Gnashing Teeth Publishing

| words that get in your teeth

A Word About Words by Bruce McRae

A Word About Words

The past is a place in northern England
where the left-handed are gibble-fisted
or coochy-pawed or left-kaggy.
In another time and place, where freckles
were frentickles or branny-spackles.
When daddy long-legs were once called
harvest men or long-legged tailors.
Old words like yestermorn and overmorrow.
 
And new worlds and words, like lamestain,
hatewatch, flamebait, humblebrag;
cobbled together out of need and urgency.
And words I fail to understand –
seriatim, raillery, apotropaic.
Or words I fancy the sound of making –
belvedere, chromatopia, propinquity;
and how to fit them into conversations.
 
Though a dog would hear
the song of barbarous barking,
the human voice is of deeper value.
Words, the meaning of which increases reason.
And we speak of more than meaning.
We speak of ourselves.

Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician currently residing on Salt Spring Island BC, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with over 1,600 poems published internationally in magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. His books are ‘The So-Called Sonnets’ (Silenced Press); ‘An Unbecoming Fit Of Frenzy’; (Cawing Crow Press); ‘Like As If’ (Pski’s Porch); ‘Hearsay’ (The Poet’s Haven).

young woman with red hair smiling at the camera with a white paper umbrella behind her

like pretty tulips by linda m. crate

everything has been hard and heavy, as of late; in my world and the world at large— so yesterday i was drinking in small wonders like pretty tulips dancing out

What I Can Offer You by Rich Orloff

I cannot fix your pain I cannot solve your problem I can’t prevent the sorrow you’re feeling Or even guarantee I’ll make you smile However, because I’ve known Joy embracing

by Natalye Childress

*this poem is in .jpg to preserve formatting *this is the unformatted text of the poem after rainer maria rilke you, the poet, have become world weary, word-wrought. and god

guy with a dark beard and moustache wearing a black graphic tee

Orchards of Udders by Jon Wesick

dripped on the blanket while air rustled tamarind trees. Chekhov drank a Thai iced tea and plummeted out of this poem. A flock of circles twittered in the hacksaw bushes

connect

we love hearing from you. tell us everything

Skip to content