A whisper within the tall reeds,
as hollow words
echo though those static.
Yet ever word has motion
on those unmoved.
Yet words can collect upon the cracks.
Weaving untruths between each,
And still though unmoved.
I heard the lies that started
as a ripple in a pond.
But made there way through
the reeds that stood tall.
And I just gazed as the wind told me,
that no matter the ripples.
A breeze is still made,
and will pass through,
the reeds of static
I cried on the edge,
that I neither had thrown
a stone of lies within
or that I had breathed untruths
wavering between static reeds.
I am sincerely sorry for being an absentee in my own life. You probably don't know me or even care about my existence, nor do you find relevance in my apologetic attempt to reconcile my fruitlessness. But I feel strongly compelled to apologize for my stagnation:
I come from a pond across the way from you. A stowed away break in the trees where the sun only shines for a brief time at noon and disappears for the rest of the day. The birds don't sing their song of sixpense, nor do the fish splash or the frogs belch their symphony. Even the crickets scream as loud as the mimes at the circus. For nothing enters and nothing leaves, so why do you even bother?
I only write to you for what could have been, and pray for forgiveness for what hasn't been. I understand that the act of "what if"s is a waterfall of tears cascading into an abyss, but I find that this journey is a necessary evil.
So what if I made a splash today in my pond, the ocean of things that I can actually control. Sent ripples across the pond and stirred the fish into commotion. The frogs join in the chaos with their symphony and maybe the crickets, after hearing the low bass of croaking, decide to join in with their rhythm that awakens the birds from their deep slumber. In response, the birds spring up with their joyous melody and the ensemble of nature creates an exuberant noise in a previously dull and dim place. Such a thought that one tiny splash can dictate a tremendous ensemble, such that if you took your thoughts off of your own life for a split second you could possibly be splendidly surprised by burst of nature from an insignificant source. Such small fractions of life can create mesmerizing sound waves that make you a little happier today.
It seems so simple to create, just a whispering splash. Yet I have failed to create a single note that is audible to the outside world.
There are two plausible reasons for my plight: Either the noise I attempt to create is so insignificant to the outside world that more significant amplifications exceed my own capacity to make sound or the world is just simply not listening anymore.
No matter how many times you cry out, jump up and down in the pond and scream your head off at the world; the ripples aren't forming. The waves don't crash on the shore and one is left standing invisible in the center of a drowning amount of commotion.
And if you are reading this, you are the anomaly that has slipped through the sound barrier to hear this silent song.
Ripples in a slow river, lazy,
Flowing down time for thee,
All the nostalgic memories,
Ghosts of the survivors, yes,
Living in our hearts to bless,
Then we'll all fade away into space,
Floating away in the ripples of grace.....
A sunset sends a gentle wave of gold washing over a beautiful blue sky
The lake mirrors what it sees
Until the wave seems to have soaked everything but the black silhouettes of the trees and land
Time passes and gold fades to a darker blue than before
But now bright white stars flood the seemingly empty space
A firefly sparks wonder as it flashes its message of light in morse code
Frogs and crickets fill the silence with their strange music
As we watch the world change,
We sit side by side and create a multitude of ripples that echo soundlessly towards the horizon
We live on the ripples of a beating heart
Sailing wide across a great black sea
Each pulses like falling raindrops
As we drift on the surface of destiny
We know the struggles and the storms to come
Foundations the turmoils of passing winds
Are scattering on our way towards the sun
Were raised by none but the breathe of our will
We become landscapes the further we are drawn
Cold mountains, dense forests, oceans and such,
On our carved existence all promise to be found
As we roam from mood to mood, from thought to thought
We understand at last what the touch reconciles
When we start to realize what we had always known
That the world was always ours, and it dawns on our mind
That the rainfall had stopped while we’ve landed home
Written in June 2019 - for an exhibition in Peking.
Splish, splish, ploop.
A stone gently disturbs
the plane of the mirror,
into undisclosed depths.
Ripples erupt, breaking
the surface of the tarn.
As the current subsides—
splish, splish, ploop.
What if we could
live and die,
creating such soft—
such token undulations?
Splish, splish, ploop.
Let’s cause cosmic waves
of compassion and aegis
for the planet,
leaving, as such, small
wrinkles and blemishes
upon the surface.
Splish, splish, ploop.
A. I. Myles 2o June, 2o19
divided we stand
then unity shall fall
the greatest of all
what you know
except we shout
them out loud
what you see
except we never
cast them doubt
firm on the ground
we know no noise
until our voices abound
how do you shake it off?
it really isn't so weird how misinformation and revolution go together right?
tis like reliving the death of julius caesar if no one blindly assumed he'd grow to be a tyrant king, or like picturing the death of socrates if no one in the entire democratic government of athens thought an old man who only knows he knows nothing is out to get them.
go crazy. i never meant to say revolution is wrong.
idk maybe misinformation is???
heavy handed haters unite sounds like a college band name haha feel free to use it if ever :3
thank you for reading!!!
ps. sure the earth is flat and all the government units in the world is hiding it for reasons. also nasa faked the moon landing and they still deny it for reasons. also global warming isn't true, just more and more people are dying from stroke globally each year for reasons.
Like a ripple...
Spreads the inner arrogant statements of self
Which you'd never tell someone else
Because even sounding them out sounds loud
But you believe in them still
In the quiet subconsciousness of self
Like the echoings of an inner cavern
There is something there
Because something that once cast shadows fell
The sun it rises slowly as you walk...
Overlapping like our hands
But colder, quicker
And in an uncontrolled fall
Free until splash, dew part
The rain drops in the puddle there
Are not like us at all
Rain Drop Ripples In A Puddle