Long Consonants Poems
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Hovering beside a group of words,
Strategically aligned to make them meaningful,
Primitive noises and symbols are constructed,
Passed down from elders who are wise with knowledge,
Taught to use them for powerful communication,
Emotions stirred into structured but stiff cocktails,
Irresponsibility is lost in translation,
This is what we're taught,
An education of destruction,
Behaviors we're to believe are normal,
While we unknowingly create chaos through vowels,
Consonants created equally as terrible,
As the groups we are controlled by,
They make us feel accepted,
love fills our bottomless pit,
With hope comes commorodory,
But We only find ourselves more alone then ever,
When we're no longer useful to the cause,
We're handed a red solo cup of destiny,
Being a part of something in a history,
A history that will be lost over and over,
These events elevate the mind,
There is no existing in time,
You are handed the gift of déjà vu,
Because you've already done this,
And it reminds us of the truth,
A linear universe,
A place that repeats itself,
Again and again it happens,
Unwilling to accept it,
We turn a cheek,
To save all we have,
The belief that we have a purpose…
The search for meaning comes up short,
When we focus on the meaning of life,
You miss the real reasons your alive,
We're not meant for this planet,
We should have figured this out when we were born.
We're given a name,
To help us with an identify of self,
The story of me begins,
And it ends,
In between is an awareness that doesn’t belong,
Experiences that are hijacked,
Given to us,
For a hypothesis of scientific purpose,
Like a conscious robot,
To see if we can feel alive,
We are living,
But we are abandoned,
Left behind by master,
What's your’s is mine,
And ill make you bleed for it if I have to,
Darkness takes over when we believe the story of me,
Mine is the war inside,
Killing anything in the way of my pleasure,
Leaving you as a short term memory,
Lossed to fires and eroded by water,
The legacy of you will never be forever,
You are a temporary tyrant,
Pursuing the darkest of evils,
The unknown,
The lessons of life,
understood as a behavior,
And tolerated because its nature..
M. Stefano/2017
Eating alphabet soup with a straw so you can play Scrabble with the leftovers
Lyrics from an obscure band is music to your ears
Shaving off the November scruff that was plastered on your face
Nightmares are less frequent yet still take their toll
Promises that I will wake up - drink some water - and fall back asleep
The medication makes my mouth arid
spitting out vowels and consonants and shaping them into poems
choking on the nouns and verbs that populate my speech patterns
laughing to oneself and thinking "Maybe I don't have an accent."
Raising one's glass to wish good health to a room full of people whom you cherish
breaking down into tears - but you're in the shower - so it all blends in
trying to remove the dirt from underneath your fingernails that you have anxiously chewed
dancing to a song that has been over for five minutes but the chorus remains in your mind
choosing not to look up the lyrics to the songs on your vinyl album
holding, breathing, remaining pure to the one young woman whose heart you protect
Remembering the words of your late grandfather who told you not to wonder too much - or you'll get lost yet I found the courage
to look into the eyes of Death
and say "Check Mate."
All of my dreams end up with me doing some project and looking down - just to find my exposed body
I even watch what I eat before I go to bed - but the raw and gritty details remain
to tell the truth - that things are terrific - I'll tell my therapist
I was born in the December of '92.
Walked this Earth for seven years.
Decided I know what I am destined to become.
Emerging from a crystalized coocoon.
I spread my wings and learn to write
Poems about loss, love, and human nature
Rearranging the pasta in my bowl to spell out
some SAT word I have only used twice
in conversation
laughing at my grammar, my spelling, and my love of the Oxford Comma.
Captializing Words That Don't Need Capitalization
because Oscar Wilde and Walt Whitman did it first
Taking time to think things through and telling yourself : "You're stronger than you know."
My weakness: "Carbs and late-night with Craig Ferguson."
My strengths: "I am a writer and a Poet I shall remain."
Do we have any more alphabet soup?
Abstraction is an old story with the philosophers, but it has been like a new toy in the hands of the artists of our day. Why can't we have any one quality of poetry we choose by itself? We can have in thought. Then it will go hard if we can't in practice. Our lives for it.
