Sprawling, against a backlit Sun. Magenta
the Clockwork of Time
and its infinite antinominies
..................of timeless aimlessness
and Void of Time
fades as a memory
the pulse and rhythm of each staccato stroke
against the clockwork springs
and fine-tuned apparatus
the pendulum swing
and weighted balance strokes
Masses of Fixed, orbital constructs
and circadian heartbeat pulses
conforming to some Final End
of Morbid Alarm
or Eternal Awakening
the surreal bending of metronome reflection
twists the Absolute structure of melody
(notwithstanding it's momentary cadence,
and sequence of endless notes
Cascading
backwards in patch-work puzzlement,
like Shostakovich having a break before the
Symphony begins
and lets out Piano-Forte brash
as if in dissonant protest
to the scandal of patterned, and ordered
Tablature
A hypnotist within reason;
Charading as an apostle;
Crooning carefully along
Tablature of the mind.
A realism portrait,
In a landscape, never entered;
Like Moses, and the Promised Land;
A symphony never finished.
Always rehearsed.
I am concerned with the structures that sustain the universe,
with the mighty river of time,
the tablature and the compass of souls
dispersed in their endless penances,
the enigmatic smile of doubts
overlapping the fragility of certainties,
the detestable silences that precede painful decisions
and with the thick amalgam of pain
that poisons our days with the most varied enigmas.
What worries me is the shock
when I wake up from the nightmare of living,
the need for millimeter precision
in counting the steps until the freedom of not thinking,
the innumerable precipices
that surround any and all will of the mind
to keep away from the fainting, falls and stumbles.
What I am concerned about
is the indifference of entities or deities
that could undo the deception of atoms
in condemning us to finitude,
constantly and habitually
expressing unmistakable signs of contempt
for creatures who have given them a supposed superiority
over their own destinies.
my concern is about the extension of the shadow
that negatively illuminates the path
we should follow under the light.
the rest don't worry me.
We all must go, no matter our importance to the world, or someone.
There is no set schedule, or fairness of longevity.
So when the time comes, and it shall, just know.
When the heart sings the songs of sorrow, the tune is unrehearsed.
For the tears of pain are intertwined with those of joy.
Linking the chords of past and present sounds, inscribed on the souls tablature.
Allowing the strings of emotion to be randomly plucked, by the familiar fingers that play life's symphony.
Who's voice meatus
with a sweet tenors
tone
which words are sung
so lovely
so smooth and sweet
Nonet Musette?
Atonal Baroque?
Vivace Trill Trombone?
uh, you don't know
Rubato Tutti?
Meatus Tablature ?
sweet, sweet tone
do you have interest
in the clefts notes, huh?
does the whiskey from de Tablature
calm you want mi?
Sensual sounds of a Clap Happy crowd,
yes which sung is sung
that which is played is danced to
yet this is the Minuet Mezzo,
who's mask is perfection
and who's face shall be revealed
this very Minuet Mezzo!
Must the Bass Note keeper
make the Cleft Note Keeper
smile, for one then to hear
them together?
Article Seven B', from the Works of Hussy, copyrighted 1856, She Chopped the forest down to create the perfect Bassoon, she found fun in a Dogwood tree. She became angered when An artist used one of her Bassoons to serenade his new lover. When a fella in the crowd took her away from where the tomato's were she was heard saying, " he so stupid, darling: he so stupid!"
She tossed tomatoes at him when he Played " Must be Love" to his fiancé.
As I gently hold your rounded body
close to my chest you see through me to read
the tablature in my heart and feel the beat
emanating from it;
composing
involuntarily I shut my eyes
to braille read you with my calloused left hand finger tips
as it moves up and down the fret board
caressing your long giraffe neck;
composing
I sit there with you and hum
soulful melodies as my right hand strum
your tuned up strings and my left hand fretting
a progression of chords belonging
to the same key;
composing
you never say to me a word or two
yo never tell me you are tired
but when I have a song to do
I sit there with you
and hold you close to my chest,
Strum you, caress you and
you give a soulful melody with all your best;
composing
I sit there with you, compose songs
and sometimes cry on you
and sometimes smile to you
I fret you, I strum you
But you never say a word or two
You never tell me you are tired
I sit there with you and
hope that your strings will not break;
composing
Bojosi Ditshwele ©
These are the words that write themselves,
phrases struck in steel
and driven into me,
borne of tablature and burning,
speaking only of their silence
as Atlantis, lost in dark constancy,
might re-appear out of the sea
knowing, still unknown,
yet known to be unseen.
There is a cloud upon my brow,
a doubt embracing certainty,
a synthesis of thought and draught
quite rich enough to taste. It augurs death;
it augurs why; it smiles and spins away.
I smile as well.
This unknown knowing
leaves a trace to follow...the ellipsis
saying this is not the end. It augurs breath
a little while, the mind upon
an open path, the pristine gift
suspended somewhere
just beyond our eyes.
~
Red
conveys
energy-
in
triumphant
joy
green
from blue
and yellow-
becalms the tense
soul
great
silence
flows from white-
black tolls in the
night