Two Languages Spoken Here #poetry #photography


palm dawn

I couldn’t ascertain the jumble

her lips moved rapidly

conveying a nervous nothing

hard and dark were the etchings

that scored her jeweled beauty

*

his pockets were empty

evidenced by the ragged attire

but worse was what wasn’t in his mind

his hands filled with nothing

he clung to baggies to satisfy

*

strange languages spoken at the ocean

when you aren’t looking and when you are

the conch shell strives to moan a warning

bearing witness to retreating tide

but it was silenced in a museum

*

a dog wears an empty backpack

as he begins his predawn duty

he proudly returns with a filled sack

lacking his master’s understanding

how many children will get hooked today?

*

I’ve never spoken the language

born in guilty bloodshot eyes

I see them as they dart about the shadows

the words are meaningless

promises seldom unbroken

*

I chose to walk in the light

a brush of fingertips tells the bearer I love him

the sun rises behind us

no words are necessary

we bask in His painting on a new day’s sky

beach shadow

 

 

 

 “Tears are the silent language of grief.”

Voltaire (Brainy quotes)

Today’s prompt at Poet’s United is “Mother Tongue”. After two early morning beach walks where much was spoken with looks and gestures, I was prompted to interpret the language.

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17 thoughts on “Two Languages Spoken Here #poetry #photography

  1. These read as well separately as vignettes as they do together as story, all done so powerfully and effectively. One line startled me: “but worse was what wasn’t in his mind”–once a teacher always one, I guess. Your languagess are crisp and clear.

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      • Agree about drug and alcohol abuse….The tools must be given to children to resist the temptations at a very early age. All will be tested in this frightful world we have cooked up for ourselves. The need to switch off will be present in a lot I think !

        brush of fingertips tells the bearer I love him….beautiful writing !

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  2. You translat the language at the beach very well. Your poems reflect an astute observer who sees life as art. I enjoyed reading these. They were like little photographs.

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  3. Very sad really — the question of “how many children will get hooked today?” That question really drew me in. The beach is a beautiful place, but there is much beyond the surface.

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  4. __Wrenching; that sorrow of sour propagation to the young, tethered by those cards as dealt by they that care little of life, unless it is their life, or a life that pays… for the cards.

    __To a lighter side, your new intro photo:

    this minority
    standing in a crowd of trees
    the streetlamps

    _m

    Like

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