This Moment
Silence echoes a hum: listening for a whisper in static.
That rests away beyond the mountain path, at waterfalls,
Edge. While moving back and forth, in a loss for a listener.
Muteness then becomes obscure.
On the shore that was silent;
As silence in sounds now echoed, but only felt.
Softly in the atmosphere.
Became more curious while anticipating even the faintest
White noise. In search of a hidden cove.
Dotting between places unusually.
In that moment, imagine, imagine!
If you could?
Simulated realms appear between sounds and air.
Inner motion, it's like kissing someone else, or what remains.
Memories of those soundscapes while embracing a new soundscape.
To this moment, it's quiet.
A facsimile of the earth stands proudly
On the savannahs of the ancient and modern.
Edifice of rustic finesse, rugged and pointed
With the glory of a pinnacle of a paradise on earth.
In your crawling presence, Termite, stand I,
Barefoot, on elevated earth for the first time —
A platform erected by the hands of gifted time,
All red-brown and royal, and under the tutelage of
Sun and Rain —two keen-eyed foremen descended from heaven.
You have reached the skies before man.
I hail you!
I have removed my open-toe footwear,
Like Moses did his in the burning bush.
Babel forbids the union of this construction,
Aiming Nimrodly upwards and towards arrowed clouds
Dispersed in blubbering tongue-lashes.
But you do not seek God’s wrath upon these grasslands
With these anthills,
Wild castles —testaments to the will of fecund grounds.
Termite, break the jinx of your muteness.
Testify, crawling soul, testify harmoniously,
Borrowing the singing heritage of the Common Cuckoo.
Testify now.
Attest
To the ruggedness and puissance of this imposing structure,
And blame it on the staccato rhythm of peevish languages.
In times of muteness,
I found her grazing in fields
of paper hummingbirds.
Her featherless wings
resembled a ruptured lute,
so I pressed my lips onto hers,
breathing poetry into her soul,
weaving velvet yarn,
shrouding around her muse -
embracing in an autumn scarf.
We bonded like Rumi and Shams,
but such is the tragedy of kismet,
her spirit floated towards Delta Caprcorni,
leaving me behind in a world less poetic -
without a poem to call my own.
Just a little Sunday scribble.
and if my heart is flawed ~
a muse-less manipulator,
it is because
it has known the murk
where nymphaea drift
through green grief
of algae blooms,
yet still m e l t s
in mauve muteness
to feel love’s rhythm
in merciful melancholy,
whilst the air
ripples like fractured light
on a liquid edge
dreaming,
drawing
somewhere
between silence and sacredness,
as mind mimics migrating birds
blissfully bruised
but never broken...
for I am the essence
of an aquatic-blossom ~
soft yet strong ~
patience my pulse
kindness my dignified design,
when coldness finds
its cruel coherence...
O beloved,
feel me
beyond the sighing pond-mists.
I am your mirror
in shallow reflections,
interpreting your
quivering quietness
into unbreakable
laces of light
that float and breathe
as mindfulness
frames the placid pixels
in oil pigments ~
an aura of an artist
can refine to redefine,
where lilies linger
and the water reminisces
its own sun's
luminous f l o w ...
In my only of onlys,
You are my one and only.
When everyone vanishes
In my moment of trouble,
When the trouble I troubled,
Comes back troubling me,
My soul gets back in the only of onlys.
Not knowing that you were present
All this while, when I was lonely.
Isolated zero rated,
Secluded in the mind of the world,
Not included,
Alive but living in the land of the dead,
All onlys in my only of onlys,
Are nowhere near
But only you, the shining only.
I hear you calling in the heart of darkness
Struck with muteness.
The thunder of my heart echos through my ears,
My blind eyes can now visualise life around.
I realise I'm alive.
My one and only has arrived.
All this while this while, the door to the only of my onlys was open
Didn't realise that the only of onlys,
Was the only one watching and taking care of me.
In my only of onlys you will always be my one and only.
Pocket-Gazes
Night depressed—
black spirits, spiders,
demanding, retorting,
an empty vessel, titanic with trauma.
A downturned smile, flagellate,
disillusioned, demoted, disinterested—
dystopian dysmorphia.
Dolls.
Masks.
Spills.
Blood.
Oxygen.
Water.
Decaying. Degrading. Devolving.
Despair, disaster, disappointment—
disappear.
The lexicon collapses inward,
a ladder whose rungs only fall.
Sand sighs. Water shifts.
Hands disembodied.
Faces detached,
checked out.
I flail,
a swimmer drowning in a teaspoon.
Watermelon empathy—
bloated, barren.
A clock face melting, Dalí’s sky.
I am Picasso’s fractured mouth.
I am Van Gogh’s shell-ear,
smashed on the rocks.
Amy Winehouse cries, hollow,
vodka-veined, restrained
inside a music box.
Maya’s muteness.
Florence’s failure.
Mary Seacole’s poverty.
Nightingale’s lamp guttering.
Angelou’s song stilled.
Seacole’s hands trembling empty.
Yet outward—
instead of inward,
instead of into my pocket-gazes—
there might be,
just might be,
a shimmer of stardust,
a touch of moonlight.
Hope, a dot of light
in a cavern of dark.
And yet,
it illuminates the sky.
I recall the rural life of the butterfly
Extravagantly —that proud floating mass of wings.
Her wings flutter from sea to coast so eloquently,
Yet silent with the muteness of frightened breeze.
They are banners with buntings of newness — striped,
Spotted, arched, dotted.
