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Details | Language Poem | |

Rhythmic Perfection (anapestic trimeter)

There's a river that twists in the mind
that I plunder and ravish with sieves,
on crusades to the summit of rhyme
where my Phoenix of tropes and schemes live.

In a war to free diction's fair Queen
where the Soldiers of Babel bemuse
and the modern day graceless regimes
are in battles to stifle my muse!

In my quest for her verse of prestige
I have traveled a nexus of words
with this Lexis of language on siege;
where the dissonant hum drum is heard!

Oh, the poise of my bayonet firm
as I pin down my thoughts in a rush!
Oh, the will of the language it squirms
as her essence of glory I brush!

She's the Queen Muse that whispers within
as she watches me battle with style,
she supplies me the yarn that I spin
as she lends me her rhythm awhile.

It's the moment her Highness is freed
that the Armies of Dissonance fall
and the sound of Perfection can bleed
in those lyrical sounds that enthrall!

Details | Language Poem | |

FEELINGS

FEELINGS


Feelings,
Masters of my destiny
Lords of my life
Strength of my dreams
Instigators of my actions

Burning fire you are 
Consuming my whole 
Being:
My heart
My mind 
My soul
My spirit,  
As you relentlessly
Demand: 
To be conceived
To be formulated 
To be understood
To be expressed!

A Herculean task it is,
I swear, 
Such an enterprise,
For how one could ever
Constrain, you, the unconstrained 
And mold you into:
Phonemes
Syllables
Words
Phrases
Sentences 
And still retain 
Your explosive 
Dynamism?
 
No language exists,
So vast
So deep
So accurate
So supple 
As to pay justice,
To your intensity
To your desire
To your beauty
To your love!

Thus, having no
Alternative, 
I turn to the only language
There is,
The one that the 
Cosmos speaks,
And
The universe alone
Comprehends:
The language of 
Harmony,
That we humans 
POETRY name
BUT 
Even then 
To describe you
I AM UNABLE!



©Demetrios Trifiatis
   28 January 2013

 

Details | Language Poem | |

THE LANGUAGE OF ASH


Anarchy and misery whispered so softly that only she could hear
their voices, so she threw crabapples at a mail man to draw attention, 
ran feral between cars, remapped streets that never gave adequate 

directions or a single landmark to show her the way home. Mother 
loved the shell her baby bird had long ago broken, a mourning dove 
cooing for soft pieces, each scattered peep. Breath, the only thing 

that was hers, truly. Oh, the relief to snatch a bored sigh, draw it back, 
deny escape. A-gore-rhythms and Form-you-la’s, school’s strangle hold
methodology of mind control. Skip to my Lou. Skip class. Skip through 

rush hour traffic. Still, no one understands. No one speaks the language 
of Ash. Purge-atory is no fantasy. Every day, the same losses: possibility, 
sensitivity, civility. Hey guards, listen to all the things she will never say. 

Words, what the hell are they but manufactured strings of disappointment
that she chokes on? The entire world babbles platitudes and lawyers’ lies 
and vulgar chastisements.  Why speak, why waste a single breath? 

They fling their crap, so she returns the favor, knowing they will not 
translate her message. They use verbs like pepper spray and cavity search
and solitary confinement. She is nineteen, but the numbers don’t add up,

redo the equation. Just don’t ask questions or try to hurt yourself. Just? 
Again, she feels the noose close her throat, smiles at her secret antidote, 
the open doors of unconsciousness. A caress, this burn against the neck, 

again and again, saved and saved and saved, as though they’d noticed 
the flame’s gone, as though someone cared that she’d become soot, ash, 
ashes. Ashley? Ashley to ashes to ash to dust, just dust. Just? 
 
Just. Death. 






About this Poem

Ashley Smith was a troubled teen who would run into traffic, scream at people, cut classes.At 15 year, she was incarcerated for throwing crabapples at a mail man, this led to behavior which kept her in prison.  She defied the system, threw feces at guards, refused to comply and strangled herself many times a day. Ashley was restrained in a chair for as long as 8 hours, forced to sleep on mattress-less bed frame, pepper sprayed, tazered and kept mostly in segregation. She would bang her head against the floor until she bled, told a phychologist she felt suicide was her only hope. She was moved 17 times between 8 facilities in only 9 months. On October 17, 2007, Ashley, aged 19, hung herself in her cell as guards merely watched, having been ordered to only intervene once she STOPPED breathing. Her death was filmed. There is currently an inquest into Ashley’s treatment and suicide. For more information-

http://www.montrealgazette.com/news/national/Ashley+Smith+death+only/8053824/story.html


May change come. 

