The Language of the World

The Language of the World

In childhood I danced to another tune,
so odd, I thought the gypsies had left me.
At nine I awoke to the call of creativity,
for a golden hour or two. Up and down
the alphabet I travelled, eyeing up words,
never finding the same word-flute twice.
Being of two hearts I wanted to be liked,
but secretly I longed to be the real thing.

A is for alcohol not the ruddy red apple
I grasped, while watching in fear as booze
transformed my lonely, introverted father
into a wild, highly dramatic personality.
Elvis, all shook up, drunk on tramp juice.
Mute, I spoke only in hesitant sentences,
for I would rather heed the silences of life
than listen to the cruel vagaries of his ego.

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Poetry Is My Lady

Poetry is my Lady

Beckoned by the branches of this solitary tree,
my fingers trace an owl’s feather to my face
as I embrace her ethereal touch.
Never knowing her name or the meaning
of her silent words at play, she remains
a stranger in the dark of my karmic past.

Come Lady let your hands play upon my skin,
let silence end where you begin.
Let our bodies dance together beyond mortal touch,
for you are my release, my confession!
For there exists no poet who writes
of something they desire to forget!

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