Site hosted by Build your free website today!

Some of my Klingon Poetry

With translation
in klingon and the English.
copyright 1997, 1998, 2003 David E. Howerton

tajpe’ joj ‘oy’wI’Daq

boS yabwImey

legh choSmeyDaq

nuqDaq Hon e’be’ pa’

Qoy ghoghmey tun

retlh HeH yabmey

ghIH nuqDaqvIpbe’

Torn between pains,

the gathering of my mind,

seeing shadows move,

which aren’t there.

Hear the voices whispering

along the edge of minds

coming out of nowhere.

Hurgh choS pum

‘el qo’

yab Hagh

je’ yu’

vaj ngaS


‘e’ mach yabmey

vorm ngep

Doch ‘e’ tebQeh

Dark the shadow falls

entering the twisted realm

of mind bleeding.

Feeding on the questions

which abide in corners

of shadowed cobwebs

that litter minds

worried over

things that still fill anger.

paHlaw’ chImQeH

parHa’ puq ghu



largh lo’laH

naQ loDnI’pu’

SIch Sambe’



pagh mojmey

tlhIb yab

chImyab ghom’a’

Growth of unmadness

like a child from babe

to adult,

fighting to maintain

sense of worth.

Wanting the filling comradery

seldom reaching

the point which

encompasses such

blankness as becomes

the insanity

of insect minded masses



je ghoS

ngeH bong


Qoy yaghmey


the sounds

come here

sending thrills

through ears

and groin
ghIj tehmey

pov Qong

tlhe’ wov najma’

pong HIyab


‘ach,’a nID

ghorghbe’ jIH ghoS

naDev jIH Dech hIQ

neH Say’

neH Say’ jIH

ghIj ngoj

qawneH buS

ghIj tuH loS

Fright filled

afternoon slumber

tossing in colored dreams

calling it’s only in my mind.

Not waking

even though trying.

When finally I come back,

I’m soaked

needing a bath

ridding me

sweat and fear.

Remembering just feelings of anxiety and fright.

qIj ram nobmey jIH

tlhab le’

maH ghoSmey

nargh ghol’eb jaj

Deghqo’ naQmey

ghaj moj tach

DeSmey vIram

Black night gives

special freedom

to us coming

escaping oppression of day

into eternities

which are harbored

in the arms of mother night.

ghormo’ hurghlI’

botlh noDwI’

ghoS ngeH bong negHmey nong

ra’ ropSoQ jach

woD chalqu’

logh Dajmey teb Qeh

tay’ QIch bIng

‘IH tunSutmey

jaj naQmey

ghegh DIr

Sep bIghHa’

Hur ngeHbej mIgh

From crusted darkness

at the center of worship

come songs of ill passion.

Utterances of blasphemy

hurled to the sky,

shape twisted spaces.

Spend low sounds

in shaken silks

colored chaos,

rough to skin

bred in pits

transidental evil.
yInvIS pIgh

ba’taHnIS HeH

bejwI’ ra’be’ naQmey

ropSoQ botlh

nID SIch

chargh ‘u’

Dep jey




qup qI’

jech Hoch ‘u’ma’

QIt choH tul

moj ‘ach mach ‘u’maj


Sheltered in ruins

looming on the edge

watching the chaotic

blasphemy at the core

attempting to reach

into any universe

being repulsed

by vary space

at our core

twisted into

Elder sign

masking our entire universe

slowly changing a hope

until even our small cosmos

is an Elder sign.

pagh tlhuHmey

DechtaH partla’ Huj’eng

teb Hoch qojmey

getlh paghmeH

ram ‘ach,’a loghDajmey

je chIm loghmey

ghajmey law’ tay’ ‘ang

nIHwI’pa’ paghmey

ghomrI’quprIp wIchIrgh

larghtlhuH He’ yIn

nobtun lojmItvam

tIj chIrgh


vaj tlhIHqanglah chaw’ta’


paghmey je tu’

wewmey largh yIn

Blankness of soul

surrounds like stifling fog

filling every crevise

with dull nothing

even night in her eternities

and hallow spaces

has more to show

than the blanknesses

worship at her temple

sniff deep the scent of life

give softly at the doorway

to the inner sanctum

she will bless

Then you’ll be allowed

to see

into nothings and find

glowing breathing life

Dat je paqpu’

vay’ wovmey parHa’


jIH paqmey bang

chaH Depmey ‘et yIn

Hovvam pov

jevam vaj Hu’

ghorgh SIS je peD pum

joq ghorgh getlhpagh langbe’

eg je ghorgh chaH pa’vaj





Hop Suq poH je logh

yeb je neH

Every shape and size

any color will do.