May change come, now.


Details | Language Poem | |

Speak My Language

Speak my language
A language of love I can understand
My heart language
Understand my need
My desire to be understood
Speak my language

Speak fluently to my heart
Words of Affirmation
I thrive on hearing praise
Appreciation
Verbal validation
Of all I do and am
Of all I want to be
Words of Affirmation
Speak to my inner woman
And give her fairy wings
To fly to you and meet YOUR every need
In a language YOU understand

Caress me
Run your fingers through my hair
Let them frolic with every strand
Run them over my lips
Dip them inside
And let my lips close over them
Let my tongue tease
Run your fingers down the length of my arms
Give the fullness a gentle squeeze
Let your lips travel down my neck
On their pilgrimage
To the sacred valley 
Between my breasts
Where they will nestle for a while
Before they travel 
Up the soft snow white ascent 
Longing to explore
The beautifully colored terrain
Of the glorious twin peaks

Gently, with butterfly wings touch my waist
Feel the earthquake motions they instigate
Let your hands speak
A language my body understands
The language of Physical Touch
The one I comprehend the most
A language that will not be lost
In translation to my heart
Words of Affirmation
Physical Touch
My love languages
That fill to overflowing
My desire to be loved, wanted

Acts of Service
I will gladly perform
Speaking now in turn to you
What your heart translates
As love from your woman
I'll show my respect and care
In tangible ways
A bed freshly made
Warm food to tempt your appetite
As I will later tempt your body
A massage to sooth away
The cares of your day

Quality Time
Your heart understands
When I give you my full attention
Putting all else aside
As my eyes focus on yours
And the world stands still
I free my mind to listen to the words
Spoken and unspoken
That you convey to me
And having heard all
I arrange my time
So that your heart can see
You are a top priority
To me

And the final language
Is a shared one, my love
Giving Gifts...
A poem tucked in your briefcase
A flower for me
Heart shaped earrings
My favorite perfume 
A necktie
A luscious mango
When my heart craves succulence
Decadent chocolate
Made ever sweeter
For it comes melting to your lips
Spread on the tips of my breasts
For your mouth to savor
Satisfying your sweet tooth tantrums

Speak my language
Hear with your body and soul
As I eloquently “speak” to you
Love understood, lived, celebrated

Yes, my love
Speak to me
In a language
I can understand

Eileen Manassian Ghali

Details | Language Poem | |

Shawty Got Swag

$hawty Got $wag
Shawty got swag, Shawty mad dope. Face all cheesin’, She real turned up. Goin’ to da club, She steppin' wit her peeps, Lookin’ so ratchet, She’s straight up hoochie.
No racks in her pocket, No stacks in her wallet, But she all into bubbly Slurpin’ and burpin’. Lookin for a big baller, Who’ll give her wat she wants, Wildin’ on the dance floor, Tweakin’ an’ freakin’, Shawty actin' so cra cra! She just like da rest a dem, But Shawty real fly, Sure likes a lotta ice, Bling bling, and Benjamins.
Shawty creepin’ to hook up Coz she needs a boo wit finesse, Who’ll give her Yves St. Laurent, 5-star hotels, and 5-star restaurants. Shawty off the chain, Shawty off the hook, She got game and she’s aight! Shawty da bomb - fuh real!!!
Entered in contest “Ebonics – Let’s Do Some Slang" sponsored by Verlena S. Walker (8-18-2014). Some Terms and Definitions: shawty – a young attractive female; dope – cool, nice, awesome; swag – style; turn up – excited; mad – really a lot; peeps – friends, close pals; baller – a thug that made it in the big time; racks/stacks– lots of money; aight – alright; wildin’– to go crazy, acting out of control; cra cra – crazy; tweakin’/freakin’ – dancing provocatively and moving around out of control; cheesin’ – smiling; finesse – man who has swag and can spend a huge amount of money; ratchet – ghetto diva; creepin’ – sneaking about; bubbly – champagne; bling bling – expensive flashy jewelry; Benjamins – hundred dollar bills; boo – one’s lover; da bomb – the best of the best; game – skills; ice – expensive flashy jewelry usually diamonds or jewelry with diamonds; off the chain/off the hook – excellent, fantastic, awesome; fly – cool, in style; hook up – getting together with someone romantically; hoochie – a female who dresses trashy; straight up – absolutely, really.

