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A Jung Lim Jun 2020
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
Coleen Mzarriz May 2020
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.
Glenn Currier Feb 2019
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.
Sonia Ettyang Feb 2019
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
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
Sherry Asbury Nov 2018
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
daytime rhythms
of coming and


out the door
in the car
to the place


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

on knees
and eyes to

and this meeting
and that duty
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

out the door
in the car
to the place

for something quick
to have for dinner



© 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.
Star BG Jan 2018
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
G Rog Rogers Sep 2017
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.


Star BG May 2017
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
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