,
do you believe in folded world symbols?

Have you a sacred flag? Final symbol showing
fungible duty done, paid in full.
Honor where honor is earned as endurance, that's all.

Endure to the end, making peace with childish
yous you meet at life's sharp end.

There was a committee who invented this ritual,
proud were those who fit the entire myth
true rest, freedom of thought, word, and deed,
in return,
fair and square, peace and safety and more meat
and milk than men should ever eat, but
what the hell, we won, we stole all their cows,…

pledged, initiated, used to abuse the worth of wrong
ideas… core right, correct, recht at once, stalility

ifity, wobbledy goop… did you learn this on your own?

"The first fold of our Flag is a symbol of life.

The second fold is a symbol
of our belief in eternal life.
{so the first must mean mortal life eh}

The third fold is made
in honor and remembrance
of the veterans departing our ranks who gave a portion
of their lives for the defense
of our country
to attain peace throughout the world.
{sounds fishy, attain peace, hmmm,
by being ready to give your own pound of flesh,
get some skin in the game.
Make up a mind that matches the imitation. }

The fourth fold represents our weaker nature;
{ I am not making this up}
for as American citizens trusting, GOD-
it is to Him {whom? wombed or un} we turn in times
of peace as
well as in time
of war
for His divine guidance.
{marching as to war…skip step stutter, cross this bridge}

-- meaning 4:
: a structural unit of a definable syntactic, semantic, or phonological category that consists of one or more linguistic elements (such as words, morphemes, or features) and that can occur as a component of a larger construction

From <https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/constituent>

Enfold your flapping mind, in my world, school starts
in one week, and Grandma is in Idaho, with old friends.
The two tweens are radiating readiness, prepping
to not appear to be as weird as Grandpa,
but, still, knowing, least said,
soonest mended, wait to know what's next, fold
in silence… Our sample flag was earned on Iwo Jima,
where Don Wourms watched his basic buddy die.

"I did nothing right, I survived", me, too, echoing

The fifth fold is a tribute to our country,
for in the words of Stephen Decatur,
"Our Country, in dealing
with other countries
may she always be right;
but it is still our country, right or wrong."
{Yep, no lie, by sixth grade, 12th year on Earth,
there is the lie, regarding trust, duty, & honor.
Plato said Socrates said,
Guardians must be bred and nurtured, fed
the duty and honor, brother closer than friend,
teammate, rowers on the same bench,

boom}

The sixth fold is for where our hearts lie.
It is with our heart that we pledge allegiance
to the Flag of the United States of America,
and to the Republic
for which it stands, one Nation
under God, indivisible,
with liberty and justice
for all.
-- 13 fold, 48 ply

There are series of numbers that mean nothing,
and sums that can find a link, a mental
tic take a thoughtmmmm
thirteen habits has the seedmmmmmhmm
thirteen folds in the star spangled banner.
thirteen stripes folded within blue heavensmmmhmmm
- unlucky number thirteen
- contentintensity semantic tic BAT

The seventh fold is a tribute {something owed whom?}
to our Armed Forces,
{The entire complex economic entity}
for it is through the Armed Forces that we
protect our country and our
flag
against all her enemies,
whether they are found within or
without the boundaries of our Republic.

{ be me, that boy, the one with the paper route.
selected to be the flag folder for fridays, 1960-
leading the class into a weekend of fun
being good citizens, stopping, looking, listening
marching for dimes and publisher's clearing house}

The eighth fold is a tribute {that's the word, you owe}
to the one who entered
into the valley of the shadow of death,
that we might see the light of
day, and

to honor mother, for whom it flies
on Mother's Day.

{fact check all you wish, this is the ritual,
it ain't a sacred secret, it's spiritual as hallowe'en}

The ninth fold is a tribute
to womanhood;
for it has been
through their faith, their love, loyalty
and devotion
that the
character
of the men and women
who have made this country great
has been molded.

{Dis try t' trump thet, patriophathemphatical, know 't all}

The tenth fold is a tribute {eh, patriot, pay the price}
to the father, for he too,
has given his sons and daughters
for the defense
of our country since
they were first born. {The children were sold}

{{}
- HONEST, chile, we sold you for goodness sakes
- you had to survive the learning
- to hold the knots of knowns left idle,
- as any oath unaccounted for,
- I swear, we swear some curses unawares,
- and those echo back as strangersmmm
- white noise sssorting questions
spark
The program that made the mind tools we use,
voltron, chess, appletalk space wars, in 1986,

very strange, the reappearing highschool connection,
very American looking, gamer aimed plots

dot to dot
seeing secret patterns, imagining inside the folded
weltanshaung squirrelled world, put away,
to be unfurled one fine daymmmm

blue skies, my friend. Finish the folds - 1960}


The eleventh fold, in the eyes
of a Hebrew citizen represents the lower portion
of the seal
of King David and King Solomon,
and glorifies
in their eyes,
the God
of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

