We love to hear an echo, resounding and abounding,
reverberating our words off walls and harbingers,
replaying and soothsaying our views and opinions.
We seek the places and spaces, and company within earshot
of what we want to hear, filtered in subtle ways
to sound like something new and fresh
repeated over and over again, rejigged and re-rigged.
'Coo-ee', 'coo-ee' we cry!
Is there anyone out there,
who cares to hear us, beyond our
obsession with seeing ourselves
echo-reversed in the mirror?
But, even this mirror-echo is an illusion because
the mirror swaps front and back, not left and right.
We filter the image to perceive the reflection as a person
standing facing us, looking back.
So even the mirror's echo is bent
into the way we want reality to be filtered.
Air aided in gravel’s travel
Its ricocheting rhythm
Rhythming like the crunch
Of an ocean
The steps of someone
The left and right side
Sway as incongruent tides
Whatever winds wind up
Within an earshot, it becomes
Tapped in our orbit
Wonders of the world all around
Wondering what it will be like
To be a cherished kind of sound
I'm oblivious to the chatter
cascading from
unknown streams
Soon enough themes evaporate
like steam
& are gone with the
wind like hot air from tea pots
Misguided missiles aimed harm
those within earshot
but I hear not nor care to listen
to rumors of war
I lean more toward better things
choosing to be swayed
by them
instead of misinterpreting the
misgivings & chirping
of angry birds
I'm in a place bordering on the
absurd so forgive me
if I'm flying too high
for them to be heard
I won't speak on things I see from
the sky as offering
a reply would imply that
I care
I only supply paper with ink & words
of a meaningful
nature
without being shy about
what I share
No, I'm not talking to you or
anyone else reading looking
for drama
This outpouring came from a
well on the back
of a llama
in the dryest of deserts
I'm not thirsty for nor do I seek
the attention of
those that present a mirage
This is just a spill of the subconscious
not an arid facade
Sometimes
it's good to give
yourself up in an heartfelt yell -
to find a place out of earshot
of others, a beach will do,
or better, a shoreline with rocks
and crashing waves,
or out bush where there is
nothing but wide open spaces -
and then take a deep breath
to fuel your loudest yell.
At first it will feel strange
to hear your own voice
rise unrestrained in air,
savage, primal, a sound coming
from the deepest pit
of your ancestral soul.
Keep yelling until you feel
the need subside
and a calm comes upon you.
You will leave satisfied,
still without answers and weighted
with all the problems
that you carried before.
There will be no sudden
enlightenment or beatific vision,
just a soulful peace purged
of all anger, only yourself,
stripped of pretense
and once more a reconciled
and humble child of earth.
Oh, how I long for peaceful tranquillity,
a secluded spot ,
somewhere hot,
somewhere by the sea.
There, I would just sit and sit,
mesmerised by the beauty of it.
There, I would pick up my pen,
which I would write the happiest of poetry again...
Not like the dark poetry that I write now,
I would be so happy,
I wouldn't know how.
I would love a place free from distraction,
solitude and tranquillity are my greatest attraction.
That unique sound that can only be found within earshot of a beach,
The sound of the waves ending,
as they forever stretch their reach.
The birds that are heard are unique to the oceans sky,
Although you can hear them occasionally inland
but I really don't know why.
Why would any living creature tear itself away from such a beautiful place,
especially on a hot summers day.
I love the sun and I love the heat,
I love it when it is hot.
So, I would be eternally happy sitting and writing poetry in my peaceful summer spot.
Long night. Sleepless.
I heard an owl, its call
filtering through the tall trees,
writing itself on the lush silence.
Other sounds followed reverently,
a moth whispering its powdery
presence somewhere in the room,
then, the soft padded footsteps
of a possum walking gently
across the rooftop of an evening
back into silence.
I tapped into the private
conversations the house
was having with itself, the creaks
and groans, the stifled gurgle
bubbled up from a troubled pipe
and from downstairs, an unknown
bump that gave no hint of cause.
The house carried on with this
chatter for hours then fell quiet
and perfectly still.
Later, I heard the dampened throb
of a locomotive coming in and out
of earshot as it skirted the far
reaches of the dawn, then a screech
of car brakes from a nearby street
causing the nerves to brace.
