Voices that resound in His ear,
The lion comes out of His lair,
Melodies from the world below,
They come from the high and the low.
Tears stream as they sing,
To him, their heart oblations they bring,
They show their gratitude,
A note-worthy attitude.
Voices arise like incense,
A sweet fragrance that heralds His presence.
Saints and sinners kneel in adoration,
A joyful celebration.
We’re moved when our praises are being sung,
To these singers, our deeds hung,
The sages say that praise is a chariot to the Divine,
I'll say praises are linkages that make souls intertwine.
Categories:
linkages, inspirational,
Form: Rhyme
Her mind accumulates oddments and curios,
contrivances with strange linkages,
attachments that bolt unlikely parts together;
the mechanics of metaphysics.
Pieces of something she is sculpting or
assembling, or just waiting for,
a glimpse of a word-picture
too intricate to be entirely recalled
as a whole canvas.
She discovers these odd figments
on the leeched rim of vision,
where shapes are nameless.
Part of her mind
burns with the light of a kerosene lamp,
the other blazes too brightly.
Slowly she feels the inconceivable
creep upon her, imagines discovering
the last transcendental piece
of a scattered poem, the keystone.
Senses reach for a nexus
there are endless connections,
too many to grasp.
She realizes that her whole life
she has been building images
that can only be seen once,
once before their time, after that
they are just
writing.
Categories:
linkages, poetry,
Form: Free verse
a blank mind sets in &
though it may only be for a
flash of a second,
the words you are really trying
to muster,
dangle like a doughnut on the end of
a stick in front of a policeman
waiting next to the turnstile of your
subway stop,
waiting to give you a ticket for
littering
(fill that quota at the bookends of
the month then run to get that jelly)---
you reach out in your head,
trying to grab it,
as if you had dropped your pencil
and were floating to grasp it again
while waiting for takeoff in a zero-
gravity
space shuttle, set for commercial
flights---
your lips start to move to make the
sounds but the linkages aren’t
synched up just right & you
babble out some sub-freudian slip
that in its best translation can’t
even be construed as your native
language,
so in frustrated despair you
slap your brain across the face
inside your skull while trying to
teeter-totter on that conversation
tight rope &
making the best of your pounding,
paradiddling,
parapraxis,
you spit out some nonsensical
factoid that basically gets ignored
anyway.
Categories:
linkages, life,
Form: Free verse