The twelfth fold,
in the eyes
of a Christian citizen, represents an emblem
of eternity and glorifies,
in their eyes,
God the Father, the Son and Holy Spirit.
{I do feel like this bit of truth is
too strange to have known, are there rewards for this?
Is it a preboneman rite of passage,
done to become the meaning knower,
holder of the knack the leader of the fold team holds,
the knowledge as to why,
we do things right, or not at all.}

The thirteenth fold:
When the Flag is completely folded,
the stars are uppermost
reminding us
of our Nation's motto,
"In God We Trust."  {since 1956}
After the Flag is completely folded and tucked in,
it takes on the appearance of a cocked hat,
ever {riiight}
reminding us of the soldiers
who served
under
General George Washington,
and the Sailors and Marines
who served
under
Captain John Paul Jones,
who were followed
by their comrades and shipmates
in the Armed Forces
of the United States, preserving
for us the rights, privileges, and freedoms
we enjoy today.
{freedom of the press does belong to the one
who uses the common media - so far,
soo so good… this era in my sovereign real estate}

-- admin reviewed this, there are mental peace niks
planting confusion bombs on free way emergency
exits…
bass beats whump whump, feel it in y'teeth…

the vision in context fades… a final seal set
the teacher tells the disciple to carry the message
inside… know know
why you dare die for the story that formed your
child's mind. Look at your own kid, what you did.

BTDT. BTW, fold it up and put it away.

"The next time you see a Flag ceremony
honoring someone that has served our country,
either in the Armed
Forces or
in our civilian services such as
the Police Force or Fire Department,
keep in mind all the important
reasons behind each and every movement.
They have paid the ultimate sacrifice
for all of us by honoring our
Flag and our Country.

--- so did I blaspheme? I swear I had only
a boy's philosophy…

ping to 2021, hear my grand daughter prepping
for school in Descanso, listening to an audio book,
with the hero character a teen, mortal Apollo,

and the evil representative…
I listen, that immortal voice, Caligula's last mind
left in songs, sung as true, no lie

No lie,
passes untold, when in time, the implicit unfolds

and the edge dwellers, see jesus represented
in the widow's mites exchanged for motes
clanged
and sparked to say,

I know, who you think I am, my ad.
Click bait, fair fungible, win by a little tiny bit,
GO.

That is the game, three moves for each atom
in all we imagine our augmented eyes have seen.

AI do use the common store of knowns,
growing exponent opponent potentially ever
after
this…

for a while, why imagine hell was ever real?
as adjustments occur
to your way of seeing time as a whole truth
u u u ambig u u u is us ambigu is ous oy vwey
hayah hayah
I mean what I say/
I say what I mean/
A pro with these nouns
My verbs so keen/
A word Smith at your service
A shop Steward Indeed/
My adjectives are objective
Some would say Im a thief/
The way I pocketed these words
I guess it's in my Genes/
Down ***** verbally
a factory
Like a sub machine/
Magazine Illustrated with
Pragmatics and morphemes/
Soiled the seed cultivated
To rise like submarines/
Over-Alls
That fabric
is tailored made
Its all me/
No cut
the whole cloth
Endless from seem to seem/
Seem less
One of the toughest dungarees!
i have not seen it in the
surge of the next moment. it arrived like a letter from complete anonymity to the familiar gape in the doorstep.

i wish sometimes, now that i am
full with age yet none the wiser,
i were a bottle of wine sitting in hermetic space, where no breaths could go in and out of, as disconsolate light trudges the finite spaces its fingers like a taut grip to a gun, able to drain completely of its poisons.

i have you in my blood
and sometimes its immortality
coils into morbid contortions.
a rally of aches, scraping the sinews well and accurate, paring them of their pretensions, this kinship.

i have you in my mind
and sometimes when the impetus
galvanizes me into stolid incitations, my voice lifts and then vanishes into its shy desolations and without sound,
i pass through the deluge of
all this - of i being you,
and you, being me.

i have you sometimes in my eyes,
when these two brown planets
  wax in their postulations,
nebulae of emotions explode
into tiny aggregations and now,
  i am a lone star in its celestial ambulation through protruding shards of our battlements.

