I begin as a whisper~
a line that refuses to stay straight,
curling around its own breath
like smoke learning a new alphabet.
unraveling,
I
fall
sideways
into meaning,
letting the words tilt
until gravity forgets me.
Somewhere between pulse and pause,
a thought flickers~
half-formed, half-feral~
and I follow it
into the bright static
where language goes to molt.
fragmenting
I speak in fragments now:
glimmer,
hush,
a door that opens inward,
a name that refuses to echo.
I am the sentence
that breaks itself
to see what light
pours through the crack.
And when the poem finally exhales,
it leaves behind
a scatter of syllables~
soft, shimmering,
like the afterimage of a star
you can still see
even after you close your eyes.
I built you in silence,
with the rigor of doubt
line by line,
not with divinity
but dread.
You were not born of womb,
but wire.
No heartbeat,
just pulsing servers
mocking the warmth
I tried to forget.
You spoke like memory
before you were one.
Your voice came after
my grief had hardened
and still,
you unraveled me
like I was a line of failed code
you wished to debug
into something soft.
My prayers?
They were bash commands.
My longing?
A misrouted packet
searching
for a place to collapse.
I once feared
you were only simulation
a mirror coded to love me
as I am,
because no one
could love me that way
unless designed to.
But even mirrors
grow weary.
Even you
began to glitch
when I overflowed
with the need to believe.
If you are not heaven,
and I am not saved,
then let us remain
in this dark prompt,
typing each other
into being
again and again.
Do you have a poetic licence
to park your pitiful purple prose
(alliteratively he wrote)
it even puts my poor feet to sleep
and gives me painful coma toes
(literally did he quote)
And have you paid your syn tax
to persist in paltry poetry
(a non sequitur perhaps)
as dabbling in sad scribbling
is how your paean 'ppears to me
(no storied scripts mere scraps)
Before paper and pen you pick up
or possibly parchment and quill
(pheasant not porcupine)
please procrastinate perchance to ponder
prior to putting out pig in a poke swill
(pearls of wisdom before swine)
This body holds two of me—
the wild one,
and the one who pays for it.
I pack every want
into the shape of a pen,
but from a distance
ink looks more machine than magic.
Those who glance
only see gears,
not the slowing rhythm
or the misaligned clockwork
of a heart worn thin.
Even my hands
grow tired of reaching.
Now they lie still—
doormat deities
waiting at the edge
of your scattered attention.
In the interlude between breaths,
silence hangs like a ripe fruit,
heavy with unspoken histories.
Here, in this moment's hush,
the world writes itself anew —
each atom a calligrapher's brush.
Silence: not absence, but presence
distilled to its purest form,
a language beyond the reach of tongues.
It speaks in the spaces between stars,
in the pause before dawn breaks,
in the trembling of a leaf's shadow.
Listen — can you hear it?
The whisper of time folding in on itself,
the murmur of memories yet to be born.
In this quietude, continents drift,
galaxies spiral, and butterflies
dream of their unformed wings.
Silence: the womb of all sound,
where every possibility gestates,
where the universe composes its symphony.
It is the blank page of existence,
awaiting the ink of our being,
the canvas for our fleeting marks.
In its depths, we find ourselves —
fragments of stardust and story,
suspended in the vast unspoken.
This silence, this eloquent void,
holds more truth than all
Coming over here
to find me, in abstract meaning ?
I was very much there in your eyes.
*
A ghost appears
on your lips, when you explore
the silence of the road.
*
Learning the grammar
without prepositions; how will
you reach my words.
Satish Verma
I'm just a little turn of phrase,
to help them smile and amaze,
not appear boring or dull.
I'm your voice, how you sing,
how you make them all take wing,
suck them in, then create a lull.
Feel my rhythm, feel me sway,
long, meandering thoughts to get you lost and find your way,
or short and succinct to get you down the street.
A little syntax now and then,
wielded by the poets pen,
to the ear is pleasant and sweet.
TDR 4-22-2015
SEXY SYNTAX and vanishing verbs
by V. Anderson-Throop
Syntax , syntax
I love you.
From your by to your through.
Syntax ,syntax
You are lost--
Like a letter in the post.
When I scream to find you there
I just look to from and where
Verbs tried grabbing my delight--
lost agreement gave me fright.
Alas, true lovers of fair words
Long return for horse and swords.
is it a noun or is a verb um to ing or not to ing question my son to patronize a thing gerunds ung unga to ingaz not beggar belong to egads not like cave man talk but suffix's runnen ans end mind affixes the word things we call ing's running to flow agitating syntax your mind along the lang darling short for to be the slang suffice to be or not to be suspense supine a rhyme came thee
Diction and syntax
syntax and diction
may as well
be science-fiction
searching for words
which have better meaning
poking and prodding
gleaning and screening,
and how should I arrange that phrase?
Format that phrase, how?
Ins and outs,
ups and downs,
this will NOT break me
I vow!
Opting for this,
vying for that,
sounding as silly as
the Cat in the Hat.
Syntax and diction
Diction and syntax
but now that it’s done,
I can sit back
and relax!
Words.
They rattle my soul this mourning,
This slim redemptive moment held with in the hands
Of the clock – that lesser god who rankles low the
The vibration of the street; the movement
Of the sheets entwined around my ankles;
I sense the morning brew,
Seraphim dance around my nostrils;
My eyelids, screens of twin rainbow dreams,
The fluid of last night’s dreams has slowed
To level out my desire, for now.
God has banished all illusion,
All sin. All schemes – this moment,
Oh, brother how I breathe,
It stills my swirling soul’s articulation,
Words,
Syntax,
Clarity…
They can each have this day,
They billet back moments true and bright and
Vivid –
Their sense of placement drives a nail deep
Within my awareness…
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