We have all been poisoned, by the sound. The entire rhythm is incorrect, simply wrong, the sound itself, is killing us. The constant drum beