by Linda Imbler
Music of the Spheres
When you are passionately musical,
sound can be ecstacy. Life is holy.
Dissonance is a deep, corporeal gash.
Every piece of sheet music is gem-encrusted,
a potential or attained nirvana.
Sour notes are tooth jangling and cacaphonic,
and cause your pores to seal.
But the soothe of mellifluous melody
penetrates like God straight into your bones.
(An Etheree Poem)
enter our world,
are revealed as odd.
We know them as changelings,
left by ones of the old world
and recognized by strange facade.
Impersonators that infiltrate.
False kings taking up counterfeit scepters.
Drycleaning the Suede Guitar
My heart extolled
the eight year old boy
of the Spanish guitar;
setting his watch by the chants of the world
before coaching endless births
of wooden, acoustic bodies.
My heart joined
at childhoods end;
his dare of cosmic laws
waiting to be broken.
Walking endless struts with midnight at his back,
to never rule the silence
with hollow, electric bodies.
My heart communed
as he split himself
in two, yet remained
one - double sided tape.
Magnetic, yin and yang, din and whisper,
Magick fingers divining
dancing, sweating human bodies.
My heart mourns
As now through firmament;
his will becomes law,
as what once happened here,
his own unique frequency absorbed within
the invisible strings of
spherical, spinning bodies.
Water, clear as mountain air
accepts small stones
thrown by little children
where they sink
and remain atop the oceans sandy plain.
Thrown stones, not recoverable.
Words, said in anger,
raging storms unleashed
from mouths raining rancor
where they cut
and scar the hearts flesh.
Angry words, not recoverable.
Time, as lost history.
Footsteps long faded,
days once walked through
now only seen in dreams
Time gone, not recoverable.
Trust stolen by thieves,
hidden as gems,
worthless glory that cant be shared,
broken faith delivered.
Lost trust, not recoverable.
Opportunity, like an unrecalled plane,
requiring correct time and place,
lacking a second chance.
Only another option,
never matching the promise of the first.
A missed occasion, not recoverable.
The radio blurts the story of war.
It seems to rage in every corner.
I hear the facts of the conflict
over and over again.
I'm thinking I might need to turn off the news
and live in silence,
because my only other choice
is to go below ground where the bombs and the bangs
cannot touch me,
and the end will not much matter to me.
Not a concrete shelter with walls that tremble from concussions,
only sweet earth,
my mother once more taking me
into her arms
to demonstrate her profound love for my fragile shell.
Bones do not offend her,
so my place in this silent land will be secured.
Thank the heavens that radio waves cant penetrate underground.
More poetry from Winamop
Copyright reserved. Please do not reproduce without consent.