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The Paradiddle of Being - Book Two: The Becoming

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The Paradiddle of Being — Book Two:
The Becoming

Daniel Henry Rodgers

"What we call disorder might only be an unfamiliar time signature.
Grace does not erase the rhythm of grief—it composes
around it for there comes a time when survival itself
must learn to dance. The hands remember what the heart
cannot say where pain becomes pattern,
and pattern becomes prayer."

- Poet

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VI. We are all metric modulations of our former selves—changing time signatures mid-measure, learning to count in odd meters when life refuses to conform to 4/4 expectations finding beauty in 7/8 existence— the off-kilter cadence of becoming. The teenager tattoos pain across her skin in sixteenth-note flurries— razor crescendos marking flesh rimshots echoing in a locked room her body a snare absorbing what no one will hear. But the counselor reorients her strikes— guides her hands to ghost notes tapped on the edge of possibility showing how silence can carry rhythm how grief, redirected, becomes texture— not erased but transformed into syncopation. Teaching her flamacue and ratamacue— rudiments to rebuild rhythm from fracture. In meditation halls, the brush technique of breath against awareness sweeps circular patterns across the snare drum of consciousness each revolution revealing the interdependence of all sounds— how silence gives meaning to music how emptiness gives shape to form. Even after forgetting— we are the drum that cannot be silenced. VII. The mother with Alzheimer's forgets words but remembers the shuffle rhythm of her grandmother's feet on kitchen linoleum forty years ago— proving knowledge lives deeper than language, that love is stored in the muscle memory of tempo, in the bone-deep knowing of when to accent when to rest. The war veteran's PTSD manifests as explosive snare hits in quiet moments— his nervous system stuck in double-time every car backfire a timpani roll announcing danger that exists now only in the echo chambers of trauma. Slowly, therapy teaches him to play his pain in slower tempos— cross stick replacing gunfire’s crash cymbal, finding the spaces between beats where healing lives. VIII. The street musician's tabla bols create community from strangers— ta-ka-ta-ki-ta becomes the common language that transcends the babel of urban isolation. Each coin in his case a vote for the radical proposition that beauty matters more than efficiency— that rhythm is prayer accessible to all faiths all doubts. The autistic child constructs cathedrals from polyrhythms—three against two four against three— tiny wrists parsing the paradox of a world too loud to understand yet perfectly timed beneath its chaos. Each strike a syllable in a language her flam paradiddle-diddle hands dissecting chaos into latticework unspoken but truer than speech. Her fingers discovering order in the latticework of syncopation where logic and wonder share the same downbeat. She does not fidget— she improvises. She does not escape— she listens deeper. And in her palms the world becomes percussion— finally speaking in a dialect her heart can follow. ================== The Final Book 3 is coming.....

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Victor Buhagiar

Date: 6/7/2025 2:04:00 AM

Dear Daniel, don't silence the drum. Keep its rhythm, its deep thoughts that I had to read twice. You're a master of poetry. Well done. A poem to be remembered. Waiting for part three.

Panagiota Romios

Date: 6/6/2025 11:56:00 AM

David, a breathtaking penned creation. I am not gong to pretend I understoog all of it! But to write this intricate poem must be saisfying tou your soul, so keep it up. Your care for others I sense in your poems. That lat four lines is a description of me.)) but I have learned to rise above the clamor of humanity demanding I be other than who I am. Poent Pangie)) love your audio!!

Mystic Rose Rose

Date: 6/6/2025 11:17:00 AM

wow, I bow to your brilliance here, so much wisdom and understanding in every word Daniel

Anne Winter

Date: 6/5/2025 3:29:00 PM

Dearest Daniel, the second part is very deep and thought-provoking. The first stanza opening with this line “We are all metric modulations....”honestly hits right in the heart. This poem is breathtakingly beautiful! You've woven together a deep understanding of rhythm and music to create a masterpiece. The way you've explored the intersections of trauma, healing, community, and beauty is truly moving. Each section is a gem. Cannot wait to read part 3. With love and respect always, Anne

Daniel Henry Rodgers
Date: 6/6/2025 6:47:00 AM

Dearest Anne, your thoughtful and heartfelt response means more to me than words can fully express. I wanted to convey the heartbeat that connects us all through trauma, healing, and the beauty we find in community. Thank you for being such a cherished companion on this creative journey. Spring Blessings, My Dear Anne, Daniel

Paula Goldsmith

Date: 6/5/2025 11:01:00 AM

WOW!!! What a wonderful write/story you have here. Great Quote... Love your line, "Even after forgetting—we are the drum that cannot be silenced." So True... Have a lovely/blessed day writing away..........

Daniel Henry Rodgers
Date: 6/6/2025 6:44:00 AM

Dear Paula, Your words touched me deeply and thank you for embracing the heart of my poem with such warmth and insight. Your encouragement is a blessing on my writing journey for these rhythms we carry within us persist beyond memory, beyond time. May your days be equally filled with inspiration and gentle grace. Blessings, My Dear Paula, Daniel

The Paradiddle of Being - Book Two: The Becoming

The Paradiddle of Being — Book Two: The Becoming

Daniel Henry Rodgers

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The Paradiddle of Being — Book Two:
The Becoming