"vowels" poems
a new beginning starts here.
when we let the absence of words
sink in our skin and flow through
the red and blue veins.
to let silence become apart of us as a whole.
and to be ridden of awkward
and gently colored with tranquility.
when we are consumed with the most
heavenly stillness,
we appreciate the things
that normally don’t come to eye.
a new beginning starts here.
an interconnection manifested in the
deficiency of conversation.
it is an ambience that is better than any
formulation of sentences,
and our unspoken vowels and consonants
playfully roll around
in the quiet rest of the atmosphere;
it speaks louder than your steady heartbeat
and collected breathing.
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC
i’ll say it again. this is the only
time i write with music. listen now and i’ll spin
the wheel again, an ocean is no excuse for a tipped balance. trace
origins back to சாதம், வீடு, பறவை. tip-toe to reach the top half of the
stove, where the stories and the music are, but hand on head, not quite there yet. in the meantime, i hope my hands become as fire-glazed as yours one day. listen now and i’ll tell you how to live a life in compromises. here, come help me with my சாறி, no, i don’t have flowers for your hair, because there are are two different languages
in this house. inhale savory vowels and lives rolled into the sun, exhale தயிர் without salt, a theoretical childhood, heart with
half the guilt. listen now for something i told my அம்மா:
travel eight thousand miles by foot and open one eye,
make a phone call and taste dew- glittering நெய்
தோசை. listen now for a final time. when
there are not enough unfurled petals of
this world, look up and find the
பௌர்ணமி in a hidden
corner of your heart.
blink once to skip time
zones, twice to remember the
promise of a thousand locusts and monsoon rain.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 1:28 PM UTC
i've moved past my belief
in the Christian trinity...
for me...
the meditation stands
on the pivot of
the following translation
the hexagon,
start of david -
which translates
as the Holy Ghost -
which denotes
a congregation...
the pentagon?
of the befitting analogy
to the five senses...
the "son of man" -
or simply...
the myopia of man
having to excavate
the sixth sense
using telescopes,
microscopes, the like...
and, finally?
on a hand of five extensions,
there are four...
the square...
Y H
⠁⠑ read clockwise
like English traffic
H W on a roundabout.
which? denotes the father...
if the Hebrews "think" they
can hide their vowels?
the Latin answer is...
to interpolate Braille into
their language...
and Emperor Nero would have
appreciated it...
whether with, or without
the Byzantine propaganda machinery
of the nevus testamentum...
and it wasn't a propagandist
piece?
how much longer did the eastern
Empire, outlive the Western
empire, when the onslaught
by the Ottoman's reached
Constantinople?!
the Greek were craving
a cultural revival!
they believed the Romans
to have origins in Troy!
they plaid the weakest cultural
card of Judaism,
revamping it into Christianity...
hell... that's what i believe...
and i'm not about to meet
a Jehovah's Witness propagandist,
or some aged Pakistani
citing the Quran on a park
bench...
or some Scientologist
on Oxford St. with his wacky
machine...
or some pseudo Hare Krishna
monk with a book about
some guru, pushing it like
marijuana...
to change my mind on what
i'm digesting!
plus?
⠽ ⠓
Æ ( read anti-clockwise)
⠓ ⠺
fits in perfectly into the Adam
and Eve narrative -
as with all mythology -
given the extent of time...
nuance, metaphor...
abbreviation...
ars poetica!
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
i had a dream
i was flying
in the arms
of this grande old kite
and we drifted through canyons
and across flowered fields
over endless pastures
and restless seas
i looked down
somewhere near
the haldimand half-point
and saw friends
and patrons
smiling
while the busy keepers
of oasis
were singing
and loosening their vowels
familiar faces
were everywhere
and it was warm
and serene
they were charting courses
and building dreams
laying praise
untarnished by imposing views
and as much as i tried
i couldn’t express my gratitude
when i woke
i was lying
with an angel
at my back
whose eyes
were wide
and blue
and her words came crystal clear;
kindness will not be sold
and as i turned
to reach her hand
the rain had gathered
and washed away
a stain
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 3:19 PM UTC
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.
Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.
I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.
All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.
One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square
Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.
8.2k
When you say insomnia,
people think you’ve had too much caffeine.
That it’s something you’ve eaten that day.
That maybe you’re just a little stressed.
Those people do not have insomnia.
Insomnia rolls off the tongue.
It is a noun.
It is four vowels and five consonance.
It is staring at your ceiling at
four o’clock in the morning praying
to God that maybe you’ll sleep tonight.
Insomnia is knowing ahead of time
that you aren’t going to sleep tonight.
