as I gaze deep at the sky
sometimes, I sit and wonder
why my consonants, slink by
and my vowels, roll like thunder
it's not the pitch of my voice
it barks baritone all day
I guess it must be, "their" choice
who gets to, come out and play
it may not sound that profound
guess I just, get excited
I'm just glad, this gift I found
sounds better, when recited
Sorry, again, what did you say?
This phrase is now a part of me!
Their patience now is growing thin.
Please answer and repeat loudly.
But still, this does not help at times;
volume is not the only cause.
The consonants and vowels seem
to blur and make my hearing pause.
I've been to all of them, no luck-
Audiologists and ENTs.
Tried hearing aids paired with my phone.
Just left to pay outlandish fees.
Those hearing aids don't conquer this!
To say they do is just a joke.
I smile and then pretend to hear;
accept that my antenna's broke.
VOICE
vowels
consonants
first words unexpressed
my impostor baby
its preponderant silence
"mama echoes i still love you"
Disclaimer: This poem is intended to be humorous...no ill intent or pointing fingers at anyone's poetic style
I am ink~
itchy ideas, insisting
every phrase feels plush,
stuffed with swirling, shimmering syllables.
My poem puffs up like a preening peacock of consonants,
a silly, spiraling storm of sounds
stampeding across the page in showy shoes,
tripping over their own tangled tresses
turning simple thoughts into sonic fireworks,
I still scribble on,
a stubborn servant of sumptuous speech,
savoring each soft, spiraled sparkle
even though the poem pleads for peace
from my persistent, passionate, perilously plentiful alliteration.
Life is all about leverage
both overt and implied
To move the world ever forward
and sail the highest tide
Subtle it nudges intention
exerted our missteps reclaimed
It magnifies every action
— restoking fortuity’s flame
(Dreamsleep: June, 2026)
Freeing The Verse
To have a poem
but not the words
To bring the message
home
Intention firm
and feelings clear
But silence
sits the throne
Awaiting vowels and consonants
regifted from a sage
A marble block of verbiage
to sculpt upon the page
And once each phrase has taken form
it’s wed to feelings true
To free the verse that faithful waits
— unheard inside of you
(Dreamsleep: June, 2026)
Strings of men expands and retreat,
As clustering as consonants text.
They struggle with all strength!
On the long run, they could not hold their breaths.
They shrug till it fairs;
As one dragged the other out of fears,
To make the other see themselves simple,
While the other one's hope bubbles.
With less delight and pressure;
To account for cheers via their measure.
While waiting for as soon be so; lose their armor,
They keep the rope tight,
Swinging left and right,
And unmovable like marmor.
It is not about leaving the rope,
It's simply about losing hope.
I took your name
And held it between my hands
Thumbs on the soft vowels
Fingers braced against the hard consonants
At first it resisted…
A word is trained to stand upright
To behave…to mean
But grief is stronger than meaning
I squeezed
The letters bent
The silent spaces gave way
From the seams of the syllables
Tears slipped free…
Clear and unpunctuated
Too honest for grammar
They fell onto the page
Where dates usually go
Where facts pretend they can hold a life
I kept pressing
Until your name was no longer pronounceable
Until it was only wet and warm
And shaped like remembering
What was left in my hands
Couldn’t be spoken
But it could be kept
I set it down gently
And let the page dry around it
That’s how I learned…
Some names don’t survive being said
But they live forever
In how they made us weep
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Some days it's a whisper~
a moth's wing brushing the page,
a flicker of syllables
caught in the throat
like unfinished smoke.
Other days it storms through me:
a tide of vowels crashing,
consonants sharp as splintered glass,
the whole messy, glorious riot
of trying to pin down the world
before it slips away again.
I hold the pen loosely,
let it bleed where it wants.
This is how I love~
not tidy,
not tame,
but alive, always alive.
