I couldn’t let this moment pass without a tip of the hat towards National Poetry Day. As previously mentioned on this blog, I’m semi-regular at a writing group in Second Life, and it forces me to churn out something in 20 minutes. Sometimes, with a little polishing, I’m reasonably content with these.

 

Small

There’s this pebble that makes me feel small
But I can hold it in my palm
Broken, sheerly like a miniature cliff
Inlaid with lines, pencil fine
By spirit-level silty seas, advancing, retiring, layering
Then waiting
Then squeezed, tectonic tight
Then baked in earth’s belly and uncovered
By archaeologist’s brushes of
Wind and water
Shorn by ice and rolled in the tide
Like dough
It’s just those lines, no thicker than a fingernail
Each a few thousand years deep
That make me feel
Small

 

Speak

Eyes speak
In accents deep set or bulging, narrow or wide, turned up or down
With lumen whites for a larynx, elastic lids for vocal cords
Blinking like a cursor
Pupil and iris for tongue and teeth

Eyebrows speak
Punctuation marks, up or down at the end of sentences
Or hovering for emphasis

Hands speak
In accents fine or rough, round and knobbled, flecked like bark
Or medieval tones of lily white
They have ten inflections, each topped by a nail
Their salute is mightier than the sword
Speaking without boundaries of language
Forceful words seldom misinterpreted

Feet speak
They even vote and carry on political campaigns
With the whole entourage of body

Which speaks
All at once achatter
Often contradictory

Mouths?
Oh, no
Mouths
Almost never speak