"recondite" poems
In times gone by, now recondite,
Neanderthal, ***** upright,
spoke softly, tones so lily-white,
and tried to put the world aright.
He taught us how the flame ignites
that wearing furs will warm the nights,
just why the rolling wheel excites,
and how the beveled flint stone bites.
Before the days of dynamite
he fought his foes with spit and spite,
and swung big sticks with all his might,
and rendered death with stones in flight.
Engaged in never-ending fight
(arenas were a global sight)
he forced his forces to unite
to sate his oily appetite.
To quell rude thoughts that may incite
he ruled the realm with fly-by-nights
and culled the winds of words in flight,
and darkened minds to anthracite.
With fairy tales of evil sprites
and how the fist of freedom smites,
he washed the world with flames alight
to vanquish hoards of parasites.
Each dawn the damage brought delight,
the foe was bent, a bit contrite…
yet battled on with no respite
until the dusk and evening light.
Encamped beside the firelight
Neanderthal, that shiny Knight,
awaited morn while sitting tight
assured the end would be alright.
Yes, conquest seemed his sacred right…
Forevermore?… well, no, not quite…
Neanderthal's extinct tonight
and lies beside the Trilobite…
MORAL
The Oreo is round, not bright:
while rolling near the candlelight
at first the searing seemed so slight,
the molten cream an oversight…
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
Her life is a constant wonder
with soul incessantly wandering
the blues of the deepest voids,
oblivious of the turquoise-blue
it could've found in the shallow of the sea.
She has a mind that seems recondite,
abysmal and profound
she still searches for the meaning of each word
for, to her, it doesn't seem much wrong
maybe the reason she is not understood by many
is because she is not trying to be.
Life can be hard to decipher sometimes
one won't be certain of living
with the absence of existence
yet the other one is certain of existing
even without living.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 7:39 AM UTC
treacherously torrid and torrential torrents of totally tangential tumultuous tortuous ; tyrannically torturous adjunct viably salient seethe.
procrastinating pandemic plenipotentiary prosthesis ; prosaically pragmatic parenthetical predication predilection premise prognostication
panoramic tableau preternatural propensity proclivity prestidigitation gesticulation :
gyration guidon ; ghastly gruesome grotesque hideously horrible horrendous heinous
grotty gnarly
diabolically maniacal dementia brusque macabre abrupt
awful
amalgamated anathema analysis agnate aggregate aberrance
somatalogy virtuoso cognate obduracy
worse
rudiment ebullience , confluence effluent effusion affluent , prolific profusity opulence , cogent fecund secular secund , recondite redolence abstrusely obstreperous mesomerism resonance resilience
protractive perpetude futurity
blither blandishing blabber burnishing boresome blahs
lithe blithe jabber prattle chatter tithe
morose morsel moribundness
stolid stoic
stalwart bastion bulwark
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
This is the last time I write about ships; the mighty seafarer, clasping in the deep. The last time the esoteric tides capriciously change their erratic minds, left torn between rousing up to fight and solemnly crawling into the shapeless night. I’ll haul, I’ll haul. Outward bound, I’ll haul away from the safety of the buoy, through a thousand spiralling knots, batten aground and set anchor upon the recondite bay. I’ll avast the journeys where the compass takes an unprompted turn, where celestial proves consort to nautical woes, awoke awash amidst the darkened shallows.
This is the last time I go back and fill vast depths, bearing right, then left, across the beating breadth. This is the last ring of brash audacity resonating in chime with the gull’s hooded pride, the last of the salt and sway commandeering the longitude of each tumultuous ride. I’ll roll, I’ll roll. Hanging on behind, I’ll roll with the salted souls of Nelson and Hook as they furl and collide, hand over fist, drawing the curtains from their chariot’s majestic height. I’ll gybe and set back to sail, quarrel with the rushing sands, and grace every fractured notion that tooth and nail can siege the devil’s rest and forge currents capable of hustling both vessel and man.
