So many ways to convey one's intentions -
word choices, actions, intonations -
what do I project?
Others have their own perceptions,
leading to unfortunate misconceptions
as, on me, they too, project.
Human communication is so hard.
What to take to heart, what to discard?
Who knows?
What do you think it would mean,
do you think it is obscene,
as I take off my clothes?
The only reason you see me in my skin
is that I am gladly trading in
my humanity.
No more voice box, brain case, opposable thumbs -
I'm joining with my animal chums.
Goodbye, insanity!
Somewhere, long ago, I found myself in this world.
Since then, I've been here and there, or in corners, curled.
I feel that I'm an intruder. I don't belong.
Nothing can be fathomed. It's confusing, strange and wrong.
I long for the day when I'll be coming home.
I've never been ready for this place. It's too big.
On this long, rolling road, I drive a lonely rig.
Everywhere I've been, I feel so alone and lost.
Everything is transient in this land I've crossed,
but there's a place for me, and I'll be coming home.
Amongst the fake, I've always heard your voice that's true -
sometimes gentle, sometimes strong, I've not forgotten you.
Your intonations find me, in you there is no harm.
Pull me to your bosom and hold me in your arms.
Mother Earth, I'm returning to your fertile loam.
I won't leave you again, your baby's coming home.
simplicity
caress
the ear
momentary
sounds
&echoes
with
raw intensity
fused
in universatility
a dramatic
paradox
in pleasant
modulation
exhuberant
& harmonious
unique
challenging
exploratory
fluidity
of voice
to
the
inner
ear
treasures
of
breath
emphasizes
refrain
in
tantalising
finger prints
an
aural
crossweaved
in
a trace
resemblance
of
emotive
gaps
&
silences
mood
& tones
variable
in pitch
of
subtle
timbre
rhythm
&intonations
in
mutual
equivalence
revealed
aIn an information culture,
evocation is more important;than
explicit saying counts against us.
People need to be well
into believing
being educated is more
than information:
the incoherencies
what they’re saying,
the musicality
of people’s voices
and intonations;
would get more
from them.
Effectively, psychoanalysis is
something other, not the coherences;
it listens for words
that are saying more
It’s got something to do with being;
it’s a form of listening,
not distracted by incoherence
but evoked by it.
Because it hears what’s underneath
Within or hiding.
Wanting to be found
But unable to get the words
Beyond six feet of distance
and seven heavens of this pull of woods,
I draw intensities of sounds and words to placements,
Calling me beyond the territories of these leaves.
My soul sought profiles of its songs
While its proud emission and enthusiastic incision jingle,
In fields of consciousness, beyond access to semantics,
Submerging me
in the author’s trance of phrasal phenomena;
Telling me, “focus!”
amidst mortal icebergs and immortal tides,
Saturating undiluted pinnacles,
on paths leading home
from the author’s elements of creativity and
Symbolism’s narration,
by a series of innovative intonations, I have employed it.
Yet, I am on volume one.
Time place
scope and space
recover planning with
hazmat desires
actions by dissent
proportions to unoutcomes
serial deliverance by
traveling non neural pathways
around psycho resilience via
domestico-dysfunshun
huma huma incestations fielding
familial inbred infestations
leading to blind intonations thereby
catapulting negative Ego equations.
Can we abide by selfless endeavors?
I love You in 5 Languages
David J Walker
How more than once
A vestal dance
A nights romance
Gesticulates alone
Perchance we heard
The same music as we
Glanced through colored glasses
At the golden moon
Bowing in the ballroom
Vowing erotic promissory notes
Suspected but unconfessed
In the street corner confessionals
I love you said in 5 languages
While mocking the intonations of
foreign words and the
Meanings that one-night can hold
I will meet you in the
Abandoned public garden of
Lost calendars
That only we can know
With fingers skipping
across my flat top box,
an interlude echoing upon the air,
I am jettisoned into other worlds.
Acoustic tones of jazzy blues,
rings my ears and pacifies the pain.
