I take my flute from the cupboard top
where it lies collecting dust
and behold its darkening silvery-ness
not a moment too soon start playing I
with time and space with the confidence
of a fossilized trilobite, reestablishing my place
at the very epicenter of creation's equally
exploding/imploding big-bang-ishness
feeling the tangled strings of the great
all-that-is working loose and slipping back into placeslurping me into a pocket of non-referenced
unreferenceable inner-workings, the digestive tract
of a beast that knows no bounds, bringing together
sounds of all shapes, sizes and frequency bands
insects, birds, planets, stars, pneumatic drills,
trees, surf, and me, yammering away tunelessly on my
metal-fingered insert into infinity -- anatomically
doing what bombs and bonds could not,
coaxing the myriad strings back into a confluence of heart
and tummy rot, singing the spheres back into a super-elongated spaghetti dot
minding not what the shape of things to come might be
strictly adhering to a policy of data neutrality
i observe a cream cheese replacing ham and chips
as plat du jour
and twang, a split-end
yields to the gastronomic weight
the precessional wobble of a spinning plate
Aristotle graciously agrees to hear suit
and promptly snuffs out the slow-burning flute
then shuffles off into a twilight of time-lapsed
serendipity
thus saith me
09.12.2018.
Davidson James Merry
What is that silver
ReplyDeletebirch
What is that silver
moon
What is that silver
laughter
none too soon?
What is that silver
snow
What is that silver
star
What is that silver
music
not too far?
I play a tune
with my old-fashion'd lines
A fool of rhymes
a string of chimes
Sometimes
On either side the river lie
ReplyDeleteLong fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
The yellow-leaved waterlily
The green-sheathed daffodilly
Tremble in the water chilly
Round about Shalott.
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
ReplyDeleteAnd a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
Linger awhile upon some bending planks
ReplyDeleteThat lean against a streamlet’s rushy banks,
And watch intently Nature’s gentle doings:
They will be found softer than ring-dove’s cooings.
How silent comes the water round that bend;
Not the minutest whisper does it send
To the o’erhanging sallows: blades of grass
Slowly across the chequer’d shadows pass.
Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach
To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach
A natural sermon o’er their pebbly beds;
Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,
Staying their wavy bodies ’gainst the streams,
To taste the luxury of sunny beams
Temper’d with coolness. How they ever wrestle
With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle
Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand.
If you but scantily hold out the hand,
That very instant not one will remain;
But turn your eye, and they are there again.