This is the last of the gallant endeavours, set adrift from buccaneer’s voyage to a solitary pulse at the end of storm’s tether. This is the last stern embrace of Poseidon’s harrowing howls, the last of the rapturous applause mordant as it rises and swirls, the last time I wrestle away from his scaly hold. This is the last time I change tack and set course into the path of the sound, where finally, the tides settled
I’ll release control of the helm.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
Thanks thespis for another muse anew,
Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song,
To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters,
before my callous eyes on the skull of historical future
on my pykitonic torso of I another African pykin,
as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry
that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis,
neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time
giving classical balance for wondrous poetry.
Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed,
Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos
Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity,
Warped physique not short of history,
Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring
As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope
was not in any sense dwarfism of his poetry,
nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham
Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times,
That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic
And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest
Of man and woman to the cultural matrix
Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia,
From which was born Pushkin that took poetry
Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars,
And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted
Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear,
The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov,
Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik
In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky.
A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax,
Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art
wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp
propelled the souls of Coleridge and De Quincey
to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of *****
bordering on the teutonic greatness of ritualistic breed,
poetry that transcended from rotten apples in the writing desk
of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany,
writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus,
that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles
only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing,
but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal,
as Coleridge was in full recondite of marquetry,mosaic and miracles,
the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka,
that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy
that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe
down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry
as abnormal human neurosis an equation of perfect art.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
Baffled this was a question you’d have to ask, I sat tremulous. I’m insular; I’d be enamored with even the most amorphous love, but I’m not inept, and won’t preclude that answering the question is salient. And although I’m not taciturn, I’m rarely extemporaneous, so please excuse my need for verbose prose in answering said question.
You’re attractive. Your strong jaw, small chin and cheekbones were sculpted to make your own eyes glow and an artist’s eyes expostulate dreaming of anything else. Don’t dismiss this as delirium, but rather relish this recondite fact—my first crush came in the fifth grade. It was on a diminutive, outspoken girl, and I was enormous and timid, which developed into a village girl vs. Mowgli, me Tarzan you Jane, King-Kong-Ann Darrow complex. And although I believe with zealous fervor in your strength, your size still incites the young jungle boy inside me. And I hope I can say, without being terse, I’m afflicted with a mysterious affinity for red-hair.
Although I could dwell in the obvious all day, I’ll redirect from the blasé.
Abandon
beats within us both
like hearts to the same pulse,
we don’t coax smiles, we let them slip,
we aspire to happiness like falling of a log.
I have to pry open time’s lockbox and plunder
the night just to relegate the dawn. Bliss becomes
a tangible ****** making even the most existentially
exasperated docile. Knowledge that every other thought
is dominated by one another without it attenuating the magic.
Knowing that if all I have to say is it’s raining outside, you
want to hear it. Twenty-one years of my life I thought
I’d have to hunt love with a knife but you showed me
roaming where you like to wander can wake
the irreverent gods. It’s your superlative
honesty that’s only for me; that virile
smile in your eyes that bid
doubt vacate my mind
Knowing that if I went catatonic, one reproving look from you would cause my heart to break and force my hands to put the pieces back before I stopped breathing. If I could, I’d dawn you like a blanket before every dinner, dusk and dream. And most importantly, we both like crowns.
Jun 10, 2011
Jun 10, 2011 at 8:17 AM UTC
it operates like a revolving door
there are no hinges
but it extends from ceiling to floor
it is fashioned out of multiple parts
in various geometrical shapes
each with an intricate pencil etched
message that speak of the ways
to reexamine the perplexity
of what remains behind the walls
of your bedchamber calls that
became trapped in long
recondite walkways and halls
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
His touch haunted her,
Guarded as her heart was, she couldn’t afford
To connect,
To attract,
To enter into any state of delicate but zealous longing
Instinctively she knew
Any feeling would be misleading;
Splendid sensual snow melting into liquid lies,
Her heart disarmed, sinking into that gusty sea
Of spoiled desire
A barbarous distance between craven obedience
And the grandiosely brilliant beam she used to embody
An emotional war as tangible as a robust ruin
Worn down by stormy weather, unable to shelter
Her blue-eyed innocence
Recondite or unexpected it never was,
The effect of his shaggy possessive smile
And giddying twisted promises
Drawing out her hurt and suffering,
Disguised as a youthful fluttering
Of nonchalant excitement
A deceitfully draining destruction lurking
In his fondling fingertips,
His smiling dimples,
His laughing wrinkles
Yet thoughtfully she took the plunge
Into a wilderness she couldn’t afford
To miss out on
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
Gallimaufries Incondite in-risible pules from anomie.
