Long Fluently Poems
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You speak in a language that I don’t understand, but your music is creating mayhem all over the land, the rhythm is so sweet that it ruptures my heart beat, and when the day is moving slow and the energy level is low, the music spurs me on and my adrenalin picks up speed and satisfies the global needs.
You speak in a language that I don’t understand but everything you touch is converted to gold and sometimes it overwhelms my soul. The value is so high and sometimes I fall down on my knees and cry. Your language is so beautiful, sometimes I wish I understand it all, for I would attend that once in a lifetime ball. The intonation, the texture, the height the depth, and the ambiance that comes with it, make the music exciting to listen to.
Language is the heartbeat of every culture, and if you don’t understand it, it makes your mind wander. When someone is greeting you, you might believe that they are criticizing you. Learn the language of the time so that you can make the trip of your dream and be where you always wanted to be. You have always wanted to climb the tower and take a photograph, then visit the cathedral and examine the carving on the floor and doors.
You speak in a language that I don’t know, but every night you steal the show, your romantic voice captivates them all and you have invited everyone to attend the ambassador’s ball. Everything is so exquisite, the layout, the attire, the setting, is like a palace, the food and the wine, makes the language so divine. It’s the passion that resonates in the voices that speaks; it keeps the whole world alive and elevates its dignity and pride.
You speak in a language that is pure, it is not polluted with the dialect from next door. The pronunciation is excellent, the diction and tone is magnificent; the articulation is clean when you open your mouth to speak, the rhythm is so sweet; it’s beautiful to listen to and I hope to speak it fluently someday so that my heart doesn’t go astray.
The language you speak is French and I have already booked my ticket for “heaven”
I will climb that tower and write the music in an hour.
Music is the language of the heart, and I listen to it when the day starts.
SUBJECTION
interpretation
of
remorse
with
sheer visual
power
described
fluently
evolution
exploded
fascination
subverting
the tradition
combines
the swiftness
with the
completeness of
the reminiscent
&
utterly aware
incidental
&
imaginary
idiom
developed
in
a powerful
line
abstracted
encouraged
to cope
out of sight
in
a
parallel
virtual
nowhere
suppressing
the acerbic
aspect
in a
gathering
of
affectations
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
They Never See
They never see the damage in their hands,
only the wreckage left in someone else’s.
They walk through broken rooms calling it fate,
while mirrors stand untouched,
gathering dust.
They paint you villain just to feel like saints,
rewrite the script so they survive the story.
Truth bends easy when you fear yourself,
and blame becomes a language
they speak fluently.
Every road they take ends the same
not by chance, not by curse,
but by footsteps that refuse to learn
the weight of where they land.
They cannot sit with silence,
cannot face the stillness
where truth waits patiently.
So they run
loud, restless, pointing outward.
Empty pockets, open hands,
spending like tomorrow owes them something.
And when the bill comes due,
they pass it round the table
like it was never theirs.
But life keeps count.
Quietly. Precisely.
No matter how they twist the tale.
And one day,
when the noise dies down
and there’s no one left to blame
they’ll meet themselves
for the first time.
When the wellspring failed,
thirst recast the shape of longing.
For the trust it bore had deserted us.
We then knew not. if and when, its source
would ever yield to meet our needs again.
We drank from it freely, without questioning.
Without asking, doubting why it flowed so fluently,
forever trusting that it always would.
With our thirst so easily quenched,
we never had need to look at its source.
To see where and when the spring welled up from.
To unravel its purpose from intent,
belief from faith, will from fate,
hope from just riding along,
to reveal whether our well-being
in our wellness was well-sprung.
The clock strikes twelve, and the world exhales,
a breath held too long, now let loose in fireworks.
Here’s to beginnings wrapped in the glow of possibility,
where dreams unfurl like banners in the wind,
and hopes spark like lanterns lighting the night.
This year, I will weave stories from the threads of my soul,
binding words into pages that whisper to the world,
“Here I am—alive, striving, writing to touch hearts.”
I will stumble, perhaps, but rise again,
stronger, wiser, with ink-stained hands.
I will study the art of kindness,
learn its language and speak it fluently,
offering compassion as freely as the morning sunlight.
Each day will be a class in becoming,
not perfect, but better—a truer reflection of love.
Travel might come, or it might wait,
but journeys aren’t just of roads and planes;
I will explore within, a voyage into self-discovery,
mapping the landscapes of courage and grace.
So, here’s to you, to us, to the stories untold,
to mornings steeped in hope and evenings with peace.
May we greet the year with hearts wide open,
writing our chapters with joy and resolve.
