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
In just a fleck of dust,
conceived in flesh and blood — there we are, breathing in harmony; even with empty songs out of noble destruction. Crickets sang for mate — nature dance with waves — people convey with phrases, still with their tones, we create masterpieces. Singing with those compositions — flowing of patterns; dry our bones, with just a speckle of dust — it makes us. In just a particle of grime and clay; Formed in flesh and blood — in melodies, thyself is a treasure. Thyself is a masterpiece.
you are a masterpiece.
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.
She lives among the stars
Swirls around the sun But in her daydreams She's one with the elements Free flowing as the wind Her spirit forever burns like wild fire Her body like the ocean is forever in motion dancing to the rhythm of her own drums from one shore to another she moves With flowers around her head Jewelry on her body Music in her heart Pen and notebook in her hand And eyes set on the infinite sky To wander and to wonder Forever enchanted by the mysteries of the earth ©Sonia Ettyang
“To move freely you must be deeply rooted.”Bella Lewitzky
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.
City life bores me
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
The march of nine-to-five sets the rhythm of the day, both soothing and begrudging. It causes flare-ups of activity at certain times and lulls at others.
Collective shufflings here and there make people cranky but keep them on track. And the sequence of sounds—predictable, as if orchestrated—makes music of the mundane.
she sits at daybreak with
colorful thoughts to fill silence. She writes with swirling vibrations from soul. Hours of day melt away, as birds orchestrations rise to coat ears. To expand heart into a carousel of heartbeats. To scribe with delicate verse. The rhythms resonate the truth, she is never alone. And that the silence is refreshing like a gentle breeze.
Inspired by A Ray of Sun thank you
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
inspired by Eudora