Granted no one but a humanist much cares how sound a poem is if it is only a sound. The sound is the gold in the ore. Then we will have the sound out alone and dispense with the inessential. We do till we make the discovery that the object in writing poetry is to make all poems sound as different as possible from each other, and the resources for that of vowels, consonants, punctuation, syntax, words, sentences, metre are not enough. We need the help of context- meaning-subject matter. That is the greatest help towards variety. All that can be done with words is soon told. So also with metres-particularly in our language where there are virtually but two, strict iambic and loose iambic. The ancients with many were still poor if they depended on metres for all tune. It is painful to watch our sprung-rhythmists straining at the point of omitting one short from a foot for relief from monotony. The possibilities for tune from the dramatic tones of meaning struck across the rigidity of a limited metre are endless. And we are back in poetry as merely one more art of having something to say, sound or unsound. Probably better if sound, because deeper and from wider experience.
Then there is this wildness whereof it is spoken. Granted again that it has an equal claim with sound to being a poem's better half. If it is a wild tune, it is a Poem. Our problem then is, as modern abstractionists, to have the wildness pure; to be wild with nothing to be wild about. We bring up as aberrationists, giving way to undirected associations and kicking ourselves from one chance suggestion to another in all directions as of a hot afternoon in the life of a grasshopper. Theme alone can steady us down. just as the first mystery was how a poem could have a tune in such a straightness as metre, so the second mystery is how a poem can have wildness and at the same time a subject that shall be fulfilled.
Image of Black Sand & Sand provided by Pixabay.
The Hawaiianism of Ho'oponopono
A word, astir, in undulating waves surges and awash a clear open black shoreline of Hawaii nei, as it recedes in cycles dashing back to an instant, springing forth that word grasped first in mumblings made by a question from what comes later.
Hawaiiana has amongst the narrowed rudiments containing 12 alphabets; 7 consonants; H - K - L - M - N - P - W, plus 5 vowels; A - E - I - O - U. In its wake, Hawaiians have improvised their grammar by accommodating words to include more than one meaning, it is known as, "equivocal". A different way of supplementing their shortfall via letterings is by repeating words, whereto, two aspects emerge, firstly and the most prevalent variant of Hawaiiana repeats is, word pluralization, simply by adding the 's' at the end, sort of speak. Then secondly is word emphasization, or best to be known as, word empowerment.
"Ho'o" is an energetic prefix, in and of itself though insignificant in the Hawaiiana context as a stand-alone word, implying "to make or making". In this example, the base word, "pono", is an equivocal word. In no respective order, first; moral qualities, uprightness, and decency. Second; a clear understanding, completeness, and being thorough. Third; correctly fulfilled, proper procedures, and accuracy. Fourth; prosperity, welfare, benefit, and equity. There remain several meanings that essentially are extensions of the foregoing.
Nevertheless, when the base word is repeated, then "Ho'oponopono" basically means to, "make right a wrong". The Hebrews call it "Kaphar".
Back to mumbling and anticipation as a kid faced up to grownup legs. A worn grimace is yon about pause steadily. Quizzative looks around the room and tempts a peek past the formidable figure that blocks nearly the whole of him. The aged utter clarity, "E pule ho'oponopono kakou", (Let us pray for correcting our wrongdoing), afterward, an amended kid embraces the closing answer, "Ae, ho'omaika'i ia oe", (Yes, victory is yours). On the whims of a pendulum, Ho'oponopono wanes as a learnt man winds a clock up to speed.
2021 May 28
We sit in a loose circle, always ready to shift,
or offer our place for a late-arriver;
just another soul who's been left adrift
in this sea of turmoil, just another survivor.
We talk, well, some do, but some don't;
but we all listen.... that's for certain,
because where we've been, others won't,
I think that's another reason we're always hurting.
Why do they do all that stuff??!!? We sure wish we knew.
We can never understand it, like, what's the big lure?
In the end, all that stuff just leaves us feeling so blue.
It's a damn shame, there isn't a cure, that's for sure.
I guess, we are as close as we'll come,
to a cure, that is, for this loose circle of people sharing,
but it only works for some.
But at least, at least, there's always the caring.
We give that to each other, the others,
in this loose circle, the ones who can speak,
or can't speak, about their husbands, or wives or fathers or mothers,
well, some people only want to go over their crummy week.
Which is fine...because there's always something to learn,
if you listen, really listen with an open heart,
you can hear someone's life start to make a real turn
for the better, well, sometimes just only a start.
Like Step 1, where they say that WE have no power.
Hell, everyone knows that, don't they? I mean,
you don't really need to hear people talk for an hour
to know that, heck, it's like saying trees are green.
We repeat those steps, numbers one through twelve
even though other people ask us, "Why do YOU have to?"
Well, because we too, have to look deep into ourselves,
or we'd spend all out time thinking about "Y-o-u k-n-o-w w-h-o".
