"syll" poems
if ears had lips
mine would gladly tell you all the things
they can and cannot comprehend
they would explain the difference
between hearing and understanding;
just because they hear a sound
doesn’t mean they know what it is
or where it’s coming from
just because they hear a voice
doesn’t mean they discern words
they would ask you to please speak louder
and tell you that even though volume is their friend
if you take a jumble and turn up the juice
sometimes it becomes clearer
other times it’s just a loud jumble
they might tell you that writing things down saves time
or that texting works better than voicemail
they would tell you how much they miss
the rain’s incessant song
the wind’s sweeping whistle
a dropped pin’s pinging ping
earthy crashing blue green wave sounds
a lover’s soft whisper
eavesdropping’s noseyness
distance’s subtle sounds
footsteps’ proximity
a fire’s warm red orange crackle
freeway traffic’s rushing background noise
a phone call’s lively conversation
a tv show’s clever, non-closed-captioned script
a radio’s soulful catchy lyrics
live performance’s vibrant voice
the timbre of each note in a chord
as I strummed my guitar
they would tell you
how the ringing tones inside my head
compete with your words
they would speak of their frustration and indignation
when you ignorantly accuse them of selective hearing
they would apologize for asking you to repeat
and laugh with you at my disability
they would thank you for dealing with me anyway
they would smile in appreciation
for your exaggerated syll•a•bi•ca•tion
if ears could see
mine would overlook your rolling eyes
and exasperated sighs and expressions
they know it’s not your fault that they don’t work good
and hope you know it’s not their fault either
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 3:21 PM UTC
You are the
liquid sugar
I rub into
my skin
soaked
through to my
pores so
deep within
on a cellular
level as I
gulp it down
swish in saliva
in liquid love
sounds
washed through
my system
in textured
spin
you balance
out the thickness
of my insulin
you
pique
hot
energies
into blush-fused
crush
swirling
endorphins
and hormones
in maelstrom rush
my cheeks
on fire,
ripe fruits
drip
juice
I must
breathe
in staccato
to control
this
sluice
But when I
get peak-high
and then
slope
so
low
you harmonize
the taut,
slick pull
of my
undertow flow
It's just a matter
of a few
words, syll-a-
bles spoken
velvet-voiced
cool
smooths
the rough
of my
broken
So please
inject it,
fresh
into the river
of my blood
Bring it over,
hot sugar,
before I
surge
into
flood
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 2:42 PM UTC
the cross trainer crossed me out
in favour of the
runner that I ran out on
(5/7/5/ syll count)
24th July 2012
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 12:26 PM UTC
Dropped a spanner on my toe
Ouch...my toenail said
I need a joint to fix it
(5/7/5 syll count)
24th July 2012
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 12:21 PM UTC
This is the part
where everything
changes.
This is the part
like an orchid
requires patience.
This is the part
where the universe
bends
¬ and you fold
the paper
into
flowers.
Cover me in chrysanthemums.
This is the part
where our knees become inch worms
under the table.
Cover me in dirt.
This is the part
that comes on slow at first
then
heavy
urgent
pulses
rush
through
us
adding
impulse
to
injury
manipulating
our insides
twisting
folding
contorting
every nerve
until they
RIP.
But the pieces don’t get rest.
This is the part
where the lions roar
like violets showing their teeth
at the sun.
They nibble the flesh
without breaking
the skin.
It’s paper thin.
This is the part
where I ball up my paper fists
and wrestle with the tiger lilies
while you remain at war with my tulips.
This is the part
where we dig up the dirt
and we ruin us.
This is the part
where the dandelions B U R S T
like supernovas
and suddenly
ev-er-y
syll-a-ble
counts.
You said
Everyone's b/ r/ o/ k/ e/ n in some way.
You said
when you were young
you saw the miracle of birth for the first time
and you've been turned on
ever since.
You saw life spring from the womb.
I think I saw you mesmerized by the way things bloom.
You tell me
about your birds and bees
like how getting your head rubbed
at the hair salon
turns you on.
Well, this is the part
where I rub your head
and turn you on.
This is the part
where I see your dark side
and learn the true meaning
of the blue in your eyes.
This is the part
where you flip me over
and tell me
"Don't stop."
I don't stop.
Why would I stop?
I can't
stop.
And
this
is
the
part
where
we
fall
A
p
a
r
t.
Tell me you don't want this.
Tell me you don't want this
and I'll leave this bed of marigold
and
change
my
form.
Tell me you don't want this
and I'll never hold your gaze
to¬o l o n g
again.
Tell me you don't want this
and I'll unfold myself from your side
along with the paper flowers.
You can take back the roses
**** the daises
but leave me the daffodils.
Tell me you don’t want this
and our forget-me-nots
will forget us
and our bleeding hearts
will bleed us dry.
Tell me you don't want this
and I'll rewind the movie
play it BACK
from the beginning
only this time
we'll pay
attention.
I'll silence the lions
and put them BACK in their cages.
I'll bend
the universe
BACK into
shape.
But tell me you want this
and this will be the part
where we pick the paper petals
off the
stem and
watch them
fall like
cherry blossoms.
He loves me.
He loves me not.
Forget me.
Forget me not.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 1:55 PM UTC
Your ruby, such depth, deep red
Too deep to fathom
So I drink it in and blush
(7/5/7 syll count)
17th July 2012
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
Pause, wait serenely
Your moment to emerge...now
Grasp, take it and run
(5/7/5 syll count)
15th July 2012
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 5:39 PM UTC
Walk the mile it takes
To reach your destination
Never looking back
(5/7/5 syll count)
16th July 2012
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 6:00 PM UTC
Cry out, await the echo
Of an unknown soul
Turn around and know their heart
(5/7/5 Syll count)
20th July 2012
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 6:20 PM UTC
Like footprints paved in
the snow in the driveway coat-
ed by fresh blankets
of white descending snow flakes
in the morning, I know they
are still there. Like the
trees bright with vibrant leaves fall-
en by winter and
flowers kissed by butterflies
replaced with dull grass, I know
they still bloomed there. Like
unexpected, unprotect-
ed surprises grow;
I will never forget the
sensation of cold gel on
my still flat tummy
or the clasp around my pan-
creas, six more weeks
of winter, it rains ******
red. Saturday. Life. Gone but
I know. I remember.
This was supposed to be a
tanka but I have
never been good at obey-
ing the rules. I have not been
good with losing you.
Intentional, counting syll-
ables, words stuck in
Saturday, I touch my bel-
ly, remembering you exist-
ed here.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
No matter how many times I say her name
It still gets caught in my throat
Still holds insurmountable meaning
It doesn't just become three syllables
It becomes me crying cause I realize it's almost been 5 months since the last time we made love
5 months since the last time we kissed or even truly talked
And she is happy
And I'm still in bed, whispering her name
And hoping it becomes just three
Syll-a-bles.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 2:09 AM UTC
A chirrup beneath my
window syll
"Chirrupchirrup."
A Pipit goes. Café au lait
plumage quavering in dew
and wind.
Splayed on syll sublime
his songs he
sings.
My ears, freshwoken, hear
tender crescendo and I
arise
and start the
day.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 6:26 PM UTC