Resonance of the wood sprite;
stresses the secrets I harbor in
the hallways of my mind;
intonations the colors of me.
Fingertips waltzing between
ebony-floored frets;
revealing timbre that lay within,
feelings read by cedar and spruce;
a treasured gift from the timber woods,
a altered spirit, is my guitar;
a miraculous flat-top box.
No blood, no bone;
no sinewy flesh can hide muse’s cries.
No muffler stifles;
any trifles, of muse’s singing soul.
A celebrant of life is muse alive.
Intonations paint, blue and pinkish skies.
The greens and gold’s,
of earth and time;
how they revel in muse alive.
Muse upon her natural high;
gifts us with her best.
Expressions fly from muse alive.
Talking softly as only a rock would do
she rolls her tongue around then gurgles
leaving little ripples as far as the eye could see
mesmerized am I
by a sunlit stream;
Squatting down I watch the little turtle struggle
with solid plastron and four chubby legs
she crawls towards my feet
move , rescind
move , rescind
rocking her tortoise bulk up and down the stream,
she suddenly reminds me of an old father song
"Down by the lazy river "
intonations vibrate into the lowly sky
leading me to a quizzical thought
how did the sun know where to climb?
I sense a kinship soul of like proportion
and know beyond a doubt
that this turtle in solidarity
knows me by name.
March 26, 2019
the ether is alive with oscillations
pulsations and electric frequencies
satellite and shortwave intonations
invisible, yet carried on the breeze
neutrinos and photonic modulations
infrared and x-rays, promptly spun
ultraviolet streams and applications
gamma rays and ions from the sun
ozone filled with radio transmission
microwaves pass thru us constantly
the residues of past nuclear fission
all that we have yet perceived to "be"
I've always had an issue with believing
the paranormal "ghosts" phenomenon
yet, with all the atmosphere's receiving
who am I to say what's here ... or gone?
~ 8th Place ~ in the "Ghosthunters And Spiritualists" Poetry Contest, Kevin Shaw, Judge & Sponsor.
Trying to understand:
in an information culture,
evocation is more important;
explicit saying counts against us.
People need to be well
into believing
being educated is more
than information:
less hypnotized
the incoherencies and
what they’re saying,
the musicality
of people’s voices
and intonations;
would get more
from them.
Effectively, psychoanalysis is
something other, not the coherences;
it listens for words
that are saying more,
It’s got something to do with being;
it’s a form of listening,
not distracted by incoherence
but evoked by it.
an orchestrated night glitters
to the wand wave of the maestro unborn
sweetness licks on liquorice sticks
fingered on silver keys
the moon melts like a honey drop
as sopranos sing
in harmony the coyote calls
base notes cajoled by passing horns
meld as cicada rub the reeds
legging each sharped phrase
with intonations of delight
I'll hold fast, cling to the echo of your fading chime.
Remember the intonations of your wisdom, revel
in the moments that were a balm to my soul as it
was young, and breaking free.
Your blood still runs, in these veins..
alive in my journey.
My heart beats in rememberance,
the song of my ancestors;
I'll hold it here, in this blood
that you gave and know
that you are still with me.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
When Heidi Klum
Only the secrets of nights enveloping
Could hear the whisper
Heavy breath gasping
Heady whimper murmuring
The lover’s touch
A purring black panther
Set all at once to devour her
In tender mouthfuls
Of the Teutonic fruit
The flush of blond
And flare pink-rimmed nostrils
Heidi’s lips shivered
On sensual words uttered
Had she ever known such a brute of tenderness
Such dexterous intonations
Of his finger tips
Fire by a language inscribed on his tongue
She softly moaned…….
“C.h.r.i.s…s…s”.
And coil un-twine to the heat of flesh
She tore the night from sleeping swans
And ragged by her arching back
To a lover of such brute tenderness
She scavenged each caress
In a German poem that made the night blush
For surrender
While the ceaseless wave took her
On the dark velvet of his skin
The beauty she was; held forever
In the press embrace of his moonlit shoulders
Such a lover she had never known
A purring black panther devours
When Heidi Klum
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