A young discus thrower hurls the discus with all his might
It lands, churning up the soil somewhere nearby
The discus thrower is happy, or perhaps disappointed
If his rival has managed to throw the discus further
Let’s try to give these competitions some meaning
Is there anything in them, hidden behind the obvious
Behind the victories and defeats – perhaps a thirst for a little power,
A sublimation of war, or, conversely, the peaceful labour of farmers?
Or do competitions serve as a consolation for those
Who cannot or do not wish to compete?
But perhaps someday, another time,
When discs are made to order,
Tailored precisely to the thrower’s palm.
The scent of cinnamon discs ignites the color red
Yes it was him,
the man from my prophecy
born from starvation.
The trees danced
as he disappeared, and reappeared.
Flying discs spoke his birth
as I angrily begged him to stay.
I was so desperate almost to death.
He came at his own time.
Will I?
I miss the tick-tock heartbeat, the chiming in the hall.
Watching the slow clock hands glide shadows on the wall.
The seconds hand circling, its clicks beating a song,
Time was something you watched; it carried you along.
I miss the clatter of typewriters, banging on their keys,
Whir of tape spools whining, vinyl discs spinning to please.
The flip calendar flopping forward, page after page,
When time was a living thing, not digits in a cage.
Now silence haunts the corners where ticking used to sing,
Digital screens of numbers flash cold, as unfeeling thing.
Yet I miss the winding, waiting, watching for the flow.
The rhythm, sounds, vision, and movement of times long ago.
Blueberry delight in discs
of golden brown. Each
bite, berry delight. Smothered
in melted butter
and maple syrup.
Taste summer
bliss.
The night before my father’s heart attack,
my brother and I were splayed across a bed
watching a re-run of “Happy Days”
and eating Oreo cookies.
My father sat stiff and upright
in a wooden chair. By then, his back
felt like it was being pierced by daggers
and the pain made his face pale and clammy.
I offered him an Oreo,
one of his favorite snacks,
as I gently twisted apart the dark discs
to reveal the snowy treasure
in between.
He watched as I scraped the cream
from the dry, crisp chocolate with my teeth,
then he turned his head
and said, “No, thank you.”
I never wondered if he knew
in those final hours
that his emerald eyes
were about to close forever,
or if he felt death spread inside of him
like a cool drink.
Because if he did,
he would have taken the Oreo,
if only for one small bite,
just to feel the gritty chocolate,
that ordinary joy,
crumble over his tongue
one last time.
The colors of the flowers are vibrantly swaying
The wind caresses them it seems with kisses,
whispering sweet nothings inside cheery cores
Daisy’s white pearly petals are speaking
Yellow sepals smiling, too yellow! Spiky discs
spinning peeking at me as I subtly study them
Dance little flower dance so alive,
I just want to hug and squeeze you
until you feel all this love as well
colors so vibrant
turned on, tuned in, so alive ~
I feel so much love
Beta and the VHS
Could not be beaten years ago.
A childhood of watching tapes...
These were standard video.
Then throughout my teenage years
The DVD was made.
The quality was noticeable
Because of this upgrade.
Discs progressed over more years...
Along came the Blu-ray.
Evolution yet again
Of picture and display.
Ultraviolet and 3D...
Digital copies too.
Many ways to watch a film...
These are just a few.
These days, resolution lies
In glamourous 4K...
Up to four times better than
The typical Blu-ray.
From what I've heard of resolution
8K is the best.
I wonder how when the time comes
It compares to the rest?
In the movie, the” signal”
An Astronaut receives
A signal from an alien spaceship
Heading to earth
The alien repeats the word
Hello in multiple languages
While heading to Earth.
The discovery electrifies
And terrifies the world.
All the world’s governments
Decide In secret.
To shoot down the spaceship
Before it could land
As it could be either a probe
Of the beginning of an invasion.
When they enter the ship
They find the original
Voyager data discs.
Which the aliens
Were returning to earth
As an opening gambit
To establish communication.
Multitudinous bells secern the tones
as may resound sharp bamboo xylophones.
Pulchritudinous bells have rhythmic ding,
others that linger with tedious ring.
Some little bells can echo a jingle
that surely bestow a Christmas tingle.
Quite many bells ting melodious chime
prompting our schedule's punctilious time.
A carillons' unique, harmonized bells
swing from gentleness to overtone swells.
Suspended bronze discs reach resonant gongs,
characterized by gregarious songs.
A bittersweet bell that distantly tolls
announces angelic release of souls.
Mercury
An Angel Having Recently Visited You
Sent back Metal Film
of Your Ancient shores
Cratered silver with loneliness
the Humming of Silver Tides
Or discs bent longingly
With long lonely empty looks
Disc crater eyes alloyed obsidian
Looking back at the messenger
With cold memory
Of the abandonment
Which bore their emptiness
In the insane heat of the void
And now leering livid
Yet recent in disdain the merging antiphony
Like arcadia from the ashes
For and through the endless night
And disenchanted contempt
Which bares no life
Except the whisper of Loneliness
after the rain, wildflowers bend like
wilted men wrapped in age and bliss
fragments of longing and belonging
in wet that sustains a warming world
to bring elation with green fields
in a mission of beauty
daisies poke through tall grasses
picketing the field with star shaped heads
and yellow centre discs
that make the world manageable to hold
gadflies of growth
with white petals plucked by
wooing hands to know
the alignment of love
greenery with life within
overstuffed
drenched hazy
a tangle of vegetation
all of it deflecting woe like voices in a chorus
finding one's self in the mix
June 2023
Leon Byner has left the building
After 23 years of people bargaining
He was the people’s voice to be heard
And on most things he was undeterred
I remember him spinning discs in the 60s and 70s
As a radio disc jockey so cool you see
Before shifting to talkback radio at 5AA
Where he would take on the issues for SA
So like everyone he has reached his
final show
And today 1/12/22 it was his time to go
There will be people now taking a sigh
As South Australians we wish him well and goodbye.
© Paul Warren Poetry
The music of my youth: a capsuled find,
a dusty box of discs, a time machine.
A foolish younger self and I convene,
camped in a cobwebbed corner to unwind
the lilting, haunting tunes which fresh remind
that pastures parched and brown have turned to green.
The music of my youth…
Though they reveal the depths to which I, blind
and lonely, stumbled in despair unseen,
littered there were small hopeful bits to glean,
and so I think that I'll not leave behind
the music of my youth.
----------
A Rondine: (Ra)bbaabR/abbaR
a jar of cold pickles
a bunch of needed napkins
memories of a time of less rust
when feeling safe was the norm
and flannel pajamas was my rave
a bowl of butterscotch discs
a big ole snaggletooth smile on my face
memories of a time of cheaper prices
when saturday mornings was a grand vibe
and flannel pajamas was my rave
an old fashioned southern breakfast grandma style
ice cold orange juice made from that frozen can thingy
memories of good music on one good radio station
when a candy store was either right up the street or right around the corner
and flannel pajamas was my rave
a trip to that duff's smorgasbord buffet restaurant
a good bit of naughty grease on the coat of my best sunday suit
memories of family focused on family and not plugged in or charged up devices
when familial love, togetherness, and unity meant something way deeper
and polyester pajamas was my alternative rave
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