How high does the blue sky go?
Why is grass green instead of pink?
Who invented hieroglyphics?
I stared at my three-and-a-half-year-old daughter.
Consternated and confused.
For three and a half years she has been gathering these questions.
Studying us, learning from us, gleaning our spoken language.
Yet, until today she did not give us any indication that she knew a word.
She had not said boo, goo, bah, caw, dada, or any other sound.
She begins with complete questions?
I am dumbfounded.
Kneeling with sword raised to the sky,
As the blade glistens from,
The shadow of the moon with desire,
In respect of the god's above.
Only a spoken language,
All do understand.
Pleading, asking, begging,
To help rescue his kingdom.
The cries to Zeus with fire raging,
From the blade of Excalibur.
The prophesy is coming to light,
Camelot is falling.
Yet, the holy sword, Excalibur calls to the gods.
Arthur kneels to Arthur's stone begging,
Merlin and the gods to save Camelot.
A scorching bright light descends from the sky,
As young Arthur shields his eyes,
When he opens them standing before him,
Are the gods of 12.
One who does not cast a shadow
One who possesses no real image
None other than the creator of universe
Who we call the Almighty God
Does he really exist, or just a freak of imagination
True feelings have no spoken language
But expressed by emotional twinkle in the eyes
Truth is never at the mercy of words
When we reach the emotional summit
We first reluctantly smile, then burst into laughter
Even the universe started with a bang
During the first moments coming out of embryo
The new-born first giggles, then looks around and start crying
As if wondering “where have I come”
When feels the mother's warm lap,
A sudden soft smile runs through the lips
When the world was youthful
spiderwebs sang as they were spun.
Language was woven in the air
as accents of winds and trees
conveyed by an eloquent sky.
Untrammeled meadows annunciated
upon the lips of dens and burrows
scooped by shrew, mole, and vole.
Fresh bathed daisies signed a speech
as they swayed,
buttercups birthed calligraphy’s of sunlight.
Giddy rills gave voice to fritillaries
that flew to the sun or moon.
Words were idioms painted upon
the melodious leafage
of the up-risen and rising.
Then that shaggy brat
the primordial ape it grunted forth,
translating its gripey gut
through the clack of a creaky tongue.
Guttural and gregarious
it learned to babble and
belch an oral discordance.
It yapped and yawped,
yawped and yapped
until a spoken language
verbosely pivoted to prolix
polluting the very airy air.
Then it was
that a nascent poet boldly stood
rhyming would with could
until even the dumbest of his tribe
understood
and cheered him fit to bust
while the green grown world
with all its idiomatic kin
lost the will to express
as before
for the fluent earth again.
I imagine myself
Stepping into a painting
Of a strange city
With geometric shapes
It’s something I never saw before
Where buildings look
Like buildings but not
Also, the people have
No faces
It’s only their bodies
Walking through the streets
And their spoken language
Sounds like music notes
Even the cars
Run backwards
And their built
Upside down
I often wondered
What kind of place
Did I stepped into
the rhythm of old poems,
precision breathing
in and out,
nose and mouth.
reality fogs a window
on a cold winter morning,
clears the congested mind
one wrinkle at a time.
in our misspent youth,
we twist words around the tongue
and take them out of context
without real meaning.
after we learn to stammer
in the italic frame of spoken language,
we speak without real communication,
every word uttered is misunderstood.
the rhythm of old poems,
simple beauty without change.
i always come back to them
pure as the frost
on a window pane.
Hurt is a Spoken Language
It came from your heart,
like gas on fire,
burning everything in its path.
Hurt was your spoken language.
Fluent in anger,
flippant with pain.
Words tossed carelessly,
thoughtful or thoughtless.
Sweet and bitter,
hard and soft.
All poured
from the same vessel,
from the same heart.
Intentional or not,
your words were nails.
driven deep,
one word at a time.
Hard words,
hung heavy in the air.
Emotions burst forth,
taking the path
of least resistance.
They make their way
to the tongue.
Ah, the tongue!
Sharper than a sword
cutting deep to the bone.
Like salt in a wound,
words don’t disappear,
even if its goal is accomplished.
Time may move on,
hurt may not.
