Soulful interludes Cento Taka

Walk up a country lane to farmhouse darkness the finesse the true an deep point of navigation everything bathed held in quiet glory
Become the farmer go to the fields at first light let the machinery flow through your eye gate steel formed with lines of brute power
Rubber round the glide across richest black soil these fields so common quickly turn from spurious to immeasurable splendor as told
In the farmer’s heart as he stands on his porch looks into this six foot stand dark brooding stretches endlessly away its volume weighs
On his soul as it comes in great waves into his consciousness the finest feeling of accomplishment brightness his face well done Cloyce
Gatewood you left a lot behind as you passed from this green productive land

Purposely walk along the streets of the big apple no senses it can’t activate music your taste go on a quiet early evening slip in unseen
To the concert hall look on from the shadows as the master opens the case tenderly and lovingly takes out the violin you will hear
Sounds that can only be formed in dreams it’s not possible in the realm of those that are awake you will hear the spruce plate and the
maple ribbing create such acoustic sounds only sounds of tears gently coursing that only God can hear are brought forth from the bow
And the strings take caution lean on something or set or you could fall from weak legs and a mind and heart to full overloaded with
Beauty the master uses outward physical means to bring and evoke the music of his hidden soul thank you Johann Sebastian Bach.
Or perhaps your interest lies in art paints and canvass art shows abound museums house every piece imaginable the higher beauty
Of New Mexico and its desert shapes not found on the surface no need to worry Georgia O Keefe went from these very streets her
Vision her eye that looked beyond barren waste made the desert flower before it biblical time that it bud as a rose when the prince
Shall come by the way happy birthday great prince on that note maybe your taste runs in ancient musty yesterdays the master piece
Of Rembrandt he stalked the world as a lion his brush his power his strokes exude genius timeless wonder captured executed with
Deftness enthralling praise of the crowd still is heard well at least in sweetest whispers it is a museum you know.
Great writing telling lines your delight book stores out number restaurants food for the mind far greater than the temporal treats
Consumed and then soon forgotten No man is an island John Donne (1572-1631). … "All mankind is of one author, and is one volume;
When one man dies” or the words of Henry David Thorough “most men live quiet lives of desperation”
Maybe you’re the outdoors man leave the soul of a city that flows back and forth from divine true heart and goodness to a city noted
As a volcano the pressure intense at times that’s the cost of greatness well walk among the redwoods john Muir possessed the good
Sense to set this treasure aside in fact a Golden gate is at one end of Muir Woods the Barbary Coast its greater cloak that defines
Beauty through breath taking sites cliffs that rise and border the pacific waters, detailed by a Salinas resident you might have heard of
His two stories Cannery Row Grapes of Wrath and several others made John Steinbeck an American literary giant not bad for great
Outdoors men well this completes my Cento salute. Authors and masters who elevate us all.

The possibility of free declamation anchored
And lucid, inescapable rhythms
Do have meaning. They're strong as rocks
In the deep-toned Aeolian mode
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
A Poet could not but be gay,
The Impotence to Tell –
Still makes a poem a surprise!

Emily Dickinson – Cento

Me from Myself – to banish –
I’m Nobody! Who are you?

There is a pain – so utter
Time never did assuage
The Soul has Bandaged moments
Of Course – I prayed
Because Escape – is done-

The soul has moments of Escape –
To justify the Dream –
I took my Power in my Hand -

Creator – Shall I – bloom?
I thought if I could only Live
Somewhere – in Silence –
I dwell in Possibility –
The Impotence to Tell –
Exhilaration – is within –

Me from Myself – to banish –
I’m Nobody! Who are You?

KRose
July 30, 2015

We who went into the 4 a.m. of the world
regretting nothing but an unfinished song.

We who were murdered in the darkest lanes
and at the corner of the street.

I was much further out than you thought,
starless and fatherless, a dark water -

rescue me from this ocean.
In this part of the story I am the one who

changes minute by minute.
Beauty is the sole business of poetry -

I go on loving you like water but
every night fire breaks out from windows in Üsküdar.

We are standing in line outside of something
often rebuked, yet always back returning.
I heard laughter and forgotten consonants,
its unrelenting memories of happiness
but inward grows a soberness, an awe.
Poverty gnashing its teeth like a blind cat at their lives.
Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?

"No, just stop. No, just stop. No, just stop."
How long did I live like that?
"I'm out of money."
"Most people would **** for that score."
This is for the other woman.

You enjoy breathing,
beauty and truth.
We do live in a place where the rain hits the windows.
I'll be there.

The future is on the next page.
It's so loud in there right now.
He looks ancient.
Getting what you want destroys you.

I went to the river last night
Dreamed of being a river and sleeping like a river
You searched for a **** who was like a river
Along the East River and the Bronx
Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt,
River! that in silence windest
On its way to a rendezvous with some river

I've always enjoyed thinking about the reasoning of our existence
Man was made in God's image
Then came woman to comfort man
Which u did by the way. Thank you
If eve never ate the Apple, man would have been immortal
So most men blame women for not making us live forever

But she did anyway
It made God decide a place in the heavens for us
So in a way, even the first woman knew exactly what she was doing
She did an exceptional job

All morning, as I sit thinking of you,
the Monarchs are passing.
Yet the moth has trim, and feistiness, and not a drop
of self-pity.
The twenty-winged cloud of yellow butterflies
floats into the field.
The irregular postage stamp of death;
a black moth the size of my left
thumbnail is all I’ve trapped in the damask.
Certainly, we all felt
this vastly hollowed-out distress.