In my mind, preoccupation
Occurs from time to time.
One example is me trying
To make my words rhyme.
Beside my creativity
Exists a certain place...
So, I introduce to you
My video head space.
Often, fragments of cinema
Appear inside my head.
These can be triggered at random
Or thought of instead.
Television was a mentor
When I was much younger.
Its visuals and soundscapes
Would satisfy my hunger.
Countless hours would be spent
With eyes glued to the screen...
Mesmerized and memorising
Details of a scene.
Shots, action, and dialogue...
Played in repetition.
Looking back, I laugh because
I made it my mission.
Nowadays in times of boredom,
Speech or certain actions
Of a movie sometimes surface
In parts or small fractions.
I do not re-enact them
The way I used to do...
But still, my video head space
Provides me with brain stew.
Listen to the forest in the depth
of one’s mind and craft
arresting soundscapes
from within.
Gaze into a spectral morning
dazzling anew and watch
those scales that slither
from one’s eyes,
Utter silken threads that pulse each vein
with choral church bells ascending
thru a literati conduit.
Wallow in the cascade of an oceanic blue
and cherish every vital sea green moment
Posted : 30th March 2022
The happy sound of the coffeemaker.
Or of a welcomed friend’s voice!
Using a real phone, not texting,
You sense her in real time, a true joy
Maybe it is his sensual deep voice?Hmm?
That hungry baritone, whose voice moves
clouds.
Or a toddler’s feet, prancing on the rainy
soggy, ground.
Be so glad you can hear the rain melting
snowflakes on rocks.
Or the street, maybe the loud noise of a
lawnmower, by a fit young teen wearing
emblazoned baseball socks.
How about the music of the late and great!
Steven Sondheim, the brillant song writer
for “West Side Story?”
His lyrics make me feel like I am touching
the magic underbelly of heaven in all my
earthly glory.
Here is something, no poet should ever miss.
Have a poetry lover read to you, one of your
poems aloud, it’s like a hug and a kiss.
I had no idea whatsoever the power my
poems held.
I can tell you, I honestly cried when to
this auditory treasure, I fell.
For me by my poems, I am so very
unimpressed.
Till they were read to me, and my soul
and emotions were undressed.
1/1/2022
Spring's backdoor opens
Nature's soundscapes living lore
Soothing broken hearts
Listen to the forest in the depth of one’s mind
and craft arresting soundscapes from within.
Gaze into a spectral morning
dazzling anew and
watch those scales
that slither from one’s eyes.
Utter silken threads that pulse
each vein with choral church bells
ascending thru a literati conduit.
Wallow in the cascade of an oceanic
blue and cherish
every vital sea green moment.
Silhouettes set sail on stylish sofa
silent soundscapes stoke a stoic parlance
memory’s sweet shelter sinks slowly when
scripting stress-free similes on sunsets
soulful strains sashay over scenic spots
that stick in stubborn shadows so serene
seclusion a stillborn starlit skyline
Date posted and created : 10th April 2021
I hear the song of Magic Sleep
On Soundscapes during the night
The days now are so quiet
Neighbors next door vaccinated with children
Have short parties and cookies and juice
But then cars disappear and sounds suddenly are reduced
And as silence returns I ponder
When and where can I retrieve
What I was and now can be
No more driving — careful of seizures
And medicines which make it harder to see
At this time of life where can I
Leave my mark and where can my
Token of an existing life truly be
Yes I take care of my pets
A crow and squirrel and I
Meet for breakfast regularly
Perhaps after the next shot of vaccine
I can return with food and puppy treats
For pets and veterans' lunch pleasant and serene
But pain is always there so I seek help and heat
And on evening Wednesdays I will listen to the hum
Of meditation with others and the Teacher's welcome
And so my token of life may be
A badge of acceptance in a small slice of life
But not diminished to any great degree
Elements of change a union of soul and body
A living token of the great branching tree
The tree of life both active then still
As all living things will be.
Sailing silently on the USS Poetical Mystery.
In a craft, where I joyfully create my own poetry.
The waves beating against the shiny, wooden bow,
Are gentle soundscapes to me now!
That scent of the sea, oh, how it inspires me!
To become a better poet, which I hoped to be.
To pen inspirational poetry,to not fret madly over what to write.
But to actually see my poem, gleaming on the shore in bright sunlight!
The magic of both sea and aquamarine quill.
Humbles this poet's soul and quiets my stormy will.
There's something magically mystical here.
I stand, see the beauteous waves, and in gratitude, shed a tear!
4/4/2021
~1~
Enchanted by the chirping robin soundscapes as I rise
X
P
Expecting only vernal cloudburst vision for my eyes
R
I
Ecstatic at the thought of vivid seven wonder dawns
N
C
Eventually a sweet dream frolic dance on summer lawns
Created and submitted : 22nd November 2020
Contest : Kim’s Acrostic Play
Sponsor : Kim Rodriques
NB I choose a summer theme to lift the human spirit in these challenging times
Hobgoblin in the gutter under canopy of midnight,
magic brew of muti without rein.
Shadow figure torchon, darting half-light dare.
Spine chilling droplets wobble slowly down drains,
rusty copper mouthwash at the edge of jagged chutes.
Eerie urban soundscapes frame,
a sneeze or smothered cough.
Drone of vagrant motors probe, the flyby ink-black abyss.
Youthful laughter echoes over back streets,
as nearby lamp posts cast their bloodshot rays.
Night owls chinwag over Onion Bhaji,
raucous babble buried in a saffron whiff.
Strains of ragtime jazz and sleek arpeggios,
shrine or vinyl monument ahoy.
Hobo’s lonely whistle on an empty pier.
Urban jungle cast-off ghostly lurch,/
Burakumin patsy in high dudgeon.
Spooky timelines relish every moment of suspense,
swallowing the hush with ghoulish glee.
Quasimodo bell ring vaults a broomstick,
setter of alarm and wanton panic.
City wall clock twiddles on its hourly thumb,
scene plotter’s endless play denouement,
wee small hour dialogue without a script,
waiting for the dawn to take it’s baton.
He is an architect of soundscapes.
Senseless with passion he stands
before a pending deluge.
Rapt is he to the resounding
din within the halls of his skull. At night,
the architect will dream of faces
they smile and laugh—they cry and sigh,
and he must reconcile with the knowledge
that he is responsible for their being,
as incomplete as they may be. They chant
his name at the brimming of the storm—he
hears their voices as whispers. There is a
grind which pulses perpetually through
as he hears the endless ringing, through rime
and reason. As chaos descends upon
him, he peels back his flesh to better feel
the salt from the ocean. Waves engulf him.
Although he is afraid, he submits to the
tempest. Underneath the water’s surface
are endless observations for his eye.
Swirling shades of chaos glimmer above
as he shouts profound profanities to
heaven. As the storm recedes, the water
will dismiss the architect from suffering.
He then must dredge the bodies—blue-faced and
bloated—to the dry banks of his stream of
consciousness—where autopsies may yield some
connotation, but never certainty.