I love books

they are friends for life.

On sunny afternoons

and on those days

when rain and snow fall

or when the fog is thick

and too when I just want to sit

they’re their.


Dreaming of


far across time and space

of mind and just.

ghar DeS

jatlh bech SuSvIS

ramvIS che’

pagh leghmeymIp


SIHvaSmey pagh

chImHoch toy’

Broken limbs

sing with wind

while night rules.

No colors


twisted greys

ended smiles.

bav qojmeyvam

bep jachmey

‘u’ nIHHoch

Qam Huj



pongmey Hurgh Qobpu’

ghoqwI’Dabo’ wovjech

jach HurghQobpa’ net


He’largh DI qob ‘ur mIgh

veQ je Dochmey

‘ach,’a ‘arghral

rop yabram

nach wI’ vaj

From this pit

agony screams

to include

all that it can.

Shaken still standing

yelling at those

not paying attention

calling to darknesses

masquerading as light.

Barking into shadows

that whisper things

reeking of blasphemy

obscenity and a few things

even worse

mentally vomiting

in my ears.

nejlI’ qetlh nav


not ‘etnoblI’

qetlh nav

buD pa’ loSlI’

pongmey boHlI’

yIn Hommey tlhuH

‘ut ghItlhwI’

tu’meytaH ghItlh nav

tlhutlh tlhuH

chen tlhuH

laghmey vamvo’

banvIS ej buD

ghItlhwI’ taySuD

Look at a blank page


Never forgiving

The blank page

Lays there waiting

Calling impatiently

For the bits of soul

The addicted writer

Finds he must put upon each page

Torn bleeding

From the artists spirit

Out of the depths

With love and apathy

as the writer must

largh tlhutlh pugh

lISwI’ puS

HaSta qo’mey

ghomey mInmeywI’ ‘engmey

tlhuH tlhIch

jatlhwI’ tlhuHwI’

wIchmey je Qoch

quv je QoS

leng SuqnI’ nup

jup ghoS

chaH peHghep

To the smell of coffee

adjust my sight

visions of other worlds

circles my eyes in wreathes of spirit smoke

speaking into my soul

legends and creatures

holiness and sorrow

trips across long dead futures

the friends that come

for each generation

nej chIm pagh


qama’ tlhuH

Hoch tlhegh wIj

pagh nav

jIH legh je ‘ut teb

Hot je cha’

wIch je wIch

mu’ mIS

‘Iwvo’ nach

je qabSIS

‘IQ je Quchvo’

Sormey je SuS

jatlhwI’ jIH

je mIqta’

‘ach Hov je boghbe’

nem wIchmey

Look at the emptiness


A piece of my soul

goes into every line.

A blank page

I see and need to fill

with emotion and image

myth and legend.

Each word mixed

with the blood of brow

and the tears

of sorrow and happiness.

Trees and wind

speak to me

machines also

Even stars and unborn shapes

— future legends.


Hop chap bIng baS

Qu’ ba’mey be’ Dech

tep paqmey

tep pong ghItlh

DuH De’


qanbe’ ba’mey




Sovbe’ nuqjIH tu’

nej ghItlhmey ngo’

Hoch paq largh ten lam

je lutlhnov

At the store

far in back under corrugated tin

an old woman sits surrounded by

boxes of books

on each box scribbled in crayon

a possible subject.


This matriarch sits

deep in the protection of the



Not knowing what I might find

looking through boxes grimed by age

every book with a scent elder dust

and primal slime.

jIH je’ paqlI’

tach loSjaj

He’ nov je SIS

jIH Dev

bIQ ngoH

Hum ghoD

lam boS ben

jIH Sov jIH bang


Hot Hoch paq

lanmey nuq Daq jIHlI’

vum pa’ Qorgh

I bought your book

at a yard sale on Saturday.

It smelled of dog and damp

but still I held it close.

Water stains

dark spots of mold

collected dust of decades

I know I’m in love.

Holding it close

Touching every page

for places where others

have worn with their care.

 copyright 1997, 1998, 2003 David E. Howerton