Details | Language Poem | |

WORDS--THE HEART OF IMAGINATION



Before twilight’s panels close the day,
I sneak into this sacramental hallway
fueling my pagan howls where I can be
the raw-weed of a bush: a time when
vignettes drain the floor--- spilling bones
of my own fonts, scratched and bent.  Here,
the vein bleeds of how i watched the pellet sun
grate dusky leaves among stones, or why
old man Charlie picked his a regular bench
in the park, talking to himself motionless
as if a 40s band were playing through his head.

More images stampede as the gas light
blinks with the harlequin moon, touching
my lower spine, my zodiac beginnings: still,
the morphine hours wear off from a trance…
I walk in limbo upon wings 
of parchment flooded with drunken ABCs ,
outpouring secrecy of thoughts. My mind 
outlines a visual  language : the drama 
and comedy of one day  make me a student
aging reveries: my bile hurts no more, as

my fingers grasp new stars on fire.



Brian Johnston's Contest
Words---The Heart Of Imagination
by nette onclaud





Details | Language Poem | |

Language Of Love

I have studied your beauty from afar
Getting to know exactly who you are
I'm entranced by the vision that I see
Longing to test my knowledge of thee 

Read all your words, listened to your voice 
Drawn to you not by fate, but by choice
Your scent, your dimple, your sexy stare
Taking my breath away, Oh how I care

You're teaching me a language, so complete
Words of velvet, silky smooth and sweet 
Descriptions of you, my angel from above
Soaring high together sharing our love

Details | Language Poem | |

Pique Nique


Enchanting is the beauty of her pic
he reckons if they tried the night to guile,
she would become a pique nique exotique
anthology of verse to read worthwhile.

What Coppertone's epoque, deep tan invites
whereon his tasting buds should ever trace
poetic cuisine's discourse fourthright
his foreign language will reach touch base.

Shan't ever inspirations lead his flight
above the sweetness of her warm eyes' hue
hors d'oeuvres' delicacy and choice of sight
a connoisseur of arts should taste fondue.

© G.V., 08-21-2013

Details | Language Poem | |

Language Barrier

I couldn’t understand the language she spoke,

at least not all of it,

but the emotion pouring past her lips, 

the tears in her eyes, her clenched and shaking fists

enunciated more clearly,

than any piece of English Poetry I had ever read,

and grabbed me, held me still.

                   …In that moment, her soul was in my arms.

In that finite, tender breath of our lives,

she was my mother, my best friend…

but I could not console her. 

I didn’t have the words;

and my heart sank into the 

concrete between us,

wet with the pain of God’s rain

and her tears. 

                  …Were my tears

So, I simply opened my palms

toward her crouched form and 

spoke the only words I could 

fathom, that would be accepted

by a stranger on a dangerous street. 

"I am sorry, It will be okay. God will bless you."

I knew she did not understand…

"Lo siento" 

                  “que va a estar bien”    

                            “Dios te bendecira’ “ 

the words were as messy as the overturned

duffle bag at her feet…and fumbled, slowly

from my lips, as my knees hit the street.

Two strangers, cried in the rain,

knowing nothing of each other’s suffering,

and yet we shared the weight,

together, for those few moments;

the barrier of language was broken.

Love spoke for us.  

-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.

…Love transcends any language

               

Details | Language Poem | |

Voiceless

Misunderstood, trapped and rarely
considered an equal; confusion
dominates many faces that try to
comprehend my broken voice.
No-one seems to recognise my
body language and unusual hand movements.
Wrong conclusions are drawn towards
my level of intelligence; many view me
like a lost child desperate to be one with
its mother.
I may speak the English language but
it appears broken; my voice is thus 
lost, like a treasured belonging long 
been misplaced somewhere unknown.
My hearing remains but I speak like
a deaf person; hand gestures are made
to try to convey my thoughts and emotions,
sadly, hardly anyone has learned how to
interpret someone like myself.
I am voiceless and thus I seem not to
belong in this world of fragmented images
of what is deemed normal.
Regardless of my affliction I remain as 
whole as I can possibly be.

