Written by Gail Debole
November 26, 2024
Adding "ing" to nouns has taken over the town.
English Traditionalists - turn your frowns upside down.
"Being an adult" is now one word.
We are all "adulting" or haven't you heard?
So I guess the next noun to be "verbed"
Is that a child is "childing" or is that absurd?
All languages evolve through the years.
Face the facts. Get over your fears.
Nothing you can do to stop the "ings."
"Verb-ing" the nouns is more than a fling.
Younger generations speak their own type of speak.
Older generations try to keep up so they do not look weak.
No one person controls the words we say.
New ones arise and old ones lose sway.
Now all the nouns can be "verb-ed" or "e-d-ed."
Language creativity cannot/should not (shouldnot?) be impeded.
And, in the future, how many words will survive?
Will acronyms and emojis be the language that thrives?
Obscure place,
under the lamp of none but He.
Of the first snows.
The thirst of the arterial, ephemeral flow.
Where echoes converge and become ghost, at it's Canyons.
O Knight of Strongholds,
where memories melt and disappear,
showing of me again bare, of bones, of One.
Be but the realm of the transform
a symphony of ethereal whispers,
awakening dormant dreams of the alone.
In each delicate flake, a tale unfolds,
a moment frozen romance in time's embrace,
a reminder of the transient nature,
of seasons changing, of love evolving.
As winter's icy kiss adorns the land,
knows my dream and Fairy sits on the knuckle
at my back of hand.
I am reminded of fragile beauty,
of the miracles found buckled in surrender,
in the rendering to the Destiny-Unknown,
pullAge of lever of planned-perpetuity of Clan.
Moreover, be yet a childing
sprite a flitting kiss on blank slated cheek of Eternity, to surrender at His feet, at His Throne.
What can we tell you?
We are all here, green, and fruitful,
even the wrecked and rabid
all our budding devils and gods
slobbering delightedly
over words,
pictures we put together
with fingers sticky with sap
childing each other,
completing one jigsaw at a time
problem solving,
problems we manufactured
in the root factories of a soft labor,
a work to keep us tightly wrapped up
in a sense of self exploration
to keep us rambunctious enough
to think we are creating something
when in fact, that ‘something’
is actually ‘us’,
and we do ‘us’ well
but when we don’t, we call that spillage
and over ripeness -
a poem.
What can we tell you?
We are all here, green, and fruitful,
even the wrecked and rabid
all our budding devils and gods
slobbering delightedly
over words,
pictures we put together
with fingers sticky with sap
childing each other,
completing one jigsaw at a time
problem solving,
problems we manufactured
in the root factories of a soft labor,
a work to keep us tightly wrapped up
in a sense of self exploration,
keep us rambunctious enough
to think we are creating something
when in fact, that ‘something’
is actually ‘us’,
and we do ‘us’ well
but when we don’t we call that spillage
and over ripeness -
a poem.
my horse my horse how art thee why abate my kingdom to beseech thy fruits of your
labor , he collied autumn beteems their childing eyes proclaim for art thou i must apace
neeze ere i jump through he loop onto the margent
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