"voynich" poems
*An amazing and rare piece of antiquity
Secrets of the Voynich manuscript
I find So Mysterious yet so captivating
A beautiful language not revealing
Uniquely expressive are the paintings
Somewhat exotic are the drawings
Leaves one with an astonished feeling
A castle grand under a starry light
beyond a dragon enjoying the night
And seven sisters soaking in a spring
As herbs and dainty flowers sing
Foliage green and blooms in blue
Stems standing tall, strong and true
Colors are vibrant bleeding through
Palms, and fronds and ferns, too
And inky blue with leaves of six
Roots partitioned into pieces and bits
Sunflowers and tiny red flowers
O' and a divine constellation shower
beauty imagined, beauty redefined
Oh this beauty I alone have found
amidst a poetic language unknown
penned with a quill by a poet of long ago*
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 10:50 PM UTC
Corrected
As the unraveled words slip through my thoughts into the universe.
Correcting imperfections.
Judging every woven threaded word.
4,065 languages.
Written
Unwritten
Intermingling words composing every thought as my own.
punctuation leads me not.
Grasping my
Language(s): unknown
Voynich
Yet once
words
with lack of punctuation seen not as a problem.
Yet seen for its purity.
That we the people could connect in understanding
Emphasizing
The languages we combine.
Sep 17, 2021
Sep 17, 2021 at 1:15 PM UTC
Entire moments gone from my life.
Film reels spliced, picked apart.
Developing
A kind of distance from you.
I've become soaked in indifference.
No, I won't fall under seasons.
Finding your touch at arms length.
This is the last leg.
The defining moments of our journey
Toward reason.
And I can't help it.
I can't help myself.
And I can't help us.
It's all just too much.
Late night conversation
My head is a mess.
Would this feel comfortable in death?
This skin, skyward and broken.
Lazily gazing through lenses incomplete.
The house I grew up in is gone.
I'm getting older and older.
But you stay the same.
You will never catch up.
And I can't help it.
I can't help myself.
And I can't help us.
It's all just too much.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
Informal
Free
Literacy is knowledge.
Styles' are descriptive.
The imperfections of the world make life vivid.
Feb 23, 2021
Feb 23, 2021 at 8:56 PM UTC