Words

words

Words which slither ‘twixt this tooth and tongue
May please or not as the case may be.
The sound of language on the air seems fair.
Take splendid, such a splendid word
Rich in sparkling overtones
Or meaning,
What?
You can say that again.

These intersecting consonants
This chinwag enchantment of verbose skulduggery
Now coalesce in jawbone justifications
Of one irrefutable fact.
It is I!
I, the mouth, who is speaking
Down here beneath the nose.

Pallet, tooth, tongue and lip.
Four cohorts with muse conspire
Articulate a looping string of syllables
Long verbal lines of pendant lures
Cast amongst a sea of ears
Like trumpet seashells tuned to catch
Each regulated tone
With relish to appreciate
The essence of a poem.

 

Dave Tomlin

 


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11 Responses to Words

    1. It seem’st
      though might
      the cohorts,
      muse,
      be mightily
      conspiring

      There is a sixth
      that quietly
      sings
      whilst
      whistles
      are perspiring

      Comment by Luke on 3 May, 2015 at 12:04 am
    2. Luke – A responce well relished.

      Comment by dave tomlin on 6 May, 2015 at 1:40 pm
    3. Luke – A response will reli s hed indeed.

      Comment by dave tomlin on 6 May, 2015 at 1:42 pm
    4. Within a brain
      The shadows of connection,
      An image inside or out
      flows in mind
      Is it there
      Really there?
      Its just a thought – and then another thought
      like a cat brushing past
      floats in and out
      the picture changes
      to another thought.

      Comment by Steve Pank on 6 May, 2015 at 8:08 pm
    5. And relishment
      appreciated thus

      Even the puss

      the possibility
      of poncing

      No truly
      My heart smiles
      at this

      These words
      dancing

      jiggling

      esconsing

      Comment by Luke on 7 May, 2015 at 12:34 am
    6. ensconsing

      Comment by Luke on 7 May, 2015 at 12:38 am
    7. “Connection”
      becomes fraught

      No

      It becomes fraughter

      If it’s a shadow

      then it’s a shadow’s daughter

      How many cats
      have to sidle past

      before the subtlety’s
      a cliché?

      Yes thoughts come and go
      like yesterday’s snow

      and the pictures look like

      hearsay

      We can’t
      live inside
      this shell
      of fear
      that each picture
      is what will be static

      As my heart opens up
      to
      the fountain
      the cup

      my heart’s no longer
      a part of
      the traffic

      Comment by Luke on 7 May, 2015 at 1:26 am
    8. You surface from solos.
      (Being only buried
      From one delay
      After another).

      No one can be
      Inside the dream.
      And so hello comes
      Being.

      Being
      Without reference
      Bristling
      Raping
      The doll’s head
      Replacing noise
      With nourishing
      Pungent alone-is.

      Comment by neil oram on 11 May, 2015 at 4:10 pm
    9. I am shadow
      corpse
      crepuscular
      remorse

      Posturing hope
      I mope
      wishing to be
      recompensed

      for all the faint hearted losses

      Clawing at
      the ineffable

      no excuses

      still here

      a shadow

      my friend

      Comment by Luke on 16 May, 2015 at 12:59 pm
    10. Writing
      is over-rated, belated, like such as what was is was there
      no fair
      somehow expectation and assumption
      Destroyed
      your family
      cartons of cuckolds jackdaws of refinement
      bely in solitude
      longing’s demure
      Shat
      no caucuses
      refrain
      wept across caverns deep
      smile yesterday sleep
      Mong
      fear thee
      no lips to silent vow
      Forever
      Jerk
      Longstanding osscillations
      retain urgentness
      Cow
      Wha?
      Splain.
      No
      A sweet refrain
      Bank
      the what’s it caled
      rivers of discontent
      what?
      narrowboats
      rapeseed? fpr that is what i hear it called
      and black
      another dirty word
      Poof Puff
      Buried in the sand
      that’s red sand
      by an
      mysteriouser hand
      Gone

      Comment by Luke on 16 May, 2015 at 1:39 pm
    11. Syllables the claws of separation
      shred the sacred vowel.
      And who are we
      to punctuate divinity?

      Comment by Joss Wynne Evans on 21 May, 2015 at 4:47 pm

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