For someone
it can be a noise

Drum beats
tremble with space
metals split
the bunch of leather beats

A typhoon of disorder

Staying wrapped
in the middle of a striking hurricane
Feeling the sound
shouting to me

My heart beats
It absorbs those beats
It shakes my head
touching my spirit

This music long ago
came from shamans

When the music was
a human ceremony

Mysterious rhythms

What are those numbers
in the elastic organic rhythms?
What are those symbols
of the perception of the world?

Followed long roads
and formed through time
passing from people to people
with their own body rhythms

Their clouds
Their rains
Their thunders
Their earth

Transformed in the
orchestra of percussion

And the story of their nature
descends to me

I hear my ancestors
their messages

I meet them
and now I play

Their and our rhythms
of the Korean percussion

I open this blank Word document.
Its white expanse a challenge I am not sure I want to take.
But now I’ve got two lines - going on three
will this be the seed of a small green sprout of a tree?

This page is a bright sky
beckoning me to take a breath
at first shallow barely containing enough oxygen
to sustain sitting up.

But writing is like breathing to me
I do it most of the time without much effort
inspiring and expiring
here in this white desert
one line at a time
minute by minute, day after day
trying to find something worthwhile to say
worthy of my time as I sit here growing older
or your time to pause here in this blooming desert
never quite sure if it or I am worthy of the fuss.
But isn’t writing the thing that sustains us
no matter its poetic patterns or rhythms or rhymes?
Writing is breathing to me and do it I must.  Lots of times.

Scent of pine lingers
over the deep labyrinths
beneath the trees.
Black beetles bump chests
like Sumo wrestlers
as they try to avoid each other
in the warm scratch
of detritus dark with shade.
Baby snakes lace the meadow grass
where deep sunshine heats their cold bones.
A deep hush is suspended
by the erratic leaps of pond frogs.
One sails on a limb through
water yellow and noxious as nicotine.
The day carries  its own rhythms
and paints them on a peaceful canvas.
Where I would love to be.

daytime rhythms
of coming and
going


a-swish
a-yawn
a-slam
a-trudge


out the door
in the car
to the place


there


twiddled thumbs
swivelled chairs
barked-up trees
and morning teas
and banter

​
hands
on knees
and eyes to
clock
​

and this meeting
here
and that duty
there
tick tock


a-flow through
time and space
and light
as the
sun turns over
in its sky
and rests its
head down on
the other side
​

then
out the door
in the car
to the place
​

for something quick
to have for dinner
​

then
​

home
​



© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield

Who am I
but what I am?

Not quite just
a simple inquiry.
So please reply
distinctly specific
while abandoning logic

Yet please most
definitely clearly.

When am I
but where I am?

A notorious
questioning query.
Quietly sneering,
laughing, awaiting
the one obvious
reasonable answer.

Why am I?

Put surely, not simply.

Only to be?

A rhyming riddle
playing a crescendo
cadence of rebellious
Rock 'n Jazz
and Reggae rhythms?

Yes and still no
but much, doubtlessly,
even much more.

A man is to live!

Truly, inescapably,
always, yet certainly,
only nothing

but far beyond
day to day.


-R.

(06)
-TX

In the name of love I take a step,
scribing a song from heart that radiates.
They pulsate with every moment,
swirling to seed its truth in a mind.

In the name of words I shall write,
putting paper to pen to find rhythms.
They spiral in scripted form
opening to awaken those who gather.

In the name of love, I open eyes
dancing to celebrate the gift of life.
They echo bridging the gap,
to awaken all inside peace and oneness.

StarBG © 2017