Recondite jeremiadtions of every pessimal influence.
Yearning for the Quid-am Xanthochroi to sybaritic in the manner I long to LOVE,
Unrestrained The pennicle of BATHOS
observations of human
hopes and dubietys of mankind
An anodyne, the demersal soul
attempts at pawky insights often written whilst
inebriated and Katzenjammered!
Dec 31, 2009
Dec 31, 2009 at 7:51 PM UTC
My talent (or my curse) is getting lost:
my routes are recondite and esoteric.
Perverted turns on every road I crossed
have dogged my feet from Dover up to Berwick.
My move to London only served to show
what fearful feast of foolishness was mine:
I lost my way from Tower Hill to Bow,
and rode the wrong way round the Circle Line.
In nameless London lanes I wandered then
whose tales belied my tattered A to Z,
and even now, in memory again
I plod despairing, Barking in my head,
still losing track of who and where I am,
silent, upon a street in Dagenham.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 3:56 PM UTC
The Soho lights
Were shining like an electric lobster
I was thinking what an Edmonton boy
Should do-
As punk rockers smoked marihuana
In small corners
Shadows danced a routine that was choreographed
In hell-
And glue, speed and alcohol blended into humidity
Eerybody knew God had no recognition
For this recondite humanity
I thought about something else............
Life became static blind
Drunken dreads were jostling in plastic conversation
****** out of their minds-
There became a powerful flow of left-wing
Political notion-
The stale scent of a previous saviour
Became more obvious and universal
Reggae pounded into the trashed idealism
Like an anti-septic commercial
And thoughts of EXODUS and the bible
We became victims of a faith reversal
But there will will be cold solace in this
For the gloved left fist.
I thought of distant times
Where reality wiped out role models
As their dreams vanished into hallocinogenic fungi.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
He wanted to drown
Not in liquid, but in sound
Raucous rapture bellowing beneath
Hands too heavy to hold his own
Heartbreak.
These lions labeled ladies
Making ****** hearts sing.
The candid caucus of cartographers
With eyes too cold to cry
Mapping and marring,
Partitioning paradox with every stroke
Witless wizardry without
Love and longing.
In a circus tent he found
That circuitous catharsis
Amid tremulous trapeze swinging
Watched by the sloughed skin of sinners
Vice and virtue muddied by malice.
Exploratory tongues
Giving preface to loneliness
Too tranquil to be twisted
Too torpid to be tangible
Romance recondite,
Sold to us by our world
Leaving us with nothing but
Fantasy and
Broken bones
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 9:47 AM UTC
Love is a recondite matter.
For Her love is an abysmal lake
Of tears and unrequited adulation.
His love was once a duck
that kissed the lake top,
that skimmed the adoring water with its capricious plumage,
that tended to the lake,
and nourished by feeding on the reeds at the waters edge.
Until season changed,
Crisp air blew ripples across the lakes surface.
Yet the lake remained deep and unchanged
And the duck flew south and away
to another, more shallow pond
Remained there.
Leaving Her in want.
She no longer belongs to Herself,
But desires to acquire her souls counterpoint in him.
Her eastern waters warm with each setting night
Her depths and hopes, endless
That one day he will dive among her waves
and this time,
stay.
She begs the wind to keep at bay.
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 9:07 PM UTC
Arduous art thy times?
Spanish traveler,
Thy eyes are teared,
Makeup smeared,
For I shalt wipe them with arcane kisses...
Art thou desolate?
A forgotten innocent,
For thy renaissance is coming,
Thy voice I want to heareth humming,
Wilt thou except mine call?
