How gently falls the rain

I

The soundscape slips away

To softness, almost vanishing

Into earth

 

II

As an unease brings wind-

Rain straying in from endless

Places of geological space

 

 

III

I sense skylarks-

Huge sea-creatures out of sea

Out of breath, an evening adrift

 

IV

Until currents free the clouds

Rain-feed soaks

Beneath subterranean

Surfaces of garden

Insisting on definition

 

V

Becoming lightness

A pattering

Drizzling down.

 

VI

How gently falls the rain.

How gently falls the fresh

Clear sound of water-music

 

 

VII

Rain-syncopations

Playing piano on the pond

As night slips in

Paddling a canoe

 

 

Copyrighted by the author

 

 

 

 

On Messiaen: For the End of Time

History rolls in scratched into vinyl

A clear reflecting surface of cities

 

A clear reflecting surface of cities

Seeded in serrated grooves of river-

 

Beds, millions of hands composting

Soil, building time,

 

Building time.

Modes of limited transposition

Modes of limited transportation

 

Trains are never benign.

 

Trains are never benign

Passing through serrated grooves of river-

Soil, building time, millions of hands

Composting seeds, setting up camps

 

Setting up camps. If binaries build camps, cities

Rotate, gravitate, then I see ancient cities

 

Ancient us on the phonograph, record-player, turntable

Turning around

 

Turning around

 

I see ancient us, a discordant

Species long lost in space scratching

For seeds, setting barbed wire camps

 

Searching for seeds

Growing a meadowpatch

Hearing Messiaen

 

Travelling by train to the end of time

 

 

Copyrighted by the author

A Cypress Flowers: Cypresses XII

Like a double helix turning

And turning, curving round

The scrubby shaking tree

 

Grows my pandorea instead

Of me. I would climb inside

And sit awhile looking out

 

At the passing scenes

Flitting across green suburban

Screens, shadowy wind figures

 

Blowing in, blowing out

Imagining no footholes,

A floundering projectionist

 

People wandering past

A long-limbed vine

Steadily climbing higher

 

And higher until

A cypress flowers pink

And white, a cypress shouts

 

Colour, shouts freedom

Though noone hears

It’s bursting heart.

 

Copyrighted by the author

I think of Birdman

I try to write music

As you talk bird

For bird knows

You are bird too

Though you are man

 

If I were sound

I would speak tune

I would compose songs

That any bird

Could sing

 

Though I am not bird

And cannot sing.

I think of birdman

Talking poems that fly

Of chorister

 

Singing night owl

Singing verse

While I talk song

Squawking my lines

Like a bird

 

Though I am not bird

And cannot fly

Though I try.

Music talks to birdman

Talks to chorister

 

Talks to me

Hesitant on my perch

Learning to be bird

To be night

To be song.

 

 

 

 

 

Copyrighted by the author