Shhhhh,. You know, the ones with 'A-N-O-N-Y-M-I-T-Y',
the ones with no consonants in the name that they use,
not like us; our name sounds like a Middle Eastern city.
But that's okay with me, because I don't need an excuse.
I KNOW I need to be here, with the other survivors,
moving chairs around, or giving up my spot
in the loose circle for another late-arriver,
because, well, my spot and this circle, are really all that I've got.
When tuscan tunes of twilight,
cascade as clementine confetti,
She searches for secret silhouettes,
swirling to the symphony
of sunflower serenades.
In the midst of faded fields,
marigold memories crawl back,
refraining yesterday’s
tangerine dreams.
Swans glide in
sullen grace,
illustrating a saffron
backdrop from
sweet sighs of
fauna’s concerto.
Harmony of melodies
is the idyllic essence
of dulcet beginnings.
A plethora of
prewritten words
soar as passionate notes,
harvested through
hypnotic crescendos,
emanating amber toned scales,
whilst she sways below
apricot streaked skylines,
adorned in champagne
hued consonants,
synchronizing dandelion
desires,
fluttering beyond
darkness that floats,
as lyrical lines vibrate,
and ascend to
euphonious heights,
where bronze keys of
her mellifluous heart,
evolve from a tapestry
of twinkling tenors.
Her muse mimics
scentless petals.
There’s no wrong interval,
when performing in a world,
where rays of
honeyed glow drift,
veiling the rhythm,
between bleeding
dusk and dawn.
Changing chords remain
oblivious,
to the pulsating pain,
as her perfectly
manicured fingers lift.
The hunter’s moon
too refuses to see,
how her heart no
longer is made of flowers,
but nostalgic ferns
and leafless forests,
that twist and turn—
wilting away to
songs of sorrow.
But there’s a maestro
with a pristine prologue.
He understands her mind
blisters when colors tumble.
How her fragility has
been sleeping on
weathered pansies.
He guides her to
softly press the
porcelain frame of
piano keys,
playing the prelude
to a classical sonata,
lost in the maple waves
of wind-blown whispers.
Her oak leaf twirls and
sows duets
of sanguine tomorrows,
pitching lines within
veins rhymed in vain.
Birds of paradise croon
to orchestrated
hope and love,
while a palette of sounds
piercingly rise to unravel
a synopsis for healing.
Like a finger and a nail, we have a relationship.
Nothing pale, but great as we make contact.
Like a key on a door, the importance we serve
As we mate like red imported fire ants,
We produce words, of wisdom that changes lives of South Africans.
The rainbow of a nation.
As we walk in union, we brake a record like an onion.
As the paper glows, black and red ink looking so glamourous,
God’s creation.
Importance as moringa tree, with leaves that heals,
Coffee with cremora, the, taste that’s prodigious,
Tipex, a wet chalk, as it flows erasing words so auspicious,
Like a ratex, leaving cats in grief as rats croak,
As if you were climbing a steep hill until a rope broke.
As it leans flat like a map,
On a table square like a mat,
Can’t sit on it, but can sleep on it.
Seeking ideas in the world of fantasy.
As the words flows out, vowels and consonants,
All moves down the throat like condense,
A lady with confidence,
Keeping her body all so hydrated, making an acceleration,
Sweet dreams, as she travels in imagination.
Wake up with a pile of medication.
Journey of hundred miles in the head, causing migration,
That needs to be paved on probation.
Indeed, with a pen on a paper.
A paper and a pen
Husband and a wife.
It first began as a stem of a tree, that brought life of a husband,
Who got married to a foreign woman in a band,
From a different mother land.
Yes, a pen, with no maiden name that trends.
As she stands in posture, waving an invisible hand.
Throat cleared, as he puts on a crown.
King and a queen,
We are one plus one.
Depending on each other.
She’s a positive charge, I’m in opposition.
She came in attractive, from Edding AG.
That is why we apply the law of attraction,
Of superfluous reputation, like a battery in a remote,
A petrol in Bertone.
Like hippopotamus, we are halfway enormous,
Spontaneous, we give life so glorious.
um papel e uma caneta
Versus me
(chilling as an outsize ego freezer)
profusely perspiring
and heavily panting
experiencing one after another
stuff whet dreams are made
frolicking in autumn mist
(think Maxfield Parrish painting)
while skirt chasing
and playfully tackling,
a gamesome gamine with verve
mercilessly coquettish ingenue
"precociously seductive"
overgrown Lolita wannabe.
