#rhythms
It doesn’t take a second
for us to find our rhythm
I’m totally locked in
the moment I’m with him
I feel the beat
like electric heat
whenever I’m with him
I feel complete
there’s no other guy
who can compete
as my pulse increases
as if with sweet kisses
you can take it from me
I’ve got the receipts
we’ve been together for years
and I think he’s for keeps
.
.
A song for this:
15 Minutes by Julian Lamadrid
Emotions and Math by Margaret Glaspy
Feb 13
Feb 13, 2026 at 1:19 PM UTC
<for DE.L>
"Like a poem poorly written,
We are verses out of rhythm,
Couplets out of rhyme,
In syncopated (1) time
And the dangling conversation,
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives"
Simon & Garfunkel, "The Dangling Conversation"
~~---------
ah, this out of rhyme and over and
past the borderline of the contours of arrhythmia
is it not the normative human condition,
who among us
is not a displaced person,
even inside the container of our minds,
seeking groundings, testing and retesting
our edged abraded shape,
with notes of vraiment,
un cri du cœur
lucky few who go without
that the affect of disaffect,
that does not contaminate the spirit,
for it is the way of the world
to overcome fear with
hatred,
to transfer the ill will,
to those who are lesser,
in number,
but greater
in accomplishment
and your internal dialogue,
always lands, settles,
on the unanswerable:
Why.
that doesn’t deserve the inquisitive honorific
of a ?
but the exhaustion of an
life long inquisition of
what is beyond
belief
Dec 29, 2025
Dec 29, 2025 at 12:47 PM UTC
It is lighter outside now,
Rather than the tar-dark
Of the night.
Cars are streaming past;
Their swoosh is like white-noise,
In the early morn.
Things are relatively static
Right now,
Until then busy-ness of the day
Commanders,
Then colour-blinds
All the senses.
Is writing poetry like my fidget toy?
A warm bath or a workout,
Still-ing, stalling and styling
My next proposition.
Apr 29, 2025
Apr 29, 2025 at 11:35 AM UTC
Have you ever pretended a guy was interesting?
Have you slow danced and let him sniff you up close?
It gives you somewhere to go, if you decide to.
Or given a little kiss—nothing slutty in that.
You know, a 'person' isn’t a good kisser - it takes two.
I’m not talking about me, of course.
There’s a two-way interrogation going on
complete with our own internal narratives
—we reenact it’s rituals in the strangest places
Like quiet libraries or the lerch and spin of a dance club
we process by analogy and approximation and it works
until it doesn’t, like cold water poured into a glass.
Then we settle back into the dull rhythms of study
I’m not talking about me, of course.
.
.
Songs for this:
This Girl's In Love (Live At HMH) by Trijntje Oosterhuis
The Men of Your Dreams by DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince
Jan 6, 2025
Jan 6, 2025 at 9:00 PM UTC
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
Jun 28, 2020
Jun 28, 2020 at 8:54 AM UTC
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.
May 19, 2020
May 19, 2020 at 2:32 AM UTC
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.
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 10:56 AM UTC
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
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 11:59 PM UTC
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.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 7:51 PM UTC
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
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 2:02 PM UTC
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.
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 7:13 PM UTC
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
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 3:18 PM UTC
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
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 10:08 AM UTC
Mother of Divine Earth vibrates,
speaking in rhythms, in flowing river,
inside dandelions roar with wind.
She calls for man to awaken,
to touch her essence, her magic, her magi-sty.
inside the ticking clock.
Mother echoes in heartbeats precious.
Speaks in rhythms with curiosity.
Why has it taken so long for man to care?
She gives loving offering the rustling river,
grass that tickles, birds that sing
The animals, wind babbling brook
all know she's a precious home.
She offers her etheric hand for man
to join the party to dance
on a sacred home, a living history of love.
StarBG © 2017
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 10:34 PM UTC
She was crawling inside her little world, hoping to hide
Her world and her emotions would turn on a dime
She tried again time after time
Hoping to find away across the widening divide
Over the knife sharp rocks of her life, she couldn't climb
It was her scars that cry, she was nothing more than a mime
Being thrown again into the abyss, it was all war crimes
Now she just laid there given up, nothing rhymes
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 3:04 PM UTC