I speak rightly –
set not my words to music,
nor douse them in tune to vast breaths
I am among you as mortal,
still. But, please, breathe freely –
at least for a time,
then let me be to eager rests’
devoted arms –
of course your strewn petals,
benign at my feet,
speak calmly of foe and friend –
draw me close to your wondrous
adoration; so separate me not from music’s glow
when such fragments tear you
into fractious, scattered pieces –
and so it is perhaps that great art’s worship
be confined to symbolic gesture.
I am not lost, and I am not gone
whilst echoes play
with such innocence
and voices call me. I am translucent.
Gleaned from me is the skin you were denied.
I am always yours. I am diaphanous.
The ancient bell
of the temple summons
lost spirits to prayers;
murk figures roam alone
unacquainted on snow covered
mountains where peaks punctuate
streaming cauldron clouds, drawing birds
that circle the meditative winds.
Chimes from the west
bring the mist in to wander
with the wind from the east –
dusk strikes the temple bell
for worship; the tranquil mist then rolls away
and vanishes to re-join the hawks circling
the snowy peaks in peaceful
Picture: Sock Monkey while on nature walk with questions of deepness.
Quadrille poetry form = 44 words & red bird. Thank you monkey.
Sins that stain a royal perch
are preened like smooth, red
but those of the cardinal’s beatific
hang on staggered boughs
like broken bread fed worshippers;
high and mighty – aloof.
Masquerading aloft, he knows
where you all are.