Lingering like ice
that’s slow to melt.
Daniel
6/2013
Love is not just a spoken language
nor will it always heal like a bandage.
Affectionate actions and self sacrifice
should come naturally - not at a price.
Real passion is not only lust and desire,
simply two souls connecting to inspire.
Unconditional love is the foundation of trust,
learning to forgive in actions deemed unjust.
A gentleman is always thoughtful and genuine
yearning for a beloved, elegantly feminine.
After all these years, it's still his only dream,
the one wish changing his life into supreme.
When burdened he'll rest his head upon her chest,
listening to her heartbeat, he'll know he is blessed.
With soft hands stroke his heavy head lightly,
her heavenly sanctuary embracing him tightly.
Her beautiful lips tender, rosy and calm,
yearn to be kissed, like a healing balm.
Yet she remains a dream in the distance,
his heart craves for her with daily persistence.
Beloveds hoping to merge without resistance,
celebrating love, breathing it into existence
Silent One
Written 1 January 2016
“Writing [maketh] an exact Man,”
claims Francis Bacon.
Macaulay’s Minutes is our bible.
Derrida emphasizes
the Primacy of Writing.
Freedom to write is also guaranteed—
by our Indian Constitution!
So, our children at school do write a lot—
in the classroom,
as part of their homework,
as assignments;
write a lot of tests:
their test of spoken language, too,
is a written test!
Isn’t it hard work?
Yes, but that’s the price they must pay—
For the freedom NOT to think!
***
Composed on November 16, 2017.
Winner I, Photostory Contest, sponsored by Eve Roper, December 2, 2017.
All of a sudden there are blues
Compose with your clues
With secrets and lies
Where your feelings die
You should have known what it meant
When there is abandonment
Leaving feelings of discouragement
For the one that believes in what you meant
Left with no spoken language
That left you with an extrenous luggage
Luggage from your own distress
That left you with no happiness
And that of which kept you away
From your own way
And currently surviving
Actually breathing but not living.
The world loves crippling
particularly if weakness
applies to a manner of spoken language
mouth that does not squeaks
is like a hoe with no claws sunk in the ground
only combing and stroking
instead of tearing and crumbling the stony grass
Oh you broken infinity; gray in nature.
Allow me to repair you.
I am a handyman of words,
breaking down this soft-spoken language in rhythmic remedy,
yet only for you, my good neighbor.
You are the everlasting universe,
but let's not stumble over words.
The universe is infinite; yet not quite infinity,
and the great field of stars must be jealous,
for infinity, you are here on Earth.
And now I am a handyman of kisses;
easing what is broken in your essence,
yet the complexion of infinity
is all the bad or good that completes itself,
and maybe that's exactly why the universe
isn't quite adequate enough for that word.
So perhaps I should spare my lips and release you into space
where you may become one with the stars.
I am now but a broken handy man of muted words,
signing written verse with paper kisses.
The Meaning Of Humankind
Forever people look for a complicated word
Years, decades and centuries they search
One sad word that gives meaning to humankind
Poets have written pages looking for the word
Singers sing their songs trying to find just the right word
Writers tell stories about the search for the word
Not one poem, song or story can find the perfect word
The perfect combination of letters and sounds
No one can find the one word that describes humankind
The perfect word is there right before them
It has been for all the history of the spoken language
In Greek, Latin, English or Aramaic or Chinese it has one meaning
Five letters, three syllables work together to giving meaning to humankind
The word the poets, singers and writers have been searching for
That word is simply alive
A sad word because it always has a final moment, a moment of loss
Yet, a happy word because while we are alive
We live, we love, we learn and we experience life and who we are
Sad or happy “alive” is the meaning of humankind
Thank the gods for the happy moments yet do not fear the sad ones
For that it life
That is the meaning of being alive
People say knowledge gives you power,
But ignorance saves people from pain, from the truth,
Perfection dies with knowledge,
Ignorance is comforting,
Love lives in silence,
Ecstasy is killed by words,
Hearts break because of the spoken language,
Verbal confessions end relationships,
So don't say a word, just hold me,
Words not needed, only kisses,
Your words cut, but your touch soothes,
So cover me with your love,
And cover your mouth with your hand!