Details | Language Poem | |

Sleepless Nights

Insomnia, familiar friend,
crawled into bed this summer night
so once again, inflamed with dread
I wander now in pitch of dark 
and touch the places, now by heart, that sprawl unstirred by weary minds

This lonely place, where I used to come
where armless grief, and headless doubt
and worry filled the rooms
I know you cold, my land of oz
So ruthless do you change your face
into a place I once refrained

But,  don't pretend to make me fear, toxic robber of my sleep
I've known you much too long
You masquerade in shades of gray
And now I know that dark of night, is not the blackest thing
And room by room, I'll play the game
until the light of day

The shadows magnify your art
and though they magnify my loss of sleep
and while I've tossed and turned in vain
I've lost the lonely albatross
that pulled against the grain

From hooded thresholds I embark
to find a language of the dark
A liquid language of a mystic night, 
that switches on the light

I've walked the halls of ghosts I knew, and those I hope to meet
I've felt the stares, and shared myself, no secrets left to keep
But not tonight, familiar friend
you bask in myth I understand
I'll fill the tasks that need my hands, until the light of day...
---------------


For Leonora Galinta's Contest

Details | Language Poem | |

If Languages Were Instruments

If languages were instruments,
English, the language of my own America,
Would be something like a piano.
Each word is clear and sharp-
When we sing, the note does not waver.
But I suppose it's more fair to say that
English is something like an electronic keyboard
With two hundred different modes because English
Has so many different versions, 
Adaptations of other instruments,
Emulations, or imitations, however you want 
To think of it; there is no accent that cannot 
Be reconfigured to be
Played on keys in distinct shades
Of black or white.

Arabic though...
Arabic is more like a violin.
The sound of Arabic
Flies up and down the scale
In deliciously smooth legato,
Stopping to linger on vibrato;
Poignant

Details | Language Poem | |

Broken English

He speaks in broken English;
It's interesting to see my language this way-
Spread out like pieces of shattered ceramic,
The edge of each word tossing off glints of meaning
Like bits of light, illumination; a kaleidoscope
Of light or sound dancing in the air before his lips...
At times he seems embarrassed, pausing before he speaks, 
Like the boy who tipped over his mother's favorite vase-
He knows how I love words- and scrambles to piece back
Together the fragmented ideas, hoping the cracks might
Be overlooked; the result of his efforts is often unconventional,
And yet... impossibly lovely too... 
It's a picture puzzle of a lonely landscape rearranged into a flower
It's a mosaic; the pieces don't have to fit to make the image radiant
It's a kintsukuroi bowl, the language veined through with gilded passion,
More beautiful for having been broken

Details | Language Poem | |

Body Language

What is it about me that gives you the impression that I am just your average
sleazy, easy, breezy, from the hood who can't possibly get ahead in life unless 
you are by my side.???

Is there a note written across my forehead that reads:
"Warning,
do not respect 
always neglect and,
never expect any goodness from this creature unless
legs are open and ready for business?

Does my azz have a "grab me" sign stuck to it
or is that what you would allow a strange man to do
to your daughter 
to squeeze your mothers breast or are
the words "touch me" tattooed 
across my chest?

Do my eyes unconsciously tell you to come over and try to slowly 
slide down my panties 
with your,
ridiculous lies 
heard too many times
from too many guys
who've more than once tried
to get in between 
or better yet inside
my thighs.?

 Don't get me wrong, I'm being so sincere 
I  just wanna make it clear that
there is something that you hear
if my body tells you action like the movie genre
or do I look different in every scene like a world 
premiere.?

Is bich my name in another language or,
do you see hoe somewhere on my birth certificate?
Am I not worth more than a single letter?...Ay!
or did I somehow give birth to you? Ay Ma!
Do my features confuse you or would you really prefer
a man...."Man".

How can my body speak a language that I have yet to hear?
Well before you get the wrong idea, let me make this clear.

When my azz say "grab me", that really just a lie
If my eyes say "come here" they really mean goodbye
Don't guess my name just ask and I'll let you know
and whatever my forehead region reads is just a bad typo.

It should go something like.... Always respect, never neglect, and only expect 
greatness from this Queen no matter what her pulchritude screams. 
The media degrades her as society points its finger and laughes 
all the while she's searching for your support
the support 
of her father
brother,
her son,
lover.
Why? Because she is yours....
Your mother,
Your Daughter,
Your sister, and 
Your Lover.
So...why not?
Love her, 
Honor her, 
See her for who she really is and
not for what her body says.

