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This other language I speak 

-none understand 

outside my elfin ears. 

As if I mumble incessantly, compulsively,

as if I am fumbling my thoughts with stone words.

As if I were

seeking to release crystal clear meaning

from in-side the hollow geode.

If it looks like a rock…

Those wild words were all dear to me, 

took muster to say in such a way as to blur the 

sharp edges, land softly, sometimes it settled

in, others not.

The consonants were the hardest parts, 

the little lilt only the muttering of a passing bird,

waving its wings overheads.

Emulating butterfly kisses, lips

blown away

with all my meaning-

missed-dismissed.

As though the goal was only to tell you

something-

to commune-

icate, instigate, dictate-show and tell

about, something I have lying around.

Yet, I make no sound

like feathers.

Since I can no longer speak

in pure poetry. 

Artwork By Hills, Laura Coombs, 1859-1952 (artist); L. Prang & Co. (publisher) (Flickr: Flower Fairy) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Edit(her)

Today
I pray
all the words fray
ravel away...

Whole words
                    carry too much

-much less, defenseless against
strung out sentences, slabs
posed in parallelographic paragraphs,
cover pages and such strata and likewise its
generous detritus

stacks up,
burying A brain within its grooves-
meaning between
pro-fessional and con-fessional
moves too fast to hold,
the rope burns
and I feel smolder.

Sleep did not bother
to muffle the pillow words,
vowels easily pass
through cotton screens.

Threads that vibrate not enough separation.
Too clear to hear, semi-permeable is
the peace underneath, the bubbles inside lips
of white foamed waves.

Those hard consonants could not be avoided.
Sound becomes
a wall between being and story,
bricks and dreams.

Mist always settles.

Black
is the language
when there are more words
than matter.



Painting by Jacob Vrel (fl. 1654–1662) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.