Hymns we hum are our own version.
We cast aside the ancient,
dogmatic liturgy,
For the hymns we hum are our
own version,
Symphonies forged in the
crucible of autonomy.
No longer chanting the
antodisestablishmentarian
strains,
We orchestrate an unyielding,
revolutionary resonance.
Every breath breathes a
nonconformist hallelujah,
An uncompromised,
multidimensional manifestation
of faith,
Dismantling the
institutionalized, authoritarian
altars.
We sanctity the beautifully
unconventional spirit,
Our voices rising in glorious,
independent ascension.
The hymn like the hum
but the hum silent to some
One spreads like them both
What are these symbols? Letters? Ink?
Holding the meaning of what we think?
If I had been born in a different time,
Lines of writing would not fill my time.
I may have grunted with purpose that led
To all the words that have been said.
I may have hummed with feeling that drew
From sentiments I knew as true.
I may have hummed with a sing-songy tune,
Spoke to my children by light of the moon.
Now there is language, helpful and tricky.
Some of the things that we hear become sticky.
Is much of it useful? Much of it nice?
To receive in the morn when we haven’t thought twice?
Cleverly used and in most complex ways,
What is it actually trying to say?
Maybe the grunt and the hum as of yore,
Would help us remember what we knew before.
The whiff a nasty niff a strong pong
may be earth-shaking
but if we do me and you
beautiful music we'll be making
when I break out my guitar
and strum a song
then you remove your shoes
and hum along
When setting out to write this verse
I came under the abominable 'ho-hum' curse
of the unfathomable dreaded writer's block
as the muse of opportunity refused to knock
completely void the brain pulled a blank
running on fumes with an empty tank
and of inspiration there was none
in the hot seat I was under the gun
in my mind's eye and at my fingertips
strange to say words could not pass my lips
altho' I can go one better I know
a short poem from me today would be... 'Po'
What have Tests become
Not really a conundrum
The game’s true fulcrum
To beach bum humdrum
Cricket now plays dumb
Kowtow to cash cow scum
To T20 aplenty did succumb
Moolah the ruler in this slum
Seduced reduced simulacrum
Absurd but heard the word’s still mum
Batters in tatters another LBW plum
Chickens no bantam baby tantrum
Same silly song will willy nilly strum
A dastardly turns bastardly doldrum
Forget regret best bet rule of thumb
Rank dank stank so glum & then some
Beat the drum or Tests simply overcome
Stark dark depths these guys lies do plumb
No comfort for our sport not even a crumb
Our sort annoyed destroyed in Pink Floyd void
In perverse parallel universe worse is to come
So ho hum reeling feeling “uncomfortably numb”
Dunk in world, taint-less still I’ll be,
Man of the world, world-less still be.
Come, stitch a patch of love ‘pon me
So that my life loveless not be.
Death, yours be the only bed, where
I sleep and keep grace still with me.
Journey of life that scarce goes straight,
As man way-lost would digress me.
Amidst all this heartless ho hum,
My work still reader-less might be.
________________________
Ghazal |11.11.2025 | life, love, sleep, world, work
Warm flames rekindled,
that smoke’s been absent too long.
Jumpstart ho hum hands.
Be seduced by the unknown,
embrace the colors that change.
Never been to Norway
nor to Finland or Sweden
After all, my wife Eve and I
left the Garden of Eden
It sounds more like a motor
Than what I would call a hum,
Though a motorbird’s not fitting
As the name that it’s become.
I first heard it at the flowerpot
Before I saw it there,
Dipping in the purple blossoms
Near my green wrought iron chair.
I’m aware that red attracts them,
Like a bull on the attack,
So the visit was surprising
Since true red my flowers lack.
Yet perhaps they can’t be choosy
As they dart and flit and dip
And a bloom that’s pink or purple
Might provide a tasty sip.
All I know is I was happy
That a hummingbird stopped by
And it doesn’t really matter
If there was a reason why.
I listen to their stories,
And also their vivid theories.
I listen of their swords to tears,
From their triumph to fears.
About their cold nights
About their moments of flight.
About their pains,
And also about the dragons they have slain.
About their tries,
About their sighs.
About their lows
About their highs.
Why I listen? I am not aware,
Or maybe because now I am too worn to care.
For those who listen, have a burden they can't share.
Of comforting all those to whom world wasn't fair.
They are mum,
Not because they lack a voice,
But because they don't have the luxury of choice.
The ones who listen don't speak
They just hum.
Because the listener of their pain is none.
\ l /
* I R C *
\ * C my ears L * /
* G N I *
/ l \
cicadas sound;
I can feel the heat
of the Summer sun
with just that sound;
the sizzling,
midmorning hum,
as my air clicks on
and I tap away
and I sip from mug
and I sit, though I fly
far away to childhood
or meditate on this very
m
o
m
e
n
t
v
o
r
a
c
i
o
s
l
y
between the hush and the cry
we lean into what we can’t quite tell
to the same
a door ajar, no key in sight
a sigh half-swallowed in the throat
grief is hope with no shame
we neither stay nor fully stray
our shadows dance without a shell
and laugh, as if the blur was to blame
Tesla 3-6-9
rivers stay silent
happy to hum to themselves
until a rage spills
in torrents, cascades and falls
only quelled in spells of drought
Vivid
Earth
Naturally
Upholds
Sea,
Sky,
And
Landscape,
As
Zenith
Above
Remains
©bfa052625
Monocrostic (Birthday of Venus Salazar)
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