It is drinking four cups of coffee at 1:30
in the morning because your eyelids
are so heavy they feel like anvils
are holding them down.
It is seeing shapes and figures in the dark
that aren’t there.
Insomnia is dying a little inside
every time you see the sunrise.
It is watching the moon reach it’s pinnacle
and sink beneath the earth.
Insomnia is your mind working at the speed of light
and taking sixty years.
Insomnia is running a triathlon without training.
It is wondering how long your body
can take the stress before folding in on itself.
It is wondering what the hell is wrong with you
that you can’t function like a normal person.
Insomnia is taking pills that almost make
your waking nightmares look like children’s play
compared to your sleeping nightmares.
Insomnia is having waking nightmares.
It isn’t the inability to focus.
It isn’t easily fixed.
It isn’t something you deal with.
It isn’t caffeine or something you ate.
Insomnia isn’t just a noun.
It’s a disease.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 2:35 AM UTC
All from you, every last shred
of my natural state, the tendencies by which I’m led
How can one say to another,
“You’re odd and make me uncomfortable... so I won’t love you brother.”
I won’t strive to understand or with your differences sympathize
or turn my judging lens toward my inside.
For you have a large speck deep in your eye,
and good thing I’m here to judge and criticize,
for your weaknesses bother me,
and I expect from you better,
I’m here to dot your vowels
and make sure you cross your letters.”
What do you have that has not been given you,
from our dear King Jesus above?
Oh Lord help us treasure You more than ourselves,
and abide in Your sweet and unconditional love.
Aug 18, 2010
Aug 18, 2010 at 5:02 PM UTC
(explicit)
**** my soul
with poetry
scream out my gracious name
slay me with words
that peel my layers
and simultaneously
drive me
insane
finger me slowly, hotly
with just the right rhythm and rhyme
push me past my
tender limits
into tongues of syntax,
sublime
alliterate my senses
(in swift stac
c-at
o)
until my mind is but blank verse
mess up my stressed
and unstressed syllables
in unsung language, versed
I will speak to you in vowels
(the only sound
I will be able to make)
as you stroke
my iambic pentameter
in the heat of frothed-up
ache
we are this heroic couplet, you see
even if the meaning seems veiled
no need for simile or metaphor
as I feel your chest rise
in deep inhale
we are a natural paradox
so many ironies abound
discordant harmony
is our synaesthesia
in visible darkness found
and I love this delicious enjambment
as your aura invisibly slips
into mine
our lines have no beginning,
no end
as we undo
the boundaries
of time
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 5:18 PM UTC
*** is a four lettered word
flaunted by very bad vowels
fevered to ecstacy
by all tangled-up adjectives
Then pounded into submission
by perverted nouns
that take their free liberty
of the subjective
Once surrounded
by the iniquity of the parentheses
you will only utter commas
at the Benediction
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 5:16 PM UTC
*we are hyper-etymological so be aware
that tricksters and fools are up to no good
and *** between equals is very rare
dominance and submission is everywhere
**** is Buddhism without vowels
but the Buddha's wisdom is just and fair
for only the turning of the wheel of dharma
can alleviate the endless suffering of our karma*
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 2:47 PM UTC
To Struga Festival Golden Wreath Laureates
& International Bards 1986
Stand up against governments, against God.
Stay irresponsible.
Say only what we know & imagine.
Absolutes are coercion.
Change is absolute.
Ordinary mind includes eternal perceptions.
Observe what's vivid.
Notice what you notice.
Catch yourself thinking.
Vividness is self-selecting.
If we don't show anyone, we're free to write anything.
Remember the future.
Advise only yourself.
Don't drink yourself to death.
Two molecules clanking against each other requires an observer to become
scientific data.
The measuring instrument determines the appearance of the phenomenal
world after Einstein.
The universe is subjective.
Walt Whitman celebrated Person.
We Are an observer, measuring instrument, eye, subject, Person.
Universe is person.
Inside skull vast as outside skull.
Mind is outer space.
"Each on his bed spoke to himself alone, making no sound."
First thought, best thought.
Mind is shapely, Art is shapely.
Maximum information, minimum number of syllables.
Syntax condensed, sound is solid.
Intense fragments of spoken idiom, best.
Consonants around vowels make sense.
Savor vowels, appreciate consonants.
Subject is known by what she sees.
Others can measure their vision by what we see.
Candor ends paranoia.
Kral Majales
June 25, 1986
Boulder, Colorado
5.5k
What can you say about Pennsylvania
in regard to New England except that
it is slightly less cold, and less rocky,
or rather that the rocks are different?