Details | Language Poem | |

' Language Lesson Learned ... ' 59th Senryu

‘ Language Lesson Learned … ’   59th  Senryu



    I Don’t ‘ Speak ’ Evil
I Don’t ‘ Understand ’ Wicked
    Translation … Ended

Details | Language Poem | |

English Language - 1 - Repost

                                   I failed English in High School
                                  Could not understand the writing rule 
                            If I say, when it reigns it pores, people agree
              Yet when I write the same phrase people say what’s wrong with me  

             I before E (accept) after C less it sounds like an a as in neighbor or weigh
                               Where do the words foreign and sovereign (steigh)
             Do they stay with a goose among geese or with a moose among (meese)
             Do they live in a house with a scavenger mouse or something much bigger
                             Is there several (hice) with several scavenger mice

Details | Language Poem | |

teach me in a dream

Constellations of values and ethics 
like dancing stars in onyx nights. 
Majestic fields of ideals stay grounded 
in what only seems right. Keenly, I search 
philosopher’s heels to grasp theoretical 
notions, held together by gravity’s scales 
as comets of light circle in tails
and teach me in a dream.




What is the uniqueness of your poetry?
Someone once said to me that “poetry can’t include abstract language.”

Well, that really got me going! As a lover of language and theory I just couldn’t let this one pass. The uniqueness of my poem is that I use abstract language with planetary imagery to lightly illustrate two mega-abstract ideas, ethics & philosophy. The end culminates that all knowledge is refutable (i.e. “and teach me in a dream”).



Details | Language Poem | |

Langue d'oc, a Micro-Paradelle

Your love song lapsed into ancient French that April day.
I only understood the words of spring and heartsore
lapsed. Only love and heartsore, I understood your ancient 
words of the spring-day song into that French April.

You fabricate my pauses into repetition, silence speaks
of ages strung to rhyme in love’s difficult service
you strung into pauses in service to ages. Fabricate of
love’s repetition, rhyme speaks my difficult silence.

We practice tedium of vows till language breaks apart.
As if art should aim at science, rigorous, quantitative,
rigorous language breaks tedium. Science vows a part of 
quantitative practice till we should aim “as if” at art.

Till we lapsed into language. As your ancient ages only
fabricate quantitative French strung to that difficult
practice, science speaks of tedium and understood rhyme. 

The spring in service of love’s rigorous vows. April 
pauses, heartsore. You and I, apart. If love should aim 
my words at day, repetition breaks into silence of song.


Details | Language Poem | |

Linguistic Dreams


Strokes of eloquence
breathe airbrushed scenes
painting my world in linguistic dreams

How tasteless bland these buds would be
If phrased thy love were unspoken to me
like honey barren of sweetened flavor
a silent, save-less savior

In awe
giving pause
grant witness your thoughts
grandiloquence such passion draw
as violent rage to sweet stillness assaults

Like Iridescent colors 
wrapped in transparent light
are the words of my lover
divinities descendant a lingual delight

If loosed a cellos strings 
an octave low 
an unworthy note
void would be the magic 
at the touch of the bow 

But No! 
I hear the heavens open
my soul spun in a rainbows glow
oration poised a symphonic token
of love as it was intended to show

Let my days grow ever old
bereft my riches in tow
but take not thy language of love for me
lest my light fade away for the woe

Simply pleading...
Don't go, don't go 
Thine eloquence to have and to hold

Details | Language Poem | |

The Language of Tears

Every teardrop tells a story
As its running down our cheek
The sound it makes cannot be heard
For its voice is much too weak

Listen to a teardrop fall
But listen with your soul
The silent screams of broken hearts
A sound you can't console

Teardrops are a language
That's spoken from the heart
An endless stream of liquid pain
That tears our world apart

Tears are often misunderstood
As a cleansing of the soul
But they leave scars that go unseen
When the pain begins to flow

Every teardrop tells a story
That most will never hear
They don't understand the language
That's spoken by the tear






Details | Language Poem | |

Foreign Languages

Hearing conversations
Spoken in a foreign tongue
Serves as a reminder of
The folks we live among.

Immigrants from distant shores
Residing where we live
Add a little spiciness
With all they have to give:

Hints of other cultures,
Both alluring and exotic;
Customs that we might just find
A tiny bit quixotic.

When I hear people talking
In a language rich and strange,
I wonder at the meaning of
The words that they exchange.

It’s like a secret code to which
I do not have the key,
And likely what they’re saying
Doesn’t have to do with me.

Yet still, if we could comprehend
A language not our own,
Perhaps the world would cease to be
A xenophobic zone.

Details | Language Poem | |

The Color Missing

The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes.  Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.

‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’


Details | Language Poem | |

Hey, handsome...