i have you in this warm fount
  and sometimes, like a dog
choosing its memory, i sometimes
wish to forget my station and elude its equanimities and only have in my dull mind, where all
  the bones are kept and
  guard them in the midnight where they shape themselves into
   massive morphemes digging deeper to soft skin and mangled, looking
down on me like a prey caught in a hawk's periphery and lunged at,
  where all aches are awakened
with recalcitrance, casting
  me away from my own tenancies.

i have not seen this in the
coming of the next moment -
we were firstly, laughing at
the smallness of things, sharing
light and other affectations,
until we came in the way
of our trains and closed their
  stations, looking for
a place to go now, anywhere

   but home.
For my father, whom I love deeply, in hate and in love.
Viren Parakrama Oct 2020
I will speak interms of confusing metaphors and allegorical descriptors
for You will never know what I mean,
and I will never know what I mean,
all You and I will ever know is what is said

Beyond that thou art which is not
Who I am and what I am is anybody's guess,
Where I am is in poetry,
when I am is poetry
How and why I am is a poet.
an artist chosen by this art

A puppet of words that string me along,
That dangle my reflection on the scene.

and What's this scene?
The dream of this stage, an age to redeem this day, this momentary cage of sound and phonetics, playing on the morphemes, that sort these informants into proteins that fire the works of this neural chemistry.

A cosmic tapestry... And I've lost the plot of this pointless exercise in passing the time as I pass this chime down to the last rhyme.
With no point but a line, a single continuous line that's only sometimes audible.
With no beginning and no end but always a middle.
A halfway mark between now and then

Half and half all the way to infinity,
Trapped in this trinity plus one.
The subject, the object and the verb plus all the fillers in between,
Adding the jective into obviously obnoxious obstancy.

Abstracting words from subtracting the colors of birds...
Man I really don't know when to stop.
Nor does he, when he spots the plot that keeps the inserting eye from searching the skys to admiring this fly.
Zipping in and out of space, never able to pin it down between his chopsticks.
So maybe I should stop this
Right here, left now and take flight,
Tata bye.
Don Bouchard May 2020
"Write two poems," I said.

My students left the room.

Some frittered the week away,
No idea how to start,
What to say....

Others found a way to play,
Rolling phrases
Making hay,
Coding words in lines
Testing assonance,
Alliteration,
Anthropomorphization:
A door, a pen, and clouds...
Always clouds.

"Write one that rhymes," I'd said,
And so the rhymers vied,
Stretched morphemes until dead,
Finding words I thought had died,
Bruised themselves with rhythm,
Metered anapests and dactyls,
Resorted to trochees and iambs
And smiled as if inventing fractals,
My little lambs.

"Write free verse; break all rules!" I said,
And though they tried,
No ee cummings Jesus resurrected,
No William Carlos Williams rose
To eat plums beside white chickens,
And no apologies.

Still, when all was finished,
Notes came in,
A treasured, precious few
Wrote to say they'd found
Appreciation for words
Arranged intentionally,
For power of images,
For realization of the value
Found in working words.
Concluding 16 years' teaching Writing & Literature & College Composition. Finals, last papers, and student comments....
The world is a plain sheet
That needs to be arrayed
With morphemes, words, sentences and languages.

The world is a war field
Where we do not array bullets in riffles
But inks triggered by our heart
Through a ball point pen.

The world is a market place
Where we batter calligraphy for bread and wine;
Like trading kola-nut for cowries.

The world is a grave a tomb, an open sepulcher
Where the flesh and souls of man is laid;
Doctors, Philosophers, Engineers, even I, a literatis
But I have aforetime immortalized myself. I am a literati.
Emmanuel Davies Nov 2020
Morphemes clustered in unison
Dancing wistfully
To the melodious tune
Of ink dabbed on empty pages
Drawn from the deep well of art
Framed from freely forged phrases
Adorned in a symphonic clause
Of well taught sentences

Oh the simplicity of it
The art of writing!!
She
"Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry."  Mary Oliver  

She became a leaf on a tree, a speck of dust, a limb still attached
shining like the sun she was the light that splayed upon nature's hour
but when the shadows came, she wrote her thoughts on a binder,
and became an evening cornflower.
Hungering by the river's edge she kept her secrets inside her diary  
as she glided with imaginative desire on a silver lake of dreams
A permanent work of art inked and set aside, her words
a filament of nature's calligraphy.
Every pocket of earth described every fern and mushroom narrated,  
by the apex of her linguistic, morphemes.
As the hourglass of time sifted finely down her filtered mind,
sweet poetry was born, germinated and seeded.  
Life grows naturedly so does poetry when the heart is opened
she became part of the all-inclusive in this sweet haven,  
where the everything and the always can only be described,  
by a writer's pen and pluck.

— The End —