Skirmishes With a Pen
I sit and wait. I was here yesterday.
Sitting. Waiting.
Dead air. Bereft of sound
Suddenly, faculty for perceiving sound
is returned, and loud blown is the Gjallar
horn as Heimdallr guides my pen and
all in Valhalla shall sing once more
Technically flawless, an opportunity
to state my case before a jury of
disheveled Quavers or Couplets
Light and shade, tinged with solar flares.
Forgotten chords brought into focus
like a mammoths trunk pushing
through ice
Born from a deserted ghetto,
notes travel through a sieved mind
and flow down a river of ink to lie
on a staff of competing candidates.
Repeated, like a stanza's refrain
Eventually, this piece of presented
integrity shall be read by the corrupt,
listened to by the judgemental and
edified by the moribund and obsolete.
Those tut-tutters arriving home from Sunday church,
with their angled wrecking balls of slanted beliefs,
having already secured their forgiveness; proceed to
tear the larynx out of this persistent little song bird
Copyright © Terry Robinson | Year Posted 2015
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