Solitude and introvertedness
mebbe made more manifest destiny
courtesy severe nasal notable twang
(otherwise known as split uvula)
yours truly wittingly drew taunts
and unutterable pang
to escape being bullied as scapegoat
entering magical world
of mine imagination
fostered learning about
all creatures great and small
by age appropriate books.
Logophile lusts ever stronger after
twenty six letter combinations
(analogously surrendering to mistress)
that yield an estimated 171,146 words
currently in use in the English language;
according to the Oxford English Dictionary,
an additional 47,156 obsolete words exist.
I luxuriate engrossed
with choice reading material
and out of desperation
to slake insatiable thirst
(to discern syllabification)
yours truly doth read aloud
intently hearing cadence
of vowels and consonants.
Up until I entered six grade
(at Henry Kline elementary -
a one classroom per grade - school)
classmates bullied, derided,
and feigned to hammer -
jabbing leering, nasty
pimping ragout as a rule
which boyhood self of mine
availed a perfect bullseye target
with combination of diminutiveness,
being painfully quiet,
essentially remaining mum the entire day
except when called upon to answer question
thence utterance emanating between lips
produced and emitted
a strong nasal sound to boot
grist for the mill
sans malice meted, mimicked,
and mocked mashup
of mine warped congestion.
Dear commissar wherever you are? There's never been times I've felt so far
That this place is like the deadest star, no orbit or purpose apart from travel
Will it go supernova? which way will it unravel.? Perhaps galactic ice will
Overtake? From the lagoon of despair, in massive lake's to then become a sea
Of doom? Reflecting many itinerant moons; just hurtling round the net in a loop
With a never-ending dismal group, of astrologers; to chart it's demise
Through ever more forbidding astral skies, oh commissar; oh commissar'
Can't you change direction? It's not too far.' Just a million light years away'
Where a Sun is shining, where inspiration can blossom near and far.
Yet maybe there is no commissar? No commissar.. Or book of rules.'
Adhered to by..Well by no doubt gilded fools' surely though there must some be?
In consonants prison, just you mark me' adrift on that silly bubbles sea
Why do they venture? Before anyone interupts ) I'm asking me.!
There's the tide the moon runs, and the tide of emotion for someone.)
Bad tidings ever fleet; at any hour, the tidings of joy bestowing power,
A tide of mice, or'tops the land, by two times thrice no harvest stands
There is also a consumer tide, in which we wallow, and take much pride'
We'd changed for deisel, propane gas now electric, 10 billion cars to scrap effective?
Then there will be even more to make, ever to build' always to be take.'
There's much aversion to any red pill, just pop those blues.' Keep them coming
You can be a wireless object with what's a' humming it's going fast if it hits you'll never know'
What mask to wear on the radio, no matter that your face isn't seen its all about the
Image; yet I'm not that keen' and like why are we all so lost in this smog from such dirty Green.'
From The Desk of :Diminuendo Battuta Alcuna
President of Musicolgy School Of dance and Music
Groovey Beats Lane
Money Grip City U.S.A.
50005-0010
Attention: Suite Muisca Staves and Staff
Soothology and Emo_Glam Initiative
A>K>A>: "The Power of Opportunity"
Forward to:Bel Ragazzo and
Moglie Sessuale of Big-Money Music LLC.
and
"No Jive Radio"
2.8 Diphthongs – Essential of Linguistics
Part One Precedes the Following
Consonants are the opposite of vowels. They are sounds made with a restricted airflow, where the tongue, teeth, or lips are used to block or modify the flow of air.
Y as a Vowel:roasted pork tongue with lettuce tomato cheese and best taco sauce seasoned with cumin and cilantro and lime juice. on a soft shell taco
.gliding Sound:
Unlike a monophthong (a single, pure vowel sound), a diphthong involves a continuous movement or glide from one vowel sound to another.
One Syllable:
The two vowel sounds in a diphthong occur within the same syllable.
Examples:
Common examples in English include the sounds in "boy" (/??/), "out" (/a?/), and "my"
Origin:
The word "diphthong" comes from the Greek word "diphthongs," meaning "having two sounds".
Not Just Two Vowels:
It's important to note that not all combinations of two vowels are diphthongs. For example, "book" or "sheep" have two vowels but only one vowel sound.
Variations:
The specific diphthongs and their pronunciation can vary slightly between different dialects of English.
Diphthong Definition & Meaning - Merriam-Webster
Pronunciation Practice Difficult Vowel Sounds [DIPHTHONGS]
really great English practice for you so what the heck is a diff thong. it's a complicated word that you will probably
2.8 Diphthongs – Essential of Linguistics