My heart is empty, Jeffrey.
I’m standing here transfixed 
within the threshold 
of a vacant bedroom.
The air is still
but the delicate scent 
of your passing soul 
invades my nostrils. 
The aroma travels deep 
inside the tunnels 
of my abdominal cavity -
lingering like... 
a dew-anointed meadow 
sleeping ‘neath 
a fuchsia sunrise.

Your mattress is scrubbed, 
stripped and sunlit – 
except for two eiderdown pillows.
I envision a perfect outline -
your fragile face
softly carved within 
the creases of these satin cases.
I visually inhale the profile 
of your splendor; 
a modern day Shroud of Turin 
resurrected and resplendent 
through trickled specks 
of semi-dried sweat.

“No more IV’s”…“right…”
“No more bedpans”…“exactly…”
“No more night sweats”…“yes, handsome…”
“Now give me a big hug, Jeffrey…Jeffrey…”

My hands tremble as I 
reach from one photograph to the next.
The images I want to barter 
with Faustus and friends - 
ensuring me a pact 
whereas I can live and breathe 
inside these time honored pixels -
content in lonely frames
hanging upon clinical walls 
in a half-emptied bedroom.

I grabbed a beaded satin pillow
to cushion the fall as
I slowly hyperventilated.
I breathe once more, Jeffrey,
but I’ll gag twice again,
as I remember our newly spoken language -
a private dialect we created last month
reminiscent of the movie 
“The Lost Language of Cranes.”
Those three long weeks before
you suddenly became incoherent 
and inaudible 
and immobilized. 
Remember how we improvised?
Remember, handsome:

(shaking and arms crossed) “OK…you’re cold – I’ll get you a blanket!"
(pointing to your mouth)  “You’re thirsty…water or juice?"
(pointing to your mouth and shaking) “OK…I’ve got it…ice cream…pudding?"
(index fingers pointing upward and swaying) “I know… you wanna listen to music”
(index fingers pointing downward) “Please turn off the TV set”
(middle finger pointing upward) “OK…you want me to adjust your pillows?"
(both middle fingers pointing upward and shaking) “Alright…alright – I know!…If you
hear Celine Dion one more time on the radio you’re gonna kick your bedpan off the side of
the bed!"

(arms folded across your chest)…”Rest handsome, rest…”

Ssshhhh...
It’s OK, Jeffrey...it's OK.
No more IV’s.
No more bedpans.
I have your pictures.
You're not sweating anymore.
I’m not choking...now.
Beautiful pillows…really…
TV’s turned off...
Ate the last of the ice cream
and the pudding...and...

And as I did -
I swallowed every part
of your triumphant, 
blessed soul.

Details | Language Poem | |

Camouflage

They tell me to express myself with words so foreign that I question myself.

Verbatim. Diction. Syllabic expression.

Please explain to me, a kid from the projects, what the hell you talkin about?

Cuz where I'm from you spit rhymes like bullets.

Lock and load.

Don't wait for a reaction.

Ready, Set, Go!

Crime is our muse, drugs are our fuel.

You can judge from a distance but remember.

We don't affiliate with none of yo crew, talkin bout red, white, and blue.

I consider myself patriotic to my youth.

But if I dare break down these walls myself....

You will see that I am an exquisite young lady hidden underneath "white trash."

I call it camouflage.

Don't you see?

I can explain to you the differences between an Italian and an English Sonnet.

Describe the meter of a Langston Hughes piece, or even write a couplet myself.

But those things won't teach you how to survive.

No.

Not around here.

So I'll act illiterate, and act like I don't give a shit.

Just to prove a point.

But in the back of my mind I'll be counting rhyme to make sure that words come out in time.

All the while I'll delude my real self till I am no longer in the presence of fools.

I'll hide behind the green bushes and tumbleweeds that are my second self.

And put my dictionary back on the shelf.

Because unfortunately to be real means to be ignorant, and to be intelligent means to be indignant.

Details | Language Poem | |

Just Be

Sometimes I admire the littlest things
A simple rock. A blade of grass. 
They need no future goals, no tax exemptions
They don’t need to go anywhere or be anything
They just are. 

Sometimes, especially when I’m reading life insurance policies,
I envy the rocks and the grass
And try to be like them for a moment. 
I sit perfectly still and give myself to the wind-
And it whispers in my ear:
Just be.
And for that moment I don’t need to go anywhere or be anything.
And at the snap of my fingers, 
All the complex widgets and gizmos that make up my life
Fold into paper airplanes and fly off in the wind.

Jacob Reinhardt
10/07/13