dan-r-grantham - Hello Poetry

My third arm An acoustic guitar Painting an audible mural Brushed my fingers That bleed passion And feed the heart No need for eyes And none for words We'll share it all Through vibrations Which mend the hurt Channeled through shaped mahogany And tightly wound copper Our soul soliloquies Poems at eighty decibels

0

Apr 5, 2012

Apr 5, 2012 at 2:03 AM UTC

dan-r-grantham

POEMS at 80(dB)

My third arm An acoustic guitar Painting an audible mural Brushed my fingers That bleed passion And feed the heart No need for eyes And none for words We'll share it all Through vibrations Which mend the hurt Channeled through shaped mahogany And tightly wound copper Our soul soliloquies Poems at eighty decibels

15

Perched up for what could have been a century A living statue, innate onlooker, weathered survivor Now dying and giving in to the gentle pull of Earth Bathing in broken sunlight, we ate dinner, looking on through the kitchen window Watched you transform and grow downward Watched you lose limb, then limb again Looking out the dinning room window every night In the wind, we watched it sway as it hung from you Like an aging man, a creased face and graying hair I stood at dusk, in the pasture I admired your bending stance against the backdrop of a descending sun It too shall have the same fate And so shall I

0

Jul 31, 2011

Jul 31, 2011 at 6:41 PM UTC

dan-r-grantham

Spanish Moss on a Dying Oak

Perched up for what could have been a century A living statue, innate onlooker, weathered survivor Now dying and giving in to the gentle pull of Earth Bathing in broken sunlight, we ate dinner, looking on through the kitchen window Watched you transform and grow downward Watched you lose limb, then limb again Looking out the dinning room window every night In the wind, we watched it sway as it hung from you Like an aging man, a creased face and graying hair I stood at dusk, in the pasture I admired your bending stance against the backdrop of a descending sun It too shall have the same fate And so shall I

14

Three weeks of dryness and the rain is now approaching. On the back porch under the tin awning, I sit on the swing and face you. You've been watching the field ahead, awaiting the oncoming storm. We spot the rain as it approaches from across the field. A flowing wave of dying weeds dance towards us, set in motion and livened by the rain as it quickly approaches. You turn my way as a few initial drops land on the awning, loud and inciting. The silence of the drought is broken by thousands of raindrops landing continuously against the tin. For the first time in what seems like years, you turn my way and speak. With eyes as intent as the downpour, I see your lips moving, your voice muted by the rain. The dry ground is now wet. You turn, once more, towards the field. Together, we watch in silence. Saying nothing. Saying everything.

0

Jul 28, 2011

Jul 28, 2011 at 9:35 PM UTC

dan-r-grantham

An Instance of Certainty

Three weeks of dryness and the rain is now approaching. On the back porch under the tin awning, I sit on the swing and face you. You've been watching the field ahead, awaiting the oncoming storm. We spot the rain as it approaches from across the field. A flowing wave of dying weeds dance towards us, set in motion and livened by the rain as it quickly approaches. You turn my way as a few initial drops land on the awning, loud and inciting. The silence of the drought is broken by thousands of raindrops landing continuously against the tin. For the first time in what seems like years, you turn my way and speak. With eyes as intent as the downpour, I see your lips moving, your voice muted by the rain. The dry ground is now wet. You turn, once more, towards the field. Together, we watch in silence. Saying nothing. Saying everything.

15