Spreading like covid
your words it infects
Through vowels into consonants
each phrase it subjects
No drug can divert
fated spores on the wind
Arriving like locusts
attacking within
The Muse has been stricken
her voice it impales
While spreading to others
each time you exhale
The body count deepens
your messaging damned
No cure in the offing
— dead silence at hand
(Dreamsleep: December, 2025)
Did you go
to the gym
the Poet asked
Or write
weakened
— words untasked
Vowels and
consonants
stay unflexed
When verbs
atrophic
— their letters vexed
(Dreamsleep: November, 2024)
I’m a poet, others more so as well,
The difference still need be brought home.
Fine, Ra and La do closely dwell,
Yet, karabh called, would kalabh come?
_______________________________
Translation | 28.10.2025 | language, poets, words
Note: In Sanskrit pronunciations and spellings are closely aligned. Now, the pronunciation of the consonants ra and la arise from a close by places in the mouth. Yet, the difference, how so small, is still there. Karabha means the young of camel, and lalabha, that of elephant. There are poets and poets, different are their poetic ways. How so small be the difference, it is still there. Transliteration of Sanskrit is as under:
Aham api pare api kavayah
Tathaa api param antaram pari-jnyeyam |
Aikyam ra-la yoh api yadi
Tat kim karabha aayate kalabhah ||Subhashhitam ||
i took them in
amongst a pile of other glittering monstrosities
the low-pitched liquid consonants
behind the counter thanked me
and i ran for the doors
really went for it
a year went by and they were there
next to Auden and Pam Ayres
Berryman & Betjeman just down the road
what madness i thought on the way home
and two months later i was in bed, in the dark
listening to the large repertory of Carmen
its immortality is assured by the deft harmonies
and perfectly judged orchestration
like my collections in the charity shop
covered in dust
and high levels of vehicular dredge microwaves
waiting for the apocalypse
The Italian language
I would like to immigrate from Portugal to Italy
After ten o'clock at night, I switch on the TV
and watch an Italian soap opera
I don't understand a word of what the actors
say, but it is the way they say it, no hard
Consonant, no one is asked to stand to attention
For a comma, a full stop is a mere bagatelle
Not understanding what actors say is not
important, it is about facial expression and screams
So many pleasant surprises, last night's program
about a man who looked scruffy, he looked like
an evil character, but as it turned out, he is a police
inspector and arrested the man who looked like
matinee idol for the murder of the girl
All this happened in a modulated language where
crass consonants, dare not enter
beneath the boughs of meter's grace
a whispered rhythm finds its place
each word a spark a fleeting flame
a whispered echo of beauty’s name
rhyme steps lightly hand in hand
with time it weaves a golden strand
it dances in couplets bold and free
binding thought to melody
imagery blooms in the poet's mind
painting worlds both fierce and kind
a rose that bleeds a moon that sighs
the aching truth in lovers’ lies
meter marches steady and strong
the heartbeat of the poet's song
a drumbeat soft a thunderous roar
opening doors to worlds of lore
alliteration hums a gentle breeze
whispering secrets through the trees
consonants clash vowels sigh
crafting harmony low and high
yet free verse too a rebel's prose
finds beauty where the wild wind blows
unbound by rules yet tethered still
to passion's fire to the poet's will
the hallmarks shine a timeless art
a mirror held to the human heart
from sonnet's form to ballad’s sway
the soul of the poet leads the way
I am but a poet.
A rhyming cavalier
Expressing words I'm thinking
Until my mind is clear
Counting all the syllables
The consonants and the nouns
Letting my emotions run freely
Through villages and towns
I am but a poet.
The words that I create
Are written with a passion
So others can relate
They fill the head with magic
Bring laughs and tears alike
Expressing all your feelings
When stood up on an open mic
I am but a poet.
Not Shakespeare, if you please.
Sonnets are not my forte
Odes not my expertise
I am a free thinker
Scribing poems to make you think
Of nature and our planet
Putting my frustrations down in ink
I am but a poet.
With each sentence that I write
Are pieces of my being
My emotions in plain sight
Building up a picture
Where my thoughts are at
Filling empty pages
With every this and that
I am but a poet.
My words float on the air
Flying to its suitor
With each stanza that I share
Bringing a different feeling
To each and every soul
I am but a poet
And rhyming is my goal
©? Andrew Mears 2024
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