Chop wood, carry water,
channel Ra.
Overtones over the undulations of Nun,
where the first man stood quite
apart from his father.
The cattle of Ra poured forth from his eyes and
thus he ruled over what he made.
Red frequencies in the dark are
strung outside of time -
the mana by which energy makes art.
I cannot look toward the Black Octave…
bad cymatics in the Red Resonant Year.
I’m barking at the Blue Tetrad.
The indian guides couldn’t tell if it was
Comanche or wolf.
They remained still for quite a long time.

By: Jordan Gee

deep as the ocean
soft and warm like mornings

sweet tones like chocolate
wrap me up and pull me in

these tones and octaves
how beautiful, these sounds

im in love with your voice

In Praise of Meter
by Michael R. Burch

The earth is full of rhythms so precise
the octave of the crystal can produce
a trillion oscillations, yet not lose
a second’s beat. The ear needs no device
to hear the unsprung rhythms of the couch
drown out the mouth’s; the lips can be debauched
by kisses, should the heart put back its watch
and find the pulse of love, and sing, devout.

If moons and tides in interlocking dance
obey their numbers, what’s been left to chance?
Should poets be more lax—their circumstance
as humble as it is?—or readers wince
to see their ragged numbers thin, to hear
the moans of drones drown out the Chanticleer?

Published by Poetry Porch/Sonnet Scroll, The Eclectic Muse, The Best of the Eclectic Muse 1989-2003, Famous Poets & Poems, Poetry Renewal Magazine, Mindful of Poetry, Sonnetto Poesia, Trinacria and Poetry Life & Times

Keywords/Tags: Rhythm, rhyme, meter, beat, music, octave, heart, pulse, watch, numbers

If I open my eyes, I will be awake.
I am awake; I don’t want to open my eyes.
Even though dawdling in bed is unwise
it is a bad habit I have yet to break.
If I were a morning person, I would shake
off sleep’s sluggish cloak and arise
fresh as a daisy; my arms open to the skies
and greet sunrise without the bellyache.

Chastened
Defiant
Emotion

Forgiving
Gateway

Amidst
Blinded
Chif­fon

i'm still in love with the way your voice skips an octave when you get upset

you used to love my poetry beyond anything in the world but now

you blocked my poetry account i used to write poems about you but

you'll never see them the way you used to

you say you don't care you say you're scared of nothing but I know you're scared to admit it

you're still in love with my mind

the way i'm in love with yours