Redder, and gritty, and piled up here and there,
whether as glacial moraine or collapsed springhouse
is not easy to tell, so quickly
are human efforts bundled back into nature.
In fall, the trees turn yellower-
hard maple, hickory, and oak
give way to tulip poplar, black walnut,
and locust. The woods are overgrown
with wild-grape vines, and with greenbrier
spreading its low net of anxious small claws.
In warm November, the mulching forest floor
smells like a rotting animal.
A genial pulpiness, in short: the sky
is soft with haze and paper-gray
even as the sun shines, and the rain
falls soft on the shoulders of farmers
while the children keep on playing,
their heads of hair beaded like spider webs.
A deep-dyed blur softens the bleak cities
whose people palaver in prolonged vowels.
There is a secret here, some death-defying joke
the eyes, the knuckles, the bellies imply-
a suet of consolation fetched straight
from the slaughterhouse and hung out
for chickadees to peck in the lee of the spruce,
where the husks of sunflower seeds
and the peace-signs of bird feet crowd
the snow that barely masks the still-green grass.
I knew that secret once, and have forgotten.
The death-defying secret-it rises
toward me like a dog's gaze, loving
but bewildered. When winter sits cold and black
slumped between its two polluted rivers,
warmth's shadow leans close to the wall
and gets the cement to deliver a kiss.
5.4k
Mindanao rain
drain a mind:
rain, mind an a, o (or lack of
the voweled demarcation)
a man rid
or
a dim man in
a man;
Danao
sings something
blood writes heavily
we have many cicatrices
mind
the
now
arid mind
man rid of
a, o — vowels to
fruition a total emphasis
and man
in a drain, no strong aid
in rain — in the
eyes of
god is the
true
anon man
in the rain
amid rain-moan
or nomad in rain.
a **** I On,
you
complete the atrocity.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC
lying awake
and looking for all of the answers
in my ceiling.
asking why
it has to be me who feels this way
(feeling completely lifeless, and absolutely hopeless)
asking You
“haven’t you taken enough from me?”
“why must you haunt my dreams?”
and the only bit of light i have
comes from the streetlight by my window,
it shines on You.
and from the corner i hear You,
with a vacant and harrowing tone.
and the detached vowels and consonants
echo throughout the hallways.
they hang themselves on the wall
as a reminder.
“they say nothing kills a man faster than his own head”.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 9:00 PM UTC
A star of blood you fell
from the point of the hypodermic
singing of fabulous beasts &
spitting out the *** of vowels
Your poems explode in the mouth
like torrents of ***** on a night
full of zebras & bootheels
Your ghost still cruses the river-
fronts of midnight assignations
in a world of dead sailors carrying
armfuls of flowers in search of
your unmarked grave
Your body no sanctuary for bees,
Death was your lover in a rain of
broken obelisks & rotting orchids
In the tangled rose of a single heartbeat
I offer you the shadow of a double
profile,
two heads held together at the bridge
of the nose by a nail of *****
smoke
in the long night's dreaming
& memory of water poured between
glasses
In my mailbox I find a letter from
a dead man & know that for every
shadow given
one is taken away
Yet subtraction is only a special form of
addition and implies a world of hidden
intentions below a horizon of lips
thin as your fingernail sprouting
mysteries in the earth …
The ace of spades dealt from the bottom
of the deck severs the hand which
retrieves it & the eyes of Beauty
sewn together peer over a black lace fan
in the ****** sunlight of a Spanish
morning without horses
The Belt of Orion is loosened
before you as you remove the silver
fingerstalls from your mummy hands &
kneel to plunder the nightsky in a shower of
bitter diamonds.
(Somewhere under a blanket someone weeps
for a lover.)
Peace to your soul
& to your empty shoes
in the dark closets of
kings with no feet!!!
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 4:06 PM UTC
.*i guess a loss of subscriptions is, somehow, a badge of honor, namely? i somehow managed to attach a screwdriver to my words... why? read below... English women consider motherhood to be a job... how ******* demeaning! gone are the days of womanhood attaining the stature of god, in the Christian methodology of encompassing the pivot of lady Madonna... perhaps a too high peddle-stool? i guess so... i'm not usurping the female status, but elevating a female stature, deeming motherhood an UNESCO status? seems it's too much... for some people... who make it necessary to befriend their shadow, and travel to the hinterlands.*
just your atypical pedantry,
a translator's subscript comment -
who's richard rojcewicz's...
regarding what?
heidegger...
das volk,
and the three derivatives -
volkhaft (populist),
volklich (communal)
und?
