You will say something unexpected,
a sudden potency will bruise my blood.
I mention an ordinary thing,
you show me how my words are clouds
beneath your skin.
An invisible tissue
connects our common language.
I imagine the tympanic bones
of our ears as they converse
in contrary vibrations,
duets that we sing from different rooms.
You say an odd thing
which I cannot translate.
I comment upon something
you have no knowledge of.
In-between the words
campfires ignite
in synaptic junctions.
Eventually we arrive at an understanding,
practice a deep listening
ignoring all dictionary meanings.
quiet pillows
ebon noisemakers
brass-blows, red-green drums
tympanic lament of grief
solace throws on brown sofa
tympanic laughter
of spinal decompression
a coupled release
entering the late night room
oxygen rushing headlong
What we hear is a haunting,
of words not said,
there’s only this deep listening,
yet who or what attends?
Something mundane is said,
a sudden potency,
a brief sonic feathering
awakens inner ears.
The mention of an ordinary thing
connects us,
a span of invisible tissue,
bridges one foreign language
to another.
Tympanic bones
drum to the same beat.
contrary vibrations
dance in step.
Meanwhile the passion
keeps pouring through,
conjoined
synaptic junctions,
and our words
try to keep up as best they can.
Wham! That music is dainty.
But the bass drum gives it a kick.
Such tympanic contrast.
A tasteful tune with a rap,
such a whack, such a wallop.
Memory can tease, torture,
create that tasteful tune
while dredging up a thought
of something better not called back,
to avoid such a whack, such a wallop.
(29 Dec 2023)
Mystical labyrinth of twisting harmonic warnings
Gazing into infinity’s composing handiwork –
Moonbeams in silver sung sonatas –
Ivory hued cantatas resolved from heart pacing crescendos
Spring’s soothing birdcalls after tympanic thunder.
Measured tempos of rhythms search for their time signature
As aching melodies in moveable feasts of swans
Search for resolutions in atonal firebird tango ballads
Through classical dusty suites of western legends
Not losing pitch or tripping over downbeats.
Too many notes squeeze into four square spaces
When magic flutes songs soar over seraglio dreams
Imperial marches set imprisoned phrasing free with fanfares
And close encounters of key notes discard dissonance
Seeking rhapsody in hues of blue.
Plaintive and joyful - hopeful and merciful -
Healing rhythms inspired from the eternal melody,
A lost chord to haunt then heal the midnight heart
All arranged in one accord from the Master’s apprentices
To rest in finality of one trailing echo of waltzing river.
You will say something mundane
and a sudden potency
will scratch my skin.
I mention an ordinary thing
and you show me where
my words are smooth satin
or an abrasion.
An invisible tissue
connects our common language,
mutual conjunctions translate
nuance and implication.
I imagine the tympanic bones
of our ears as they converse,
the contrary vibrations
forming chess moves
that mesh and utter.
What we hear is our own listening
where sounds pronounce themselves
in our mouths yet unsaid,
even though,
we still we occasionally misread the obvious -
misunderstand a silence.
If we are to discover what is in there
and out there
We must dare,
dare to look under seeking skulls
brace ourselves as a bridge
between their empty eye-sockets.
Spirit, that invisible violin,
unmolested by thought
must play a jig at a funeral.
Time, the whistling tinker-man,
must be set loose of his rags,
allowed to paint the wind.
The rattle of tin pots and kettles
the rocking of your caravan
are the tympanic chords,
drum-drumming
on a beach yet to be reached,
unless like hermit crabs
we leave our shells
and burst out into travelling music.
Hirosimizing,
Nagasaki impacts,
Atomic bombing pejors.
Scary scabs began,
Debris of recoil doomsday,
Fetus fleets on their way out.
Mushroom cloud embeds,
Tympanic torn by air blast,
This atrocity noted.
You will say something unexpected,
a sudden potency
will bruise my blood.
I mention an ordinary thing
and you show me
how my words are clouds
beneath your skin.
An invisible tissue
connects our common language.