Caramel skinned fair one,
Beam to the sun,
Replenisher of one,
Me...the one thyself uplifts!!!
Veracity here dont miss!!!
Thou art recondite to many,
Yet to me thou giveth plenty,
Thou art a hundred,
To every Penny,
Thy beneficence I do see!!!
If I could id take thy pain,
Along with all thy Spanish rain,
I'd throne thou as queen
To all thy dreams,
Like Cinderella mine dear!!!
I'd find thou thy prince
I would gloss thy soul
With happiness,
I'd take thy sullen worries in maverick of ways,
Queen of god, queen of conundrum place!!!
I'd feel thy skin,
And warm thy bones,
I'd walk next beside thou,
In emptied roads
Crucified for thou, taking thy pain in nail form!
Id appease thou with roses,
Rub thy feet in fine tinker,
A neck message like liquor,
And ourn fingers would be locked
Instantaneously space jolted!!!
I would stare through thine marbles as no other,
Be thine kin
Significant other
Aren't friends there for eachother?
Queen of spicy roots!!!
Thou art a euphony with writings,
And thine mind
So enticing
Thy inventions much laudable
As I soak in thy suds!!!
To thou I'd make a novel
For no worries
Nor any sorrows
Rest today
Id come tomorrow, in dreamlike apparition!!!
For thou I would cook,
I would hide amongst thy books
Like two felons
Diverse crooks
Innovate ourn own genes....
Virtuoso of volition woes,
Take mine shirt
We'll rest on snow
Nostalgia thou shalt not want
When thou will rest thy head in mine lap!!!
A fertile bed
A comfy nap
Primal beings
Angelic trapped
One mellifluous ******** bomb!!!
I'd pull thou close
Take off ourn shoes
I'll gallop far
For me and thou
I'll make it queen, make it somehow!!
We shalt be magnanimous under the moon!!!
Well magnate as creatures
Of lost lagoon
Well douse in hot concentration!!!
Thou art alone
Mine lonely goddess
One of love
And old time knowledge
For Its strange
Thou I've felt as if I've known thou for one thousand lifetimes before!!!!!
Mi amour'
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 5:34 PM UTC
What was lost in your Nyctophilic heart?
What life you brazenly stole.
What you take when you depart
And tear away from my soul
Mislaid, descried in sound recondite.
Quietus forward brought,
Found in your eyeless sight.
Agony of memories forgot.
Sable veins wrapped around fragile beings
Who, in wretched love lost,
Find their hearts fleeing
And to each other dyingly accost.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
Nakedly bottled.
Capturing bursting seasons
here and now.
Life, delicate in its notes,
the top notes,
lithe as youth,
citrus and bloom,
ever briefly,
recondite pleasure,
a suppliance of time
a rush that fades away.
Heart notes,
the flesh of our days, unfold—
warm spices, florals, deeper and continues to exude as winter winds careless breath.
In the middle years, the scent sits and blares and mellows—a steady pulse of sandalwood and musk.
Sultry as the scent may have lingered,
flirtatious colors in the breeze’s hair
the base notes come,
the earthier tones,
amber and resin,
heavier on the air,
decays a final wisp
until faint on the skin.
A memory is born.
Sep 27, 2024
Sep 27, 2024 at 1:21 AM UTC
This life is a recondite transit
Where our paths might be unknown
We would stop at varied crossroads
When confused at those strange zones
The sky each day may differ
There could be sun, there could be rain
It could be blue or could be orange
But on the next pace, it could be grey
And if ever the times get harsh
That we might stumble and fall
Just remember we're not alone
In going through tight bouts at all
Life is a creek of promises
Springing from heavens above
The rain of life will flow on us
We should welcome the gift of love
But like a battlefield we know
What we purport is to survive
In this platform of test and ventures
After each fall, we must revive
Life is survival of the fittest
The world is a precarious place
Don't be that weak who cannot soar
Be like an eagle, conquer the space.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 12:19 AM UTC
I sit in toxic garden bower
Dreaming of my love, her lips, her hair.
