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when no poem springs to mind
i find i
close my eyes
and listen . . . feel
the rush of blood through veins and vessels
buzz in ears and pump of heart
i feel and listen for some art
and follow pulse to fingertips
that fumble keys
producing
this
There is no poetry,
so sense of words written
as music.
Perhaps there is no music.
Except the sound
found only in the deepest silence.
Then words are silenced
because the temptation to write
is lost in the fear of breaking
quiet to be heard.
To be heard
and hear laughter in reply.
do not fear the falling of silence
words cannot take its measure
hear
the melody of silence
there
in the eye of a bird
rain on skin
a curling of toes
reflections in a glass of wine
the breath of flame
ink
drying on the page
in your lips
within your hands
driven ever onwards
in your heart
I've found that I am comfortable
with my silence.
No longer need the blues
playing on the radio,
I have my own song
in my head.
I no longer need
the cadence of desultory conversation.
Happy when she holds my hand
and squeezes it.
As long as she is smiling.
No smile requires more comfort.
Wild war whoops
went away when kids were born.
Passion can be kept quiet,
or quiet can be passionate.
Not sure which.
Low moans are nice though.
cannibal mechanics? awesomeHoly crap Smithpeter, another one of those days;
it was a true rednec adventure of cannibal mechanics,
but damn son, turned out nice.
..
I'm thinking 'bout the shower
but my butt's square in this chair
too tired to make another rhyme
I've been sitting here an hour
See ya