______________________
When scattered gray clouds getting warm, rain;
A wooden veena, resting on a lady’s lap, comes alive;
And mesmerized by her beauty, plays inspired notes.
__________________
Some scattered gray clouds
Getting warm in morning sun,
Sprout dark roots and rain.
A wooden veena
Resting on a lady’s lap,
Comes alive with joy.
She, harp of all harps,
Inclined on her pair of breasts,
What inspired notes plays!
___________________
Musings | 27.08.2026 | clouds, joy, music, rain, Haiku
POTUS aide Natalie Harp:
don't know much about her, but she sure dresses sharp!
The press calls her the "human printer",
but will she have to carry that copier all through the winter?
The harp of the ocean ruptures the skin,
blood mingling but sharks do not attack.
Letting sea salt heal all that is within,
finally you are clean feeling blue-black.
Bioluminescence hits with a smack,
dabs of glitter sparkle coating your hair.
With an image harnessing debonair,
a rhythm dances with the rising tide.
Unable to turn from it’s feisty flare,
wild desire to submerge will not subside.
Our spine is a harp of thirty three strings,
each vertebra sounding a unique note,
which when touched by kundalini grows wings,
that in the vast void, presence may free float.
Thirty three nodes, thirty three rings of light,
full scale of a rainbow, beyond seven,
vertebrae on which we sense bliss delight,
Jacob’s ladder that takes us to heaven.
Such is the truth by consciousness affirmed,
esoteric wisdom sung in folklore,
which in some scattered scriptures is confirmed,
known in stillness, when we open heart’s door.
Oh worthy hermit, bookmark not this page ~
Vaporise ego to become a sage
A long tailed monkey
black as polished ebony
shrieked in frantic scrabbling
at the grey mouth
of a silver pouch
and danced on braided rope
with the paunchy pig
to hypno strains
on the gilded harp
plucked by geisha girls
hair bouffant and clasped
in shells and iridescent combs.
Glassy lamp flickers come midnight
to expose her quiet charm
while fingers thumb tingle of brass--
Her sway a quavering string
in beats of harp - plucked interludes ,
gently grating strummed goodbye.
Connect The Dots
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud Jan 30, 2026
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
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