4/19/25: song, again

 Today's prompt. I am sharing a Margaret Atwood poem with you all because she's a real gem.

i don't know, but the sobs run their
coarse nature, me through the blender.
wringing every last stucco tear, each
one, a little shard-glass accumulations. 

i don't know, but i've left myself
weathered, spotted in a springtime
sun. shriveled. too long, too little,
too late.

i don't know, but another dream
in another mirror, melody in flux
for a limited time. nothing to it,
nothing doing.

i don't know, but the scars do 
the good lord's work on themselves
and leave behind a faded cave painting
reminders to the self, lesson for the others.

i don't know, but i've let it resume
when it was otherwise concluded,
when it was otherwise the dying gasp
of a deflating balloon after the party.

i don't know, but we'll see where
it takes us. see the ride to the horizon
and wonder if we're coming or going.
let the rest take care of itself.

Napo 4/2/24: (Platonic Love Song)

Bweep da da 
these are the sounds of platonic love.
Fills your heart with a rollicking bass line, but in the "everybody clap"
sort of way. Nothing untoward.

Gazong kaswish
a comedy of errors. Will they? They won't. That's the point. They will, however,
1. Eat buffalo wings and not care about getting messy.
2. Listen to jazz and really "get it."
3. Wonder aloud about all manners of futures. Nondescript offerings.

Zip kashopsha
give me a hug, you lovely son of a gun, you. I covet routine. I covet my neighbor's routine. How long has it been? Bible times a recent memory.

Pa-Zoo:callingaglingaling
I don't know what to say when I see you. It's like "how are you?" It means more, like
this piece of me has returned. Like, thank you for remembering me across time and space.

Like, thank you.

cymbal shimmer and chords resolve. No fade out necessary.

Scope of it

Some lament 

Warbling out of me in bird song

As the wind starts to settle itself

and the Sun is shifting its angle-

Contorting in slow, diagonal positions-

A gentle descent.

My Notes held at length,

Letting the sound do the lord’s work.

My grief in the pleasant murmurings of the later afternoon.

Throwing passing swipes at the still branches of the trees

Swirling around the crowns of long shadows

Trillings stir from my crumpled frame’s rasping song box,

Pushing notes 

Into existence

Becoming a melody

Pitched into the air and echoing back from the other mournful aviaries,

Sobbed into music,

clipping the stillness

as the sun says it’s goodbye

and the song becomes a symphony 

in the darkness.

Song of Solace

 Maybe from a collection I am working with here. Not sure yet.

Let the sage burn and sneak into the four corners of each room and crawl between the cracks in the foundation to trap itself behind the sheathing and clapboard.

Achieving absolute peace

Serenity, without qualification.

The world sees this success. Nods in appreciation-inhales and exhales in a perfect syncopation. Pulsing in easy shudders. Order is equal to the sum of my part when it is placed in the proper location.

Sun and clouds a diorama, suspended and rotating like a lazier morning with coffee, alone with the sound of a gentle whir from the cicadas and the simple swell of a breeze.

Looking out at the grass, stuck in the pose of attention.

The sound of a bird. The hum of held breath.

The way the world contracts and expands when the breath is resumed.

All is 

As it is.

Chop Chop

 Trying this whole “post once a week” thing. Someone tell the paparazzi to follow this development closely.

Saw sings a symphony

Disrupting rings

Ending a circle

Interrupting the eternal

By making an ending.

High notes trill.

At dead center,

The players shift their instruments.

better angle-

Sharper warble.

Efficient chewing of skin and birthing of sawdust.

Matter is created

Matter is destroyed.

Song,

A lament.

Funeral dirge.

Players hear the song as a Homeric poem.

Those beyond the symphony

Waiting, hearing it later as an echo,

Hear an exultation.

Hymn from bible times.

Something,

Deep in the space of somewhere.

Primal,

Unknowable with vision

Sensed with the goosebumps of suspicion-

Of being watched-

Something hears the song

In all it’s iterations

And quickens its designs

and plans

And desires,

To make itself known to the audience

And everyone else.

Saw is finished.

The players do not bow.

There will be an encore

And another,

And another,

And another,

And another,

And another,

And another,

And-Something waits with home-grown impatience. 

soon, it will interrupt the encore

And play a tune 

of its own making.

And there will be no more iterations or interpretations.

Everyone will know exactly what they are hearing.