"The Space Between Us"
He said he still wants me,
in the quiet way a sunset wants the sea
reaching, glowing, fading,
but knowing it can’t stay.
His voice trembled between love and loss,
a bridge half-built over the years we shared.
He spoke of time
how he needs it, how it needs him,
how he must learn the language of himself
before he can speak love fluently again.
And I listened,
holding his words like wildflowers,
fragile, but still alive
because wanting isn’t enough
when the heart needs room to grow.
So I wait,
not out of weakness,
but with faith
that when his roots are steady,
he’ll find his way back home to me.
And from afar, I’ll be cheering him on
quietly, fiercely, faithfully
as he keeps his promise
to grow, to heal, to rise,
to keep making me proud
in the distance between our hearts.
One day the children
will forget the names we gave to borders
they will run barefoot
until the earth forget its edges
and in their pockets--
chalks, seeds, a small republic of insects
they will redraw the walls
as doors left ajar
they will press their ears
against the silence of guns
and hear only rust
they will bury our iron
deep enough for roots to argue with it
watch them--
how they speak fluently with stray dogs
with wind, with unfinished afternoons
how they refuse inheritance
of fear
how they say: this sky is indivisible
and mean it
one day
they will return our cities to rivers
our languages to touch
and everything we built to divide
they will make briefly useful
like a toy
left in the rain
Outside the storm is raging, heaping piles of drifting snow.
Inside I'm snuggled in my easy chair, the fireplace all aglow!
I've retrieved an old tome of poetry from my library shelf,
To spend an afternoon with noted bards to entertain myself.
I'll never tire of the lovely lyrics leaping from its pages,
Composed by inspirational poets down through the ages.
Those gifted folks awaken latent emotions in my languid soul,
Creating soul-stirring verse about life that they so fluently extol!
I delight in the lines championing ordinary folks by Edgar Guest,
And the ballads of Robert Service on his daring Yukon quest!
The works of The Hoosier Poet J. Whitcomb Riley I hold dear.
It's as if he wrote about my Hoosier boyhood of yesteryear!
The fire casts gloomy shadows about as I read Poe's elegies,
But my mood brightens reading Kilmer's beautiful poem, "Trees!"
McCrae's, "In Flanders Fields", as a lad I learned by rote.
I chuckle at the whimsical poetry that Lewis Carroll wrote!
I treasure my time with the bards and their poems in the book.
It occupies a very special place in my library nook.
Well, I'll put it aside since the cat has hopped upon my lap.
Dear old Simba and I will settle in for a cozy winter's nap!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Barista
An Italian coffee Bartender
Making cold drinks and hot expresso’s
With shots of anxiety
With many flavors poured in your coffee
In charge of running a coffee shop
Always poetry with coffee machines
A morning ritual
Don’t forget about Cappuccino’s
Caffe’ Lattes on the go
Pouring art in my coffee cup
Barista’s prepares coffee bean rosters
With steam aromas arise fluently
Every cup is beyond cultivating
Beverages brewed to stay awake
Buoyant rhymes with melodies floating in your mind
Have is no other way
Coffee is truly therapeutic
Baristas are multitaskers and creative
Millions drink coffee by the gallons
So many flavors to choose from
What is your favorite coffee shop
Can’t live without it
Awe coffee, two cups
She speaks with her nose opened wide
Like that of Queen Elizabeth the none
From the fringe of the nose
She speaks very fluently
Chewing Queen’s language
With her head high up
She must have been an “Americana”
No! Briton, I mean
Chorused the mouth of many.
Yet she was not only born of here
She leaves all her life within
In the dusks . . . thick
Of a town called “Ibara”.
Indeed the other face of “Ibara”
We thought she was of the
Known family in “Ibara”
“Ibara” of the biggest shots
We were hoodwinked again
Its “Ibara” other side
With people of no side or size.
I became popeyed of it the news
That her Father a local referee
I wore it a gown of surprise
Of her fluency even in
Pidgin and Yoruba dictions.
Needing twenty two lies
To support one big heady fabrication.
Does she defeacate or fart ?
Too clean of a skin and look
Selling dubiously nothing but her casing
As many Adams pay for her pretence
Others swayed by her glibness
Skinned naked by her smile . . . comportment
Donate generously to her carcass
Of an empty moving coffin.
Too hollow to be real.
She can’t sleep in darkness
She can’t wash her clothes
Yet she is full of pretence
Too pompous to be genuine.
Enter the knockings of that day
That she will be strip naked
Of her white flying lies
All at the open market square.
Alayande Stephen. T
30th,July, 2006
12.25am
Ola’s very comical story of his
Female friend called Wunmi.