the earth speaks
in a syntax of wind,
in the slow-moving vowels
of shadow across stone;
its grammar lives
in the way grasses lean,
in how light punctuates
the ridge at dawn,
each pause a lesson,
each shift a clause
in the long, unwritten text
of being alive;
and when we listen,
truly listen~
we feel meaning gather
like seeds in the palm,
a quiet fluency
in the language
we were born knowing
but forgot how to read.
I am in exam hall,
Deep silence followed by a wake up call.
Yes this is exam hall,
Where discipline prevails and is placed above all.
Some write with harmony and fluency,
Few try inspite of their ignorance and deficiency.
A very few repeatedly stares at the moving clock,
To check the momentum of their good luck.
The contact with the clock was short and temporary,
A command from behind was interrupting but necessary.
Now it is time for final reminder to all the participants,
Where all have to submit their paper as a mark of commitment.
Copies are submitted with the closing bell at the end.
The examinees left the exam hall to leave it in pure silence.
Basque-born Maurice Ravel
a musique-impressionist truth-to-tell
Influenced by Claude Debussey
versatile & with fluency
Old means sudden pain of unknown origin.
Fluency of mind becomes like a foreigner.
Old means the circle has shrunk to a point.
Old is ignored, like a newly minted orphan.
Old is when the glitter of friendships fades away.
The aloofness of acquaintance retreats into its haze.
Old is a black-veiled wolf cooing like a virgin sage.
Old is the white crow cawing down the final days.
Old is dusty gray and mountain lake so cold...
The crippled myth is that it's crafted out of gold.
Old is infinite goodbyes and infrequent hellos.
Old inhales its ashes, then etched onto stone...
Old is both a satin blessing and a burlap curse.
After all, we could have perished well before our birth.
Old is not for the thinly veined nor the pastel-hearted.
Old recalls that wide-eyed child curled up inside the dark.
You see that valve beneath the tree. It is staring directly at Thee; you see the curb in the middle of the road, It is telling you how to be bold; walk a mile onward and look beyond the tree, you will see something that you have never seen, the wilderness lies beyond the sea and the devil lurks Inside the tree, look the bride’s maid are running after thee. Walk close to center stage and move slightly upstage left and look straight in front of you and you will see clearly how things should be. Stand alone in the center stage and examine everything closely and your intuition will guide you appropriately. That is where the devil always complete his round and he knows where destiny is bound; examine the stage through and through and face your greatest fear, go over the lines a hundred times and confronts the demon in front of you and your fluency will come easily and everything will happen naturally, you are the master of the script and no one can throw you off the ship, Jonah spend three nights and three days in the belly of the whale and when he came out he was not the same; you are the master of the stage.
He looks shy, timid, and withdrawn, as though he knows nothing.
Yet, astuteness whirls in him like monsoon floods in a dam.
He is an ace at intuitive thinking and judging.
He's a lively lion, though he looks like a little lamb.
He composes music. He plays it. He sings in gladness.
Fervour, fondness, and fluency flame in him like fire.
He is calm even in times when he sings in his sadness.
His strength, staunchness, dedication, and devotion inspire
He loves the complex; tests the untested; tries the untried.
Waves and vibes of optimism flow from them; chill and thrill all.
His thoughts, words, and actions never have any tinge of pride.
Between good, bad, great, and small beings, he doesn't build a wall.
He motivates each marred mind as he moulds his masterpiece.
There, in his soul break, seen or unseen, waves of cosmic peace
lacks in the world
dynamic fluency
of silence....
Don't forget your books with the shiny covers.
Pens filled with glitter and rainbows of hope.
My books used to be wrapped in brown paper bags.
By year's end they'd be frayed and covered in kid graffiti.
Number 2 pencils poked with bite marks.
Most importantly, mind your teachers.
But when they delve into critical hate theory or gender fluency.
You have my blessing to tune them out...
After all, you're only six years old.
In my day we'd recited the pledge.
Had air raid drills garnished with salted sirens.
We'd be ordered to scramble under wooden desks.
To protect ourselves from nuclear fireballs...
The teachers turning into hell hounds.
Barking at us to keep quiet and keep our heads down.
As they goose-stepped up and down the aisles.