völkisch (folkish) -
i'm starting to suspect that
i'm tapping in the all things folk....
unconsciously, favoring folk
music...
see, us central europeans,
we bunch together and share
the most odd similarities -
i never thought that the song
herr mannelig could be translated
from Swedish - as it was
translated into German...
then again... Vikings founded Kiev...
and all these loan-words
of Germanic origin in Polish...
the only Anglo loan-word
that i know of, is, weekend...
hence, das volk, people -
by the way... German has "too many"
definite articles,
and only one ein - or eine -
is that the same rule as in Ęnglish?
i.e. N
in an example,
rather than in a counter example?
two vowels adjacent in separate
word, sitting across from the grand
chasm of... a spacing itch?
but look at German, i never get it...
DAS DIE DER...
is there an aesthetic difference,
and only an aesthetic difference
to mind?
bewildering...
if there is such a thing as a western
civilization...
that sometime
pompous obnoxiousness,
fair enough... no problem:
but learn to hide it,
feel it, rather then feed it...
it's not a question of a civilization,
but more...
an answer to what is less
civilization, and more... a chore...
just like western women,
notably the english women
call motherhood a, "job"...
it's a... wait... a job?
doubt was big in classic philosophy
of the Cartesian schematic...
so no one knows that
the French existentialists
brought in negation,
as the driving force to replace
doubt?
who the hell sees doubt
these days?
either the know it alles -
or the hush-hush crowd...
motherhood is a... job?
well... then i guess, being a man...
western civilization,
by that standard of logic...
can't be anything more...
than a.... ******* chore!
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
Dribble your words all over my body, sprinkle me with your writing. Smother me with your thoughts. Lather me up with scented syllables. Massage your lazy vowels into my skin. Wash me down with your beautiful language. Wrap your sentences around my wrists, hold me down with your paragraphs. Tickle me with with interpunktion. Scrub me with silent speech. When I'm all wet and rosy clean, dry me with the pages of your warm typing
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 8:28 AM UTC
in a dark of frenzy it boils up inside
until summarily and inexplicably
see the colour between brown and blue
more than see it, immerse myself in it
swimming slowly in its clouds
see the colour between brown and blue
everywhere votive candles light
the colour between brown and blue
with slender tapers that touch a life
any life, your life
casting strange shadows, loose shadows
between the colour of brown and blue
children swarm, children with bright white
starvation hair, children with hands
like small worn mittens
who raise red swarms in hot worn out
death laden dust
dust that cauterizes the nostrils
with the stench of penurious insanity
the colour between brown and blue
that inveigles a purchase of flies
bottle blue, black blue, green blue,
swarming blue, swirling whirling blue
a black and blue confetti of flies
then the sudden zero of the
colour between brown and blue
hair raising, command faith
willed, willing, mumbling, murmuring
the excitement of writing between
the colour of brown and blue
trees shake and tremble
words regurgitate themselves like hot
food, the bark, write
now fully electrically charged
seized by the colour between brown and blue
forget everything else, write, write more, more, write
trembling with sudden shudders of merciless
vowels, madness penurious pencil
moves across, demanding paper
pushing worn words, worthy words whittled by use
words not yet written, words of wonder
oh what words
beautiful, baffling,baleful, words
with beastly beatitudes, words that conjure the mind
words between brown and blue
that leave you skinny like a stray dog
words so demanding leave you shut up in an
airless abattoir of high energy and low residue
the colour between brown and blue
where everywhere is everywhere else
touched by the flames of the colour between brown and blue
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
horns squawk
rainforest avenues
exoskeleton
of cars
arteries clogged
with unlovely taxi cabs
fat green fruit
for sale
five languages
merge into a knot
hisses kiss vowels
kiwis apples pears
black guys basketball
debt rises like blood pressure
stocks tumble
but we walk
brogues clop on concrete
count brick after brick
sun cascades
over roof slates
mind cracks in slabs
(you say
Monroe stood here)
heat quivers
men are dominoes
suits for the office
a funeral
designer sneakers
daddy paid for
pigtails cheap thrills
violet octagons
on a stranger’s neck
(behind the closed doors)
today
I drink purple water
aubergine lips
remind me
of a Tuscany Superb
list the names
Houston Charlton
Leroy Sullivan
Perry Cornelia
Dominick and Jane
(ladders lead
away from me
close to
you)
and back again
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
I am the **********
and poetry is my ****
slapping me around with its,
enriched vocabulary,
scarred vowels across my face.
A-E-I-O-U,
i owe you,
1 minute of sinful poetry.