I imagine the tympanic bones
of our ears as they converse
in their contrary vibrations,
duets that we sing from different rooms.
You say an odd thing
which I cannot translate.
I comment upon something
you have no knowledge of.
In-between the words
campfires ignite
in synaptic junctions.
Eventually we arrive at an understanding,
practice a deep listening
ignoring all dictionary meanings.
Poesy and song are all about
rhythm and flow, and tunes and tones;
how every rise and fall throughout
make melody within the zones
and forms of verse without fade-out
to listener's tympanic bones.
Measure’s a trick of deft poets,
who know the cadence of their feet
gives lines their tempo. And so it’s
like Poesy’s pulsating heartbeat;
it’s hypnotic (and you know it’s
rhythmic),—so feel its potent beat.
Together, Poesy's clear measure
(the crests and troughs of its music,
the highs and lows of its leisure)
can roar like a score symphonic,
an orchestra of high pleasure
with counterpoint so harmonic!
BELLS
I.
Bells has a tingling ring to it,
a jingledy-jangle silver tone.
The tympanic waltz, close knit —
angelic chorus of Christ’s throne.
And Winter parades its magic —
the pure white snow purling gold.
Morgans’ shiver and shake chromatic.
Enchantment’s carol — behold!
O Christmas day — the pearly gates
stretched wide open in senssuround,
handbells harmonious, worldwide translate
singing, sweeping, melody crowned.
~
II.
*Poesome bells! They’re morose.
Tentacles dingle-dangle forth.
Curious onlooker of its strokes,
midnight binds its ears, looks North.
The lonesome brass calls for lad
and lass with clean cuts and braids.
The aww-no sound is clad
in a nonsenseless grade.
*Edgar Allen dawdles with death clang,
its clanger brain, hellish.
The beauty, from tower hangs —
the dauber of knells doth relish.
12/20/2020
*Some thoughts from Poe’s poem “The Bells”
SLOW MOVEMENT
Move out from tall trees - to wider scene now
Tympanic rhythm - andante theme
As footsteps beat on - path of the Ash beam
In diverse prospect - wet levels gleam
Look to the surface - life is reflected
Now mirrors brightening - skies cerulean
See over there the - new view surveyed now
Past tawny grasses - strewn by wind laid
Birch saplings dapple - hazel and apple
Amber the dry fern - dashed now with jade
Where silver stems - surround sun-bright vale there
Small stream descends in - glistening cascade
Over above In - slow closing distance
Land rises to - overlook languid fen
Our destination - draws our steps on to
Reach barrow slopes - fields of wider ken
So measured pace continues ‘til then
While spirit moves to hilltop ascend
If we are to discover what is out there
we must board the Holy Ghost,
cleave the winds of time
into gods and tridents,
count the star clusters within us.
Under seeking skulls: those white domes,
antique tripods brace themselves,
their quaint brass fittings
helping us to adjust
to the future.
Some seekers turn a grooved infinity sprocket,
some paint cave paintings on the arching
bones of craniums.
Spirit (that invisible violin),
is the prime element
in these spiritual machines,
some of which gaze into darkness,
some that can push behind the past
into a freely radical moment
unmolested by thought.
The secondary element
is the whistling tinker man
or any god we choose to name.
The tertiary element
is the rattle of his pots and kettles
upon his moving caravan.
We hear those tympanic chords,
then like hermit crabs
we leave our shells
and burst out into travelling music.
You will say something mundane
then a sudden potency
will scratch my skin.
I mention an ordinary thing
and you show me where
my words
are fine silk or a brief abrasion.
An invisible tissue
connects a common language
into questing passions.
I imagine the tympanic bones
of our ears as they converse,
the contrary vibrations
form chess pieces
that tango briefly in our eyes.
You say an odd thing
which I cannot translate.
I comment upon something
you have no knowledge of.
In-between the words
campfires burst into flame.
Meanwhile the passion
keeps pouring the heat of sight
into synaptic junctions.
What we see is a haunting
of words not said,
there’s only this deep listening
in the clamoring flesh.
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