While drinking I tripped...
I'm so sorry I soaked you!
Would you like a drink?
Tongue Tied in Clichés: A Blessing in Disguise
A blessing in disguise,
a double-edged sword—
a far cry from peace,
yet all in all,
at the drop of a hat
we reach for a ballpark figure,
beat around the bush,
break new ground,
burn the midnight oil.
By the book we cut to the chase,
play devil’s advocate,
fill the void with food for thought,
start from scratch,
then get cold feet.
Give the green light,
go down in flames,
hit the nail on the head,
find ourselves in over our head,
jump on the bandwagon,
keep something at bay,
leave no stone unturned.
Out of our depth,
past the point of no return,
we read between the lines,
take it with a grain of salt,
see only the tip of the iceberg—
until at last we throw in the towel.
bragging, boasting, brainy Barney Blithe brought buxom Betty Brown
braised, boiled, baloney. Beaming Betty Brown bestowed baked berry
baklava on Barney, besting bragging, boasting, brainy Barney Blithe.
Night's crush spills black ink
the moon unzips hidden seams
turns souls inside out
foreboding haunts chokes the air
mystery bleeds from her face
Night leans on the shore
moon's breath a blade of silver
cooling tepid skin
the tide tongues open raw seams
salting wounds to sting and heal
Moon bends in bow arc
stringing light across the sea
searching for fractures
beneath the unblinking glare
shadows cower, faint, exposed
She writhes feral, drenched—
her breasts plunge in black water
eyes white with hunger—
she rips at our fraying threads,
raising fear to blaze with flame.
Hopes rise in moon's mist
drawn up by her silver hand
spilling into dreams—
she gathers us in like tides
weaving paths to becoming
Light stings into lust
with hymns strummed on naked thighs
a harp of end chords—
every string the ocean plucks
screams in time with tug of tide
Dawn scars the moon's face
her ghost hides behind torn clouds
soft unrepentant—
the lilt of her vanished hymn
echoes a throb in our bones
Oh sister of night
oracle of ebb and surge
you hiss with forked tongue—
what prophecy do you bear
light's mercy or void's abyss?
Serpentine artisan in Eden
Crafting a second creation
A molten piece of idol
By the dexterity
Of word of mouth.
Tongue lures ear
And then à tongue kiss
To the ear, both soulmates
Titillate the neurons of the body
Stir the impulse of all senses
All segued to Judas kiss.
Telepathist tool
Transmuting visions from pluto
To reality on earth.
Forked-tongue town crier
With cymbal and gong
Improvising a dissonance
Of glossolalic tales
To the age of gullible gullivers!
Ear, O hear!
In that gaping cavity
There lies lie lair
The sword of Damocles
Gliding and Churning honey gobs
From its cavity to founts of lies
In every public square.
Like the big lie of Hitler and Goebbels
To the holocaust.
Let not all thy senses,
Emotion, reason, and conscience
Trust her tongue!
Inexplicably silent in choir
being unusually quiet
not a word from me was heard
neither spoken nor sung
so as not to cause a riot
when jibes bad vibes at me were slung
and I was asked, 'Cat got your tongue?'
I replied, 'Here's the thing,
really and truly, I cannot sing,
it's been this way for all my years,
whatever it is I appear to hear,
and between my ears to me audibly sits,
tho' quite right there, when on the tongue's tip,
it's not the same music my mouth emits.'
Peter Piper
Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.
A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked.
If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,
How many pickled peppers did Peter Piper pick?
—Author Unknown
I have been watering it for months—
the small black bulb in the cupboard
that I never let touch sunlight.
It swelled in the dark,
fed on steam from my cooking breath,
fat with the whispers I never spoke aloud.
I told myself it was only a seed,
a pebble in soil, nothing more.
I would open the door,
look at it once, and close it—
like checking the locks before bed.
It learned the shape of my glances.
But today, I reached in.
Today, I held it in my palm.
Its skin was slick as a fish
and when I pulled, the roots screamed up from the earth,
all tendon and white hair,
and the cupboard air smelled of rust.
You said it casually—
your mouth arranging the words
like setting a cup down on a table.
As if the syllables were a button
popped from a shirt, no one’s fault.
I felt my chest open—
not like a door,
but like a letter slit with a knife.
Paper-heart curling, bleeding ink.
You were already talking about something else,
your voice trailing petals across the floor.
I sat very still,
the bulb still in my hand,
its black head beating against my pulse.
I did not crush it.
I only held it tighter
until my fingers forgot they could let go.
Thank you for calling Your Destruction.
If you’re calling to bring forth your personal hell, press 1.
If you’re calling for emotional devastation, press 2.
If you’re calling to enact physical harm, press 3.
…Thank you. Your Destruction is now offering a summer sale.
If you are interested, please fill out the survey on Your Destruction website.
…Please hold…please hold…please hold…please hold on for as long as you can…
Please hold; the bringer of your doom will be with you in a moment…
Hello. It’s nice to hear from you again.
What can I do for you that will make you regret your life choices?
I see. Sorry to hear that. Would you like to include your friends and family?
I understand. Your Destruction will ensure that your life is utterly ruined once I’m done.
Have a nice day!
A runner plagued
by endless thirst,
tried all manner of things
to end the curse.
A camel bag or bottle
slowed his pace.
His yen for simple,
lasting relief, became a race -
Relentless!
Seeing smooth pebbles
in the bed of a stream,
he took a pea-sized one;
stowing it under his tongue.
His saliva flowed;
his thirst was gone, up-aweigh!
Until the bump, the trip;
the slip from tongue -
Breathless!
By the street lamp we stand by,
our favorite restaurant.
Seeing people are eating,
hot dishes being devoured.
Food plays with my hungry tongue,
senses are jumping for joy.
Another heavenly meal,
mouth and stomach did enjoy.
Putting my best foot forward
shoulder to the wheel
nose to the grindstone
my Achilles heel
while sticking my neck out
I soon found
as
with my eye on the ball
ear to the ground
when I put my back into it
not with tongue in cheek
but to keep my chin up
heard joints creak
the onset of old age memory loss
an early taste
for in the end I forgot to bend
at the knees and not the waist
I speak English—
not because it is mine,
but because it was burned
into the soft clay of my childhood.
They called it brilliance
when I spoke the master's tongue,
and shame
when I whispered my grandmother’s lullaby.
But language is not just words—
it is blood,
it is soul,
it is memory coded in sound.
Africa,
how can you rise
when you dream in the syllables of strangers?
When your science wears foreign robes,
and your spirit speaks a muted voice?
You cannot build a future
on borrowed breath.
You must write your destiny
in the language that calls your ancestors by name.
Swahili sings in your bones.
Your tongues are ancient rivers—
deep, alive, and holy.
No empire stood tall
on another’s voice.
Teach your children to speak to the stars
in their own vowels.
Let them pray in the rhythm of drums,
count in the cadence of their tribes,
lead with words rooted in earth.
Africa—
your brilliance was never broken.
Only misnamed.
Return.
Speak.
Rise.
**Some Tongue Fun
(Writtem for Peter Piper)
To pen a poem a day
May scare some muses away,
so
Pam’s poems purr past peaceful people
and
Master Milo’s mollifymany muses.
There's a lot to be said
for silence
but you won't hear it from me
I'm satisfied tongue-tied
as the less said the more I see
and even if the point is moot
'tis a wise owl
who don't give a hoot
YY UR YY UB IC UR YY 4 ME
(Too wise you are too wise you be I see you are too wise for me)
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