Under silver sign of pink poetess
She was born blue uniquely blessed
Like Tiffany glass are her rosy red remarks
Inspiring poetry despite brown broken heart
With a name so beautiful like flower bloom
Indigo imagine cherubs playing harps by moon
Could song be as long as reverie she inspires
Moon Harp is her name, her poetry is red fire
I can honestly say I’m in a writer’s block
Yellow kind words dipped in ink so hot
Purple pen paints phrases like polka dots
Writing little couplets from cranberry heart
I take my pain to where ragers rage and writhe
in their self-absorbed gluttony on all-winter days
their tea cups are only for them
interspersed with silence and solitude
the streets are buildings without them
who are the signposts talking too?
I could have been one of them
I was one of them
and still am if hills facing the sun are cloud covered
and I don’t look out of the window to notice
then, in those un-costumed days, I am
but, and it has taken rotations of earth
backpacking through antonyms, through tropics
I have conquered tinnitus, now a comfort blanket
aiding sleep as a heart monitor line crossing a screen
I have conquered deep wells, now jews harps
jaw harps if you prefer, gewgaws, yes I have conquered
the cave of crawling space days
goblins are only a light switch and their rising finger away
but my rising finger plucks at overtones and distances
between neurons, between stars, between mees
its sound soothing, rubbing balm on a restive chest
the vibrations are fizzing and feeding me
I take my white noise and float away
sound, my therapy
Sacred, a soul’s breath exquisite
The mouth, its vessel, sing
jews harp,
Portal to absence
jaw harp
listen to my voice
it is your voice that I breath through, though
your secrets are whispered but by my arouse
speak my thought
o sing me
percussively
I think my way as rhythm
over cloud peaked tops
mountain points like metered dots
and on them stand and pluck, oh see
my breath transcends eternity
introspect
I aim my gewgaw outwardly
to a passing world
and yet it seems I’m not as bold
it searches inward with effect
I am my own play’s architect
meditate
a friend who soothes
who heals at home
I play for me and my ear alone
a remedy of beats I incorporate
in my therapeutic style of late
sanctuary
my sound is that
of a honeyed waterfall
hear breath, it’s grace over boulders call
a harmonising of beauty’s key
be vibrant yet my soliloquy
oh crackle fire let flame and quell
a sound, this sound upon such spell
that cast a tone to ear nearby
and changed by cheek and timely sigh
along down track and hoof-fall tread
at mid of night and wandering dead
a single player wrote this eve
with harp to mouth, oh crackled weave
that to himself came lost in dust
‘neath the shadow of Vesuvius
then turned to stone his twisted hum
for still he plays his crembalum
crembalum
ori admotum, digito
violins begin
swelling as piano blends
harp strings sing amen
see my hand it has a gewgaw in
and to my lips I kiss the day
with her sounds I repeat back
in overtones and harmonics
of a heart whose breath is wide
horizonal, for scope, there is scope
and much to fill with a beauty
of song and call and secretness
yet do I not keep the outside out
these harp filled moments
allow my alone to distant inwards
solitary in an openness of voyage
among this voice of many voices
for it is here in this everywhere
that soothes, that steals, that builds
and my direction honed, renewed
oh these moments pass too quickly
once I’m out of the eternity
but the whet and drive has thirst
see my hand it has a gewgaw in
and to my lips I kiss the day
I sit upon a moment’s tree
with a gewgaw in my hand
and pluck its reed rhythmically
to ride the distant land
the journ to drift her league to me
upon my tongue, her tongue
caressing sound relentlessly
harmonious lips in song
and while my harp does steer me so
to galaxies afar
many a darkness had me go
traverse the lonesome star
yet all the time a moment’s tree
side on with roots asway
an afternoon belonged to me
that gewgaw had my day
Geillis play for King James VI
pluck your jewes trump harp
you dance then prance
and twist your wrist
in tune and rhythm
through the mist
of song and on till dusk
the King delights with curious
a watchful eye
a witch be though
and lo still die
come hither, done
December, fifteen ninety one
oh Geillis Duncan hung
listen to
her galaxies
the far away
her slow dances
listen to
the near and here
her melancholic
atmosphere
in what a world
may androids sing
metallic voice
or sheer the wind
yet I, the wind
oh restless be
and still, my harp
still me
if aromatic, can your sound
adrift on wings like strings to sing
by tongue and some from lighted tops
of cloud aloud let fly, let fly
o solitary eagle soaring high
these aromatic overtones
of demon groans to bees abuzz
on petal roams and onto tombs
of night in flight to morning’s dew
harmonic rhythms meditate
the late, the new, the cycle through
sweet realm of realms, mine avenue
and though her breath is my breath too
the key, like she, can bloom
innumerable miniature bliss bubbles explode
illuminating fully the head ovoid
methinks dear heart, we’ve struck the mother lode
reality as we once knew it is destroyed
the Bindu point becomes the source of God’s power
crystallised within feeble form
Divine Mother plays the harp along our supple spine
with the will of God we conform
as bliss pheromones mingle
we feel our enlivened spine tingle
poised in stillness, our attention sharp
kundalini ascends upward, playing a harp
the harp we speak of has thirty three strings
where each vertebrae a unique note rings
with medulla knot being already open
soundless secrets to us are spoken
the mist rises to the Bindu point
we witness how Mother does anoint
back of head, capping it with God’s hand
an ascent wondrous we alone can understand
he had an inkling
as to what the world was
as to what the universe was
which is why
his sitting on the porch step
playing a beloved jews harp
was so poignant
among the other spheres
and as if, through it,
these convoluted orbits
of journey-filled rounds
contributed dearly
to his rhythm
Related Poems