Here lies a continuation of being.
View it as scenery indifferent to the weather channel.
A silent, exponential inverted sunshine euphoria
Warming the deepest letters of the soul:
U and I swaying outside linear cubic conventions corroded-
We sway like flowering Earth Resonance blooming as foreign
A toe-curling in the chest stretched intimate at the highest hour
An unconditional syncopation of the heart and mind echoing a
Design as Liquid Resonance - I am that which you are.
“I could cry solid tears. Where have I been all these years,” says
You to reflected I rippling
Never spoken, only written as an abstract entity aware of vibrations
Tethered to timeless stories never read, only felt as I and U in
Reflected them, the missing strangers with a need to be found
Twisted eyes, encumbered lips, everflowing knitted letters stuttered. Kissed. Growing from itself a rehearsed mantra embroidered pattern discord. Mythical. The murmuration of a serenade’s evil dermis that feigns thick to tooth and claw, but silences to love as the overture.
Wide-eyed, you and I are a nascent reprise of words cloaked in inked pages turning in the billowing wind.
"Read them to me."
So I read in heavy rain.
From Monday to Sunday.
I’m the perm of a
I can choke
I can breathe
I can drink a cup of coffee
Are a murmuration
A flock of afternoon
I will let your
Black mass love me
I’m reaching for you
Take me with your arrow
The streets of this
And I introduce the yowling
The dead skin on
Flecks with the quiver
Of flying with you
There’s a moon like sunrise in her
Glass clouded obsidian eyes
That twinkle like jewel dew
Drops clinging to wind branches.
An essence under Sunday rainfall.
There was a lack of being until the conclusion:
A murmuration in the night and the water
In the glass and the ship that was slowly sinking.
You sang a serenade.
Driving down a backroad in desolate Apulia,
a black cloud of birds formed behind a hill--
It became two then one again in dynamic flight,
resolving into specks and finally,
graceful darts of life.
In the air: Swerving, splitting, rejoining.
Aware of each and all,
a synchronous response to a secret call.
A wave in motion, a flowing organism,
never repeating but ever the same.
We stopped and looked with wonder--
How do they do that? And why?
A lightning bolt: Is it a protest? Pesticides?
What would we do when
food is scarce,
and wells run dry?
Probably nothing as organized- or beautiful.
Words, words, worms! My mind is swarmed
With them. Ants file in through the sticky
Canals, chattering, stamping their little black feet.
They use me. I am their harboring medium,
A visitor in my own head.
Black, empty mouths flutter and dance and signal
Amongst themselves, crowding my skull,
A murmuration of phrases and guttural sounds.
I mustn't tell fully what they say.
They draw forth black and bubbling swamps,
Wicked crows, the yawping millions, pecking,
Pecking, gouging with yammering beaks
At every smooth, young innocent.
There is death in this tumult of words.
Let it not take me.
We will wait there
until the stars vanish in silence and the sky is quietly unmade in front of only our eyes. When there is no one left to know our names, all winds cease and fires can no longer burn. When the sun rises in an infinite western front with a secret smile and a gift, we will observe lights first childlike laughter as it races across the slowly rocking cradle of a newborn eternity, selflessly the eaters of bad dreams and heartfelt goodbyes. The shadow death of what could have been but never was loomed over as I stood by the stair in this long broken house
and watched our sorrows murmuration into the blinking abyss
From the windows of our soul
as a new ache crossed over my heart.
Languor has its cost
And it is beautiful
a murmuration of starlings
shivers over an empty parking lot
blue sky emerges from the gloom
and then disappears again
indifferent to my approach, a stray cat
yawns and blinks its copper eyes
grackles gather on the powerlines
in the middle of the day
weeks early, autumn winds
chase leaves down the sidewalks
anxious about the fate of the nation
I search for signs and portents
a wave crests and then is gone
I comfort myself by remembering
that it has always been so
Tom Spencer © 2018
Nothing tops the melancholy
of the sweet blackbird sing
twee shrill from beak o' yellow
natures feathered cello
The artistry of the Housemartin
low flight, dancing pirouettes
on land Englishman sow
betwixt wildflowers earthly grow
A wood pigeon hurries tree to tree
A weight in flight rarely seen
Wings ten t' dozen ,audible hum
A quick heartbeat of a big bass drum
Then the May treat the starling
A spring sensation
a thousand wings delightful circle
a swarm , A murmuration.
The Joy's of living in natures abundance
— The End —