To see the unknown is to grasp the strange
struggle with hallucinogenic disbelief of the deranged:
To arrange and rearrange the disarray of a mind
nonplussed by a puzzlement of imagery that binds
one in loops of madness bound by the optic nerve’s
impulses pulsating upon the high seas where red curved
like the waves that swerved my dehydrated inebriation
as they distorted my auricular balance into a drunk vermilion….
She’s appeared only at sea, always in striking shades of scarlet,
as if to break the monotony of endless boring-blue ~ a starlet
eclipsing my dilated pupils when she bled the moon,
slicing off a smooth round piece, as I, in my cabin cocoon
gaped thru the port hole at the bleeding sickle left
suspended, animated, tween the midnight and dawn ~ swept
into the black hole that fell into the dark’s abyss:
an oceanic psychedelic trip of a brain reeling remiss…
The glitter in the velvet dissolved into the ebon nothing
The wind no more, as infinite jet swallowed frothing
And there, not ten yards away, floated the cerise ball!
I rubbed my dozing orbs, but still, I was in lunar’s thrall
(3/15/2018 Repost for sailing contest)
I listen to my neighbors toilet flush,
it takes a long time for the sound
to drain away and refill,
I settle deeper between my ears
cognizant of the cadence
of its slow rise and fall.
The trash compactor chews on
for a grinding stretch after I switch it off.
Uncomfortably heated body-bellows voice out
as a hurried meal speaks on.
This is not silence
minor notes trundle and tumble,
heightened by being weighted
to a lower registry.
Sonic trickles detonate into auricular
spouting’s.
The distances between
unremarkable moments
eavesdrops,
listening to its own earthly poetry.
A banjo is playing in the bodega.
A door proclaims its ding and dong
voltaic birds bounce to its tintinnabulum,
flickers of auricular featherings
wipe shelves of a million years of dust.
The banjo is at prayer and you are there
as you peal with its cadence and quiver.
The bodhisattva
they that dynamo the sonic tides,
the waves,
air waves, sounding and soundless,
who sparkle
in the high deep heavens
and in the low wallows
where ankles are the muddy roots
of wind chimes and cow bells.
Sounds unleashing
the knelling thunder of peace.
Alabaster hands poised in mid-air
signaling an elemental perfection.
The kinetics of gesture and stillness,
as doors open their choiring mouths,
as banjos mimic the sounds
of all practicing avatars,
and we hearing
only the ding yet missing the dong
unthinking un-ring Gods temple gong.
PEACE AND HER EAR PIECE
My eyes greeted the way to the class,
Saw different people with different eyes,
Some without and with glass,
Some toss around like an empty mass.
Then did i saw a spirit before me:
Then,elated was my glottis.
But within her ears was an earpiece.
Then i think i heard the voice of the Holy Spirit.
I called and called her till i was nearer,
For the more i move closer it seem to her farther.
Till i removed the 'piece from her ears,she proved deafer.
Then she did saw me an exclaimed: 'Oh josh,you're here?'.
So,are many who YHWH calls which cannot hear,
Till he take the earpiece away from their ears.
18:01:09:06:45
Comin’ Through
They stand there
monuments to stupidity
blocking progress,
denying access
or egress
to the doorways
corridors
checkout lines
coffee pots
of life
JUST STANDING THERE
totally enamored of themselves -
the urgency of their idle chit-chat.
Suffering from auricular atrophy
unable to hear anything but their own voices,
immune to common courtesy
looking at me as if “I HAVE A NERVE”
disrupting their insensitivity by requesting
“PERMISSION TO PASS THROUGH”
this huddle of hubristic pomposity.
They are masters of the “HARRUMPHHH” face
a look designed to make the dog pee,
the cat bristle and slink away,
me know that I have offended
the sensitivities of the insensitive
ruffled the feathers of the featherless
dared to insert a comma into their run on existence.
John G. Lawless
8/1/2015
Auricular Appendages
She hears the gentle stirring of the womb
rejoices in the musical duet
attunes herself forever to this tone
a beacon that will always lead to home
tuning forks that vibrate – each - as one
She understands a language – ever new
attuned to eyes and grins and coos
perceives the gentle inquiries of touch
a living mobile swaying in the hush.
She’ll sit – distracted
listen to unspoken tears
longing to erase a heart’s first sting
bake – chocolate chip hugs.
She will wince at the sounds of loneliness,
closed doors and silence,
a distance that magnifies the noise,
quiet waiting that endures
the pangs of life’s demanding growth.
She hears all of what we say – and don’t.
5/2/2015
submitted to - A Mother’s Ears – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Craig Cornish