A thousand tears in my eyes do sour,
And I dream of her face, her beauty fair.
I sit in sorrow profound
Weak and aching, dying, bleeding.
Death captured in recondite sound.
Begging for my love, weeping, pleading.
No hour of peace hath come,
No fortune arrives
Only despair, decay, and darkness glum,
And I wait for death to rise.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
my mind will finally be hollow when explosive entities of its existential warfare finally self destruct.
until then,
Recondite rifles are ruthlessly reloaded with unanswerable questions regarding the purpose of seemingly non purposeful things;
lack of resolve wrecks me.
Unanswered ammunition degrades cerebral cells, intercepting normal neural connections:
I cannot think properly in the midst of pellets of panic
until then,
Selfless soldiers employed by future uncertainty battle against selfish soldiers of MY physical being, employed by my diminishing desire for sanity.
They engage in trench warfare: digging desolate ditches, hammering holes, all of which eventually collapse and contribute to the constant compression of my cortex.
But Compliments and Hope fracture into particles of sand that are ****** into the openings in my pupils by amorphous wind which is structureless anyway
these particles are vacuumed down my optic nerves and pile into pillars of petrifying plant-based picket fences that try to guard against the existential warfare plaguing my mind
But more explosive entities enter through my ears and reproduce in my temples waiting to self destruct
until then,
Forces convolute: existential warfare compresses my cortex into inevitable flat nothingness, while pitiful pillars of disillusioning dust collapse because the wind that whisked them inside NEVER EXISTED ANYWAY
Eventually i will implode
Until then,
numbness gnaws at my heart to balance the bullets
waiting to implode
until then,
Existential Warfare bombards my brain with bullets of black metal
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 4:55 PM UTC
It has been happening
more often
than the usual
lately,
I’ve been meaning
to write
but erase
and erase
then press backspace,
I twiddle with the words
and the lines
and the sentences
as a nervous juggler -
but find none
adequate enough for my message
so I try and enter your mind
to take out a word or two
and insert them here
in a passage
or a poem
but who am I to fool?
All I know,
all I am certain of,
all I can find myself
able to say
with some eloquence or proper phrasing
is that I love you
and perhaps
it is all I need to know.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 6:45 AM UTC
Midnight Woes are all I dream:
A soft song of recondite raindrops and
The warm embrace of cold sheets on naked skin.
A bewitching lullaby sinking in my troubled thoughts and
The lecherous lightning showing a now homeless house.
A gentle graze of longing fingers and
The light laughter that drowns in soft songs.
A question and an answer.
The dagger and the victim.
I dreamt of a Midnight Woe:
A warm body next to my hollowed heart,
The skin on skin, forehead to forehead, lips to lips.
A needle in my hand and
The thread in your heart.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 4:30 PM UTC
You know how great it is to make you joyful?
And to touch the highest peak of mountain,
To gain years from life which worth living,
Without any quarrel or not fighting
You know how great it is to be courageous?
To admit everything that makes you afraid
To be surrounded by poems and pages,
Outfacing the life which of nonsense was made
You know how great it is to forget the death?
To neglect everything making you kneel
Once you were angry at what it was called,
But love would be a bauble as against what I feel
You know how great it is to surpass yourself?
To rise again before the absurdity of life
To feel heaven and hell even to their grains,
To embrace your own god and innermost drive
However...
... You don't know how hard it is to be aborted
When you're stumbling at the top of a console
When you're numb and your vision's distorted,
You're about to fall, losing hardly gained control
You don't know how hard it is when everything hurts,
When all silly meanings and happenings torture
When you are betrayed by the 'forgiver god',
However, you speak about something called 'virtue'
You don't know how hard it is to be all alone
Like one day you will lie in your freezing grave,
Knowing that a happy life is impossible,
Just trying to be only powerful and brave
You don't know how hard it is to be recondite,
Every time to face the clash of dimensions
Meanwhile, “to walk in your shoes” to be fair
And be surrounded by myself in various versions
Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 3:34 PM UTC
Derelict recondite
alone and Hemorrhaging.
nocturnal ebullience,
sporadic . Effulgent ,
Paltry
surreptitiously vacuous and limpid
to deliquesce upon perspicuity at its core
abhorrent , perhaps surreptitious assuredly altogether banal.
