We pour parts of us into
every poem~ a self-inflicted
wound, the point of a pen
drip, drip, spurt, spurt – a Fever
Abater --
Ideally One’s Spirit~ a positive Universal
Donor!
Breaths and words, inseparable
are cousins with heartfelt translations --
Life-force, heart, soul~ Divine opportunity inherent in
every vehement articulation – may our pronunciations
be those of love and forgiveness~ “Live long and
prosper” as that Great Vulcan, Spock, bade us.
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 ||
The stone shoulders of the waterfall
are covered in graffiti,
letters and symbols daubed onto
small cliff faces
Gang tags I guess; covert proclamations.
Apparently Janice loves Bret also.
Yet it is a pretty place, and the water falls
as sound and light
not too loud nor too bright
a fall and flight
that delights the air.
The stream bubbles and swirls for a while
then meanders away
crossing a stretch of bottom land
forgetful of any plunge or spill.
I don’t really notice the graffiti anymore
it has ingrained its presence into the scenery
I watch only the falling water
how it splashes upon itself
creating its own watery language;
how then when it wanders away
seemingly well pleased with what it said.
I can intuit the ubiquity of that aqua-patois,
a fluid eloquence flowing over silence.
The colonists who came here
Spoke the language of the Queen,
The accent very British, I think
You know what I mean.
Of course, throughout Great Britain
People speak in different ways
Yet pronunciations sound so cool
In every turn of phrase.
What I really cannot comprehend
Is how the language changed,
For from proper British English,
We are certainly estranged.
Americans like me prefer
The sounds of which we’re fond,
Meaning English as it’s spoken
On the far side of the pond.
Cutting myself softly, little bitty cuts, on my arm.
Forgetting Jesus Loves Me
And all the other good things I used to know
"For the Bible tells me so" enters my brain.
But people at church used to make fun of my answers.
They used to shriek correct pronunciations as I struggled
To read from the Old Testament, a book I never believed in any way
So I stopped going
So now I am cutting, losing all enthusiasm for this flesh life
Wanting to hurt myself so I can see if I still feel
I had not thought of Jesus for a long time
I am thinking of Him today, and I weep, knowing He sees the cutting.
Professor Petal, one of Patrick’s prolific pals,
Professed he had a Pollyanna Predisposition
Properly pronouncing pronouns without perky p’s.
A pithy proclivity, providing pollution to Professor Petal’s pronunciations.
Prissy Professor Patty from Prestigious Prussian Planet Philisophi-university,
Precariously prickled, privately at Professor Petal’s Pronoun-predicament.
Prissy Patty promptly planned a plane trip to Professor Petal’s Pre-existing pub.
Where placidly placed, Professor Petal, prevailed as President of Porous Pool Table Pro.
Privacy prevailed, as Professor Patty, presently at Pub, perceived Professor Petal.
Prissy Patty, partook of Paradise Pop-In-Pink Parboils, as she patty-caked in the pub.
Prissy Patty was soon pretty Patty, and Petal took her home, a primed and perfect professor.
Plenty of preemptive laughs prevailed, as they both wondered what pronoun begins with a P anyway?
Beneath
Beneath my tall pine tree,
below an engraved stone,
buried is my sweet friend
beloved for twenty years;
been missing him so long.
Beside his grave, sad and
bereft....I hear soft purrs.
Sandra M. Haight
~2nd Place~
Contest: Pleiades B
Sponsor: Kim Merryman
Judged: 08/19/2016
Note: “beloved” has the strange property of
having two different acceptable pronunciations:
(two syllables, pronounced like “bi-loved”) and
(three syllables, pronounced like “bi-love-id”).
Reference: http://linguisticmystic.com/page9/
What's in your name? Some might answer with the predictable, the obvious and simple. A few letters they'd say, pronunciations and syllables they would remark. But, your name holds so much more than that. Your name has powers that you might not fully realize until now, when reading this poem. By being named what you are, you cause the state of mind of another person to change. When they hear your name somewhere, scribbled on a desk messily in haste, or typed neatly in the mornings newspaper they think of you. Your name becomes a part of their life, it can spark a smile with just the thought of it. Even create sorrow that flows in the form of tears at just the mention of your name. Your name is more than a jumbled mess of letters, characters on a page. Your name is a collection of memories, feelings, and most of all...your name is what makes you, "You."
PART 2
“ you are lazy, insane, crazy ”, “ you are sloppy, you hair style, your shoes, your cloths, your thoughts, your belief, your understandings, your knowledge – all – are twenty, thirty, forty years old – are in the past ”, “ you don’t learn anything new, you are a phony, a fake, insincere, artificial in your spontaneity ”, “ you don’t know what you are talking about, you don’t go to dozens of different sources for information ”, “ you are not logical, you twist everything around, you melt everything together, you create fantasies ”, “ you are not manly, got no balls, you are like a woman, to feminine, not a man ”, “ your speech – pronunciations – are not clear, understandable, you pantomime when speaking to others ”, “ you don’t know when to be funny, to joke, you are not humorous ”, “ you have no initiative, no balls ”, “ you are sad, deeply sad, childhood sad, there is great sadness in your eyes ”
A Kiss
so much more than lips
meet
those composed writings
of wanting
swirl in hot breath
before they meet
and hesitate
to trample the dew
of love in a kiss
a kiss
Juliet asked "what's in a kiss?"
and every presence longing
hangs on its signature
with a secret language
etches its pronunciations
not in words
but in the soul
its messages imparted
a kiss
transmutations explicit
is a fairy of tongues
and a rogue
of lust
a winged beast
of desire
a god mother
of wishes
a kiss
the parted petal separated
whimpers vocal
in sustenance needed
a survival
of uninterrupted truth
everyone knows
what is revealed and hidden within
a kiss
has its own
kissing language
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