Skin

It is rumored that there are 50 words

In the Eskimo language for snow

I ponder

Why are there not 50 words in the

English language

That I could draw upon

To describe that moment

When your bare skin

Touches my bare skin?

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Choice Words (Cento)

Under the wordless sky, come
with loveliness and the icy drouth
of hate –

Reduction

He sees her wilting coriander
advancing ice and winter weather

balmy

When indespant and lonse,
the words open up
and breathe on me
barthey verses, to which I’m wont.

eau

a fragrant voice,
a merging sound
to gather yellow, red and crowned

Love’s Fair Bounty

 

What summer’s sad fair
wouldst have me grace thy lips rightly
without strokes of seduction?
Tantalising is it not when ripeness befits
us as hosts and we lay warmly against each?

Concomitant

There is a slight twinkle
near the sun, and it brings a magic notion

Something, about very

As if it is more than she first breathed,
a life beyond the ocean’s crest
or past the highest tree.

Oxford Awesomesauce

Every three months right before beer o’clock,
a poet’s arsenal gets awesomesauce
as the bruhs at Oxford* release new stock
of MacGyvered words with pop culture gloss.

Deep

Is that love deep,
that looks not at hate
as a possibility

The Oldest Word

Wind speaks to leaves overhead
Each leaf tells the next
Conversation overheard
Speaking the same hushing word
Shhh

Lips to Air

Language falling, lilting, tilting
Language dripping
From the teeth

Language hunting, language courting
Language waiting
Have a seat

Words disguised, described as something
Words disguised
A wolf in mask

Ironbridge and Absent Friends

Work-a-day sun high burnin’

Growin’ dull, respectful red and cider-cold;

Dawn’s melody slowly turnin’

Becoming familiar, restful, old.

Harvest hopes answered

Ripening to warm-honey gold:

Friends will always know each other –

If their stories be honestly told –

That distance and language matter not

When time and hearts be weighed and sold.