They'd look for stray-paper-eyed lambs.
We had to do this because of a red boogie man.
Who couldn't wait to lay our souls inside his nuclear sandbox-
Of course, you kids have your own boogie man to fester about...
So don't forget to run for the gates or shelter in place.
If all else fails, do as they do in Uvalde.
Cover yourself in your best friend's blood and play dead.
Representation
Fluency of veil
Father's victory provails
Release all he held within
Eradicated sin
Given the choice
To listen to his son's Holy voice
Which do you choose
If you have a clue
Bestowed upon thee
Throne of victory
Put him at his right side
Where Jesus Christ resides
A glorious mission
To bless the forgiven
Bow to our King Jesus Christ
Who cares about your life
Father's angels are sent
Help repent not resent
How are you
The Lord asked, yet knew
My salty tears throughout the years
Caught as sincere
God's armored arm
Who protects his farm
The one that tended to his sheep
Even though they were fast asleep
Given the love of an immaculate heart
To create our God's art
Approved by the Heavenly Father
For my heart has known no other
Once upon a time,
There was a lady,
Having every candy,
Some sour but tasty,
Some sweet but nasty,
Everytime I feel thirsty,
I went for a pastry,
That's how every poetry,
Will look like a messy pantry,
Having rhyme but not fluency.
By:EK ~Eman Afridhi
10/04/2021
MOMENT OF A LIFETIME
That moment
when we ran out of words,
we kept silent and still
for we both understood
the eye-language; there was
the fluency of silence.
We lived in that moment
that is more than a lifetime.
Timetable truency
Floods mind fluency
13th August 2020
For Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Ziket Contest
(first line maximum eight syllables,
second line maximum five)
Emerging from sleep dream temerity,
his remote aurora spectral prisms
from which his wakefulness gives legerity,
from which surfaces new burgeoning aphorisms.
Truth’s contours arrayed in fluid fluency,
his morning ataraxia in the still water lake
from where his senses lose their truancy,
from where ideation sheds the opaque.
He finds repose in a moment's seclusion,
his lucid cortex in reflective possibility,
but he learns his real confirmation in inclusion,
and learns our fellowship best protects our fragility.
So quickly we imbrute each other with walls,
he knows how militarization is summoned by anxiety,
he weeps at the endless requiem protocols,
he grieves at history’s long cruel impropriety.
But he detects his promise in human need,
our struggle against forces of dehumanization,
our commission in communitarian creed,
our hope in human family realization.
Awarded second place in Poetrysoup "Grace and Solitude" rhyming poetry contest sponsored by John Hamilton.
"Behold, I come quickly." Book of Revelation
I'm a fugitive within
eluding essence
easily beheld by
intangible tangent --- contagion terrorized.
The body that is so dignified, if not deified,
how can it house so violent a guest that
dwells in hell's exactitude?
In transient body fragile flesh
serves god's amplitude.
Silver inlets of faith revoke
solitude -- in god's company one is never alone -- for
another day's vast vicissitude, lingering currents of faith
slip into night's safe haven past
the tumultuous velocity acquiring fluency with
god's fiat of investiture -- in hope.
I love an empty page, pristine and fresh,
Creating life, from its sanitized death,
Gently depress the pen, unto its silky sheet,
Hand rests comfortable, on the surface beneath.
Ink tentatively starts to flow, filling in blank space,
Blood pressure rises slightly, stepping up the pace,
Steady as she goes, the first line appears,
Pausing for a second, sensing evolution here.
Moving along, poem’s nicely taking shape,
Writing looks well, just one little mistake,
Don’t get annoyed, easily fixed, right as rain,
Concentration’s intact, no need to complain.
Getting good vibes, though only halfway down,
Paper’s responding, as my scribe resounds,
Talking back at me, synchronized together,
Losing track of time, moments seem forever.
Engrossed with my work, mind starts to roam,
Must stay focused, for fear I’ll bemoan,
All appears fine, fluency pours from within,
Stanza’s won’t stop coming, hope this ones a win.
Hard to believe, already on the final verse,
Just enough room, to bring it home, I observe,
Finishing with a flourish, hitting the punchline,
Page seems happy, it’s new home is my rhyme.
By
David Kavanagh
Sub Categories
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