"timpanic" poems
Timpanic membrane mumbles transform into
Crescendoes, dumb except within skull walls.
Not quite like a burn, not quite like a sting this
din deigns to drag out old heartaches and new
failures and fresh ideas and stale aspirations but
stuck in staccato can any one idea stay or are
they doomed to rattle, to deafen? They come
and go and is the thought even finished with
these streams of consciousness up against
dull tasks, wasting commands and all these
commands waste so much energy. When I just
want the world to stand still is there any
one – yes it is who weaves
back in and YOU that resonates
in overtones. have made the
mental madness manageable when you quietly
stop the leaking gap.
A plane on which to balance. A grip with which
to bolster stronger blisters.
A quieting yes to block out
out the trembling timbre.
You are order out of chaos.
In the evening’s repose,
My silent film dreams
honor you, and
in the morning
I wake to noiselessness
and a thunderous heart
Aug 13, 2019
Aug 13, 2019 at 6:33 PM UTC
QUSTIONS AND ANSWERS
Questions – like flowers that open
too early before the color deepens.
They enter and leave mysteriously
in a cloud of confusion, hanging
on the fates of life, safe from neither
bliss nor danger.
Anwsers maybe whispers in the wind
or the touch of a warm palm on a cheek,
a timpanic clamor or the sound of
untouched strings, a thought that
ripens slowly like a color that sets,
an unexpcted letter in the mail
or something unknown in the air.
A question is fragile between
good and bad moments, coming
and going, unfinished.
The answer creating hope
or undoing expectation,
a reminder of forgotten
feeling startling the heart
with strange happiness
or sudden fear, or a bell
unstruct, silent as white
moths against a screen.
Jun 7, 2024
Jun 7, 2024 at 3:21 AM UTC