Too soon morning comes
with its hurry, erasing the silence
upon which this was written.
Time now for sleep.
I see myself today
as once I saw others,
an old man walking,
with nowhere to go,
wondering what he remembers
of his youth.
As being one of those
old men today,
I remember so much.
My first love,
holding hands and
kissing.
Gathering my change together,
to buy her a gift.
Sitting in her den,
watching TV,
while her parents
just out of earshot.
Those are the days,
I shall never forget.
The lake has its own orchestrated acoustics.
The quaking of oboes and the bassoon-ing honks
of a skein of geese
conduct a loosely scored morning air.
Rustling reeds chime in fluted stems,
a wind section throats through its hollow notes,
and then there is you.
you who hesitantly strum
within each lip-breathing earshot
nevertheless
your strings are tuned high
to the vibrating moment.
All this ‘a cappella’ is inside you now
like a chick cracking though its own eggshell.
You look around your shoulders
searching for the composer
see nothing, only a naught that imagines
paused fingertips above a keyboard.
Will you sing now or depart unfinished?
The ensemble of the assembled
has left.
You can try again
when your inner metronome
is less bolted to its mechanical tongue,
but for a time
harmony nest elsewhere.
Walking;
This time there was no choice,
you had started to sing;
To the sound of your voice
I had to keep going;
Why not?
I am starting to feel you;
Even in your earshot
this is what it’s come to;
You’re the prize, a jackpot;
Give in,
allow me to get close;
Go on caress my pen;
I’ll paint you into prose,
start what has never been.
She had nothing to gain
This is my only shot
Dance through the pain
It wasn’t my fault she didn’t have a main
Role. She wanted to see me distraught
She had nothing to gain
I can see her trying to feign
Support by smiling and whatnot
Dance through the pain
She waited to complain
Until I was in earshot
She had nothing to gain
The tears began to flow down my face like rain
Her words intruding my every thought
Dance through the pain
She’s jealous, get it out of your brain
They told me, but I cannot
She had nothing to gain
Dance through the pain
She waits with her aged, folded hands
Hands with deep veins and those age spots
Hands that picked and shelled beans so grand
After her trips to garden plots
Where the sun bakes those who have-not
Only they, her hands understand
Watching; sips tea with bergamot
She waits with her aged, folded hands
Now she rests, thinking of coastlands
As a young one within earshot
Bored, thinking inheritance lands
Hands with deep veins, many age spots
Keep on loving, like it or not
As she toiled in the garden and
Fed hungry mouths with money-squat
Hands that picked and shelled beans so grand
Rest sometimes, and understands
Restlessness of youth in Camelot
Seeking their own life, in fairyland
After her trip to the garden plot
She felt quite ill, but did not stop
She needs to tell all, life she understands
As they lower her in the plot
Her dress neatly lays and demands
Her aged, folded hand
Written: June 18, 2022
First one like this posted on soup.
Striking like a cottonmouth snake,
but we can see nothing is real;
Bored and trying to stir the pot,
that plan is going to backfire;
As honest as a soft handshake
with your fingers crossed on the deal;
Slippery hiss within earshot,
You are just a filthy liar.
The Farrier
Miracle Man
3-16-2022
With uninhabited joy sings his hammer,
upon the anvil fashioning a tune.
The “Smithy’s” life, not one of glamour,
reshapes a shoe this day in June.
Billows puffing keeping flames hot,
with shaping done there’s cooling to do.
Fifty meters and you’re from earshot,
with music concluded- a single horseshoe.
Now nail that sucker on!
Out of earshot from the
Howlers and yowlers,
I'm surrounded by the
Aroma of trees.
Mean spirits begone!
Gloom and doom?
Sorry no room.
Lifted to a shore,
By Mercy and Grace,
I will search no more.
Done is the chase.
It has been a deep snowfall. Paw prints
and rabbit runs skittering on the white.
Ice blades plummet from tree branches
with a common sharp-tongued language.
I wonder what maps are used
when the tracks disappear
only to reappear somewhere else
as if the space in-between
had lost its way.
The crackle under boot prints
is too loud,
the sky retreats out of earshot.
Up ahead more tracks
and strangely they look like mine.
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