I put a ****** on the mic so I
wouldn't pass off my poetic S.T.D.
infecting the dictionary.
but my grammar was incorrect.
after 9 months-
OOPS!
out comes the alphabet.
and when i gave birth to English,
you took it from me and created tongue twisters,
poetic metaphors that will have you,
speechless.
and I'm back at point one.
I am the **********
and poetry is my ****
scarred vowels across my face.
A-E-I-O-U.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 6:48 PM UTC
I can feel the loneliness deep inside
the half-shaped moon, stripped, scorched, destroyed,
shifting, scrambled diction, hazy nonfiction, drifting
consonants and vowels lingering in meaningless
frames, confined in a sleepless state, searching for
its missing outer being to make it complete,
quivering in solemnness, struggling for freedom
and perfection, conflicting science crumbling without
reason, evaporating equations swallowed into unfamiliar
places, sunken history tumbling into the depths of the abyss,
disconnected from the great milky clouds and glorious
sun, its wandering metaphors hovering in some unknown
distant kingdom, in the depths of a solitary dungeon, dying
of its creative invention, broken sounds sluggishly surfacing
for air, fading shadows seeping further out into the inner wave
of Saturn, its decaying reflection changing between time
and space, rising and falling in forgotten eternities,
declining in rhyme and harmonizing patterns,
as shattered lovers diminish apart from one another,
locked away in frigid and featureless mazes, drowned galaxies
floating in sinking outer spaces, vivid blackness surrounding
its sunken design, lost languages falling apart into split and hidden
dimensions, swimming in stuttering syllables across the crimson seas.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 8:23 PM UTC
my polygamous relationship with you distances me from the monotony of monogamy and makes me feel lonelier than the loneliest mundane monogamist. my mere apologies for my misendeavors, the malnutritious morals of my miseducation propose metal mirrors and castaways controlled by cutting carvers, craving crazy letters and loyalty from lengthy lies and lonely lives. lethargy overtakes and vowels reign, raining drops like rainbows and rocks in rivers, rusting relationships, rusty railroads at intense intersections entwined in everything inside and nothing on the outside anymore except these
muscles. we are back at the beginning.
my mind marvels in the magic of the memories, the madness of the morbidity and the hesitations of your reaction. his, I take, is misunderstood as my misfortune, but it is not a miss, my fortune: it is a fox in feathers colorful like friendships 'fore their forfeited and feigned approval, forced for fear of polygamy tho' it promises the purest pleasure, the most personal independence and precious pearls of princes, princesses, powerful, plight-less
poetry. peace surrenders,
souls surprise themselves, surprise their cells, call for curious catastrophes to take place. colorful and calm they coincide with cooperation that can not contain the context of truth, of teases, of teasers and targets and tonal dualities and we endeavor, we endear you, we dare destroy the darkness of the devil in its disguised diamonds.
words lie at my feet like pebbles of poetry and I promise personal demise, deterioration and ridiculous obsessions- there's madness to be had and fragments to be written and I play with silly alliteration instead!
serious and serene you stare as if my sanity has slowly faded and I sternly helplessly smile shyly. I suppose you are sincerely offering me your blessing before parting, so stumbling slightly I surrender…
if this is the prevailing promise of mere mortality, I'm graciously aware I was worthy of words.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
*** is a four letter word
Flaunted by very bad vowels
Fevered to ecstacy
By tangled adjectives
And pounded
Into submission
By perverted nouns
That take their free liberty
Of the subjective
Once surrounded by
Iniquity of the parenthesis
You will only utter commas
In Benediction
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 7:23 PM UTC
summer nights—cold soul
drunken anecdote
the flow of ink so delicate
to massacre the old for the new
winter morning—warm hands
littered streets
the sound of your vowels and consonants
just the right consistency
chiseled gravestones—life in your eyes
sound of footsteps
the burn of your last words to me
inverted and sweet
the universe owes us no due;
the six minutes i treasured you—
Paradise, 2018
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 5:44 AM UTC
spent years wandering halls
cutting the "i" from my sentences
forming words from vowels
and emotions from consonants
hard and solid, but nothing
without that internal structure
guess that describes me pretty well
all consonants, harsh "t" and definite "d"
and the ever-slippery "y", like me
never making up its mind
felt like a half-learned language
still do, really
like someone forgot to learn the proper nouns
forgot to turn the sentence around
grab the sound and speak it
there's an accent colouring my life
awkward and stuttering, unsure
and never fluent enough
to step in time with the music
for long enough to make it matter
words from vowels
and emotions from consonants
hard and solid, but nothing
without that internal structure
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 1:34 AM UTC