thunderheads gather
the rumbling voice of the sky
disturbs distances
booming basso profondo
that shudders my plasma
thunderheads gather
the rumbling voice of the sky
disturbs distances
booming basso profondo
that shudders my plasma
(Originally posted February 2014)
loud whoosh-whooshing flames
smother ambient sounds
burning brain gases
hissing from open-cocked jets
geriatrically triggered in
cochlear coils blotting out
the sweet noise of nostalgia
the concert that otherwise
rings with red rhapsody
memory music internally
broadcasting anthems of
cool supple youth but the
blistering roar of the fire is all
that old age-punished ears
are allowed in this vascular
prison of stultified senses
every road
a keyboard
every step
giving either
a sweet note
or sour note
tandem tones
ringing a range
of experience
melodies
ears might
obtain and
minds might
remember
in the end
every man
woman child
walks their
music
a journey
a song that
sings distance
achieved in
harmonic
progressions
with interposed
backslide
reversals the
counterpoint
constant
the threat
ever present
for failure
sounds much
like success
composition
is often
impulsive
a resonant
accident
played by
two feet
with no sense
of direction
enthralled
in the moment
delighted by
merely their
chance to
make noise
sirens and stuttering
jackhammer expletives
songs of the city
conspicuous voluble
voices mechanical
sounds exclaim
unsleeping industry
clamor in canyon
of granite and glass
blaring taxi horns
flatulent buses
deep groans grind
from garbage truck
compacters steely
squeals screech their
aggression as subway
wheels round stubborn
curves airbrakes gasp
in black bowels of
commerce while
car alarms scream
pleading mercy
from larcenous night
leaving lost in this
maniac music these
discordant decibels
millions of soft
whispered prayers
sirens in the night
rude flatulence of buses
urban lullabies
in order to sleep
I need to climb out of my head
too much noise in there
Writer Lynne Sargent
Poetry Puttering by Pax & Company
Sometimes everything has to be enscribed across the heavens so you can find the one line already written inside you. Sometimes it takes a great sky to find that small, bright, and indescribable wedge of freedom in your own heart. David Whyte
"drink from the well of your self and begin again" ~charles bukowski
no dust here
Looking ahead, without looking back (too often)
flights of fancy from New Zealand
You're never alone, if you've something to share
All you touch and all you see / is all your life will ever be
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