Marginal, salacious nominal not liminal.
decrepit cerebral palimpsest.
Sesquipedalian abstrusity .
Obumbrated syllogism stochastically innervated.
Berated lugubriously .
Masticated openly opaquely supercilious
mellifluous synergy extirpated redundantly.
Apr 30, 2025
Apr 30, 2025 at 2:52 AM UTC
How intriguing the thought
of serendipitous chance
A fortunate omen of sudden romance
Through glass and fog of distance and time
A like-minded, almost kindred affinity
brings a new effervescence to the presumed absurdity
If time was a place, located by thought
The distance that breeds connection
Is simply the means to the desired perfection
How gracious and bold that time must be
To create such a lasting attraction
Where an end seems a pity, a waste, an infraction
The balance of forces that compels the unseen
Opens closed minds to new perspectives
And clouds the indignant, old and tired objectives
Misplaced emotions and volatile benevolence
Lead to perpetual indecision, and wasted dreams
Where the goal is unattainable and sacrificed for schemes
Pondering the options that are created as such
Lead to open possibilities of endless means
Where whimsical notions are an effortless tease
How long the path winds and curves to sight
The ingenious and recondite plot of the teller's tale
Unbeknownst to those who may leave it for fail
Thickens more as it turns and toils
Breeding excitement, adventure and a life all its own
To be nurtured, or kept, or ever grown.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC
The art invention AI, the Allsay, I'll-gorithm,
Aiaia ai
let me say this is poetry, I did not write,
but found
enlightening:
*dhe-
*dhē-,
Proto-Indo-European root meaning "to set, put."
It forms all or part of:
abdomen; abscond; affair; affect
(v.1) "make a mental impression on;"
affect
(v.2) "make a pretense of;"
affection; amplify; anathema; antithesis;
apothecary;
artifact; artifice;
beatific; benefice; beneficence; beneficial; benefit;
bibliothec;
bodega; boutique;
certify;
chafe; chauffeur;
comfit; condiment; confection; confetti; counterfeit;
deed; deem; deface; defeasance; defeat; defect; deficient;
difficulty; dignify; discomfit; do (v.);
doom; -dom;
duma;
edifice; edify;
efface; effect; efficacious; efficient;
epithet;
facade; face; facet; ******
-facient;
facile; facilitate; facsimile; fact;
faction (n.1) "political party;"
-faction;
factitious; factitive; factor; factory;
factotum; faculty; fashion; feasible; feat; feature;
feckless; fetish;
-fic;
fordo; forfeit;
-fy;
gratify;
hacienda;
hypothecate; hypothesis;
incondite; indeed; infect;
justify;
malefactor; malfeasance;
manufacture;
metathesis;
misfeasance;
modify; mollify;
multifarious;
notify;
nullify;
office; officinal;
omnifarious;
orifice;
parenthesis;
perfect;
petrify;
pluperfect;
pontifex;
prefect;
prima facie;
proficient; profit; prosthesis; prothesis;
purdah; putrefy;
qualify;
rarefy;
recondite; rectify; refectory;
sacrifice;
salmagundi;
samadhi;
satisfy;
sconce;
suffice; sufficient;
surface; surfeit;
synthesis;
tay;
ticking (n.);
theco-; thematic; theme; thesis;
verify.
It is the hypothetical source of/evidence for its existence is provided by:
Sanskrit dadhati "puts, places;"
Avestan dadaiti "he puts;"
Old Persian ada "he made;"
Hittite dai- "to place;"
Greek tithenai "to put, set, place;"
Latin facere "to make, do; perform; bring about;"
Lithuanian dėti "to put;"
Polish dziać się "to be happening;"
Russian delat' "to do;"
Old High German tuon,
German tun,
Old English don "t
dondiddondondon just the facts.
Mar 28, 2021
Mar 28, 2021 at 4:45 PM UTC