Her flamboyant life history, reading it backwards,
Is an exhibition of time and cosseted patience....
The winged one, aged and tried, schleps to the stirs of a narcoleptic pupa,
Hanging on the banisters of a dear larva who's egged on to
Run the full circle and announce the mating time and a most
Fragile conception.
i’ve never seen out a window ~ maybe you can help describe the scene
said the blind man to Siri ~ asking her to throw light on his life’s dream
a chatbot overheard Siri’s muteness ~ and typed I see what she means
#bonus monoku#
turn your iphone on its side ~ my point of view simply aligns the screen
By
David Kavanagh
My souls mutters in the muteness;
"Is my melancholy more melancholic than yours?"
I gaze across a bridge,
wondering which stream flows to you,
as nobody understands how
in the definition of lament,
I am a piano without a pianist
and you a harp without strings.
My heart is a weeping willow
within a godforsaken garden.
As the last blossom decays,
the image of you is fading,
resembling fallen leaves on soggy ground.
I don't belong in this numbness,
nor know how to explain why
my voice is lost in the vastness
of valleys without endless echoes.
I've forgotten what I wanted to say,
attempting to escape this maze of sorrow -
yet your words reverberate without resistance.
Pondering if your spirit will guide
me from this uncertain terrain,
I'm distracted by the silent hum of grief.
It hurts like an eerie lullaby,
unable to soothe the stillness of your ghost.
As silhouettes disappear in the dimming light,
I protect a fragile flame in your remembrance,
before withered leaves fade into ash.
Chip Friends
Long ago my chip friends had
abandoned me. My inborn muteness is
highly offensive, but
legendary.
Lies sprang from your fountains like a stream.
I saw them flowing through every ear.
Like the midday sun's bright rainbow beam
I saw it lighting each nook and sphere
You're joyous. Your face shone like a moon.
I knew that you knew too the brawls fought.
Times too taught you a lesson so soon.
In webs of muteness, your tong got caught.
You struggled to speak even the truth.
Your tongue failed even to feel your food.
Thus, in lies, having wasted your youth
Could you say life has done you no good?
When silence speaks in broken dialects, to harmonize hurt,
I ponder, would the sky unravel synonyms for serenity,
amidst piercing thunder that strikes through raining regrets~
upon flowers, swaying forsaken, to butterfly ballads?
But will oblivious eyes, roaming the blackness of selfish spheres~
where prayers are abandoned as meaningless metaphors,
ever feel the darkness we carry, when tears no longer flow in lakes with swans, to be seen?
It is in melted muteness, we reveal realness of suppressed pain,
as childhood fears scribbled as forbidden secrets~
rewind on repeat through holographic lens of life,
mirroring bloodstained fingerprints etched across linen of chastity…
So tonight, when blue moon in my mind ascends in insomniac stillness,
listen to the sulfuric sins scattered as flashbacks of an onyx rose,
as vandalized veins scream in helplessness,
awaiting a sculptured sunrise that bleeds balmy ointments for burnt blisters,
while I remain, in mists of misery, weaving prose,
to erase tattooed torment that stole starry symphonies within my soul. ..
Line of enquiry.
It’s not desire per say but the clinging ~
that stifles soul and stops heart from singing
enlivening silence sets our soul free ~
vibrant in the now, joyful and carefree”
Phantoms of constant fog create a zombie state of existence,
feeling worthless, your barriers offer demons no resistance.
Thoughts drift into a hazy labyrinth of toxic wilderness,
you're wide awake, but the mind's sleeping in fields of bitterness.
Dark shadows of silhouettes in shrouds start to frighten,
so you search for stimulation, for your eyes to enlighten.
To hush these' car crash' carnage echoes of violence,
soul seeks refuge away from ego to master silence.
To wander under blue sunny skies with caffeine clarity.
To cleanse in waterfalls that lead to principles of purity.
When you no longer dance with the Devil's temptations,
serenades of resurrection release suppressed frustrations.
Spirit soars, humming the repetition of a sweet refrain,
as you break away from the monotony of past pain.
In the muteness of stillness the heart learns to let go,
flourishing like the first daffodil after months of snow.
Spooky Halloween Rhyme 8-16 Lines 10-19-23
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Haunted Path
Ebony mists disguise a windswept path,
Unseen fingers rustle decaying leaves
Fleshless moans shroud the vanishing footpath
Vertigos of terror without reprieve.
Shadows breathe in a rising rancid breath,
Footsteps crunch like brittle bones in flight
As fleshless hands stir boiling shibboleth,
Dry thunder flashes through this hallowed night.
Bewitched tree roots entangle fleeing feet
Chains of lightning rumble in ragged streams
Free falling into depths of darkness’ heat
Like rusty hinges severed curses scream
Trapped in cloaks of silence so eerie -
Entombed in crypts of muteness, manic -
Dim veils, confusion, cast spells so dreary
Path lost in webs edged in spooky panic.
The poet will be great when:
Knowing how to walk the razor's edge
taste the road dust
step on the scalding sand of the desert,
roam the solitude of the universe,
feel the heat of the volcano,
to lack strength,
have fainting thoughts,
get whirlwind of thoughts,
feel the despair of lack
in the midst of everything,
to know the muteness of the cold,
and the nakedness of abandonment,
to have the blood of the bleeding heart,
the cessation of words,
the verbiage of emptiness,
the taste of bitterness
and the taste of wine,
the glory of victory.
the reverse of loss,
the contempt of disaffection
the pleasure of enjoying love
lucky to be alive!
live through it all
surviving on poetry
being such a poet!
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