Tomato bells,
dew besotted,
ring in language
polyglotted;
the dawn at play
in halo’d bead
in every tongue
gardener’s meed.
Tag Archives: language
April 28.21: Coping
The frizble connects to the whatnot,
the whozzis fits under the thing,
don’t ever mistake the doohickey
for the updated technomajing.
Thus is this whatchamacallit
in aperture, appendage, and bloat
an eloquent manifestation
of gibberish with which I am smote.
It’s the shape of my grandchildren’s planet,
a world they inhabit with ease,
conversing in hieroglyphed newspeak,
fluent in emojieese.
Their view of the world is brand new,
just the way that it really should be;
I grudgingly grant I am miffed
that it gets along fine without me.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
January 16.21: Coping
A chip used to be
what isn’t there,
something lost,
leaving bare
a little bit
of what’s left,
remainder
with less heft
perhaps, but
less is more:
what isn’t there
is its own lore.
December 19.19
Language isn’t always words —
it’s far more complicated;
not everything in life
can be articulated.
That’s why the things of Christmas
assemble every year,
preserving time and place
we won’t let disappear.
Each family has a history,
hero, legend, fiend;
words fall short, but things
keep them evergreened.
There is nothing in this photo, dear reader, that doesn’t tell a story, including the chunk of mid-century furniture that belonged to my parents. Not everyone celebrates Christmas: I get that. But most people understand how things tell a story, and we probably all have at least one thing tucked away somewhere that says more than words alone can say.
For me to put into words everything said here would require an epic. There are things from my Grandma O’Hern’s house. From my sons’ childhoods. From my bachelor days. From friends, from family. Then to now.
Sometimes meaning is better told without words.
Connections: May 11.18
Some ancient mythic language
ebbing, swelling, weightless
like liquid air
many-voiced
chorus of Sophocles
bade me stop.
I turned toward the sound
the fullness of new leaves
spring petals
soft as babies
supple in newness
stroked by wind
sibilant and sure
wanting me to know
something.
Still as the dead
I listened
taut
to pluck a word
but there was none.
Connections: August 21
“Full of hops!” Dad would decree
if he doubted someone’s veracity.
After too many years
I connected it to beers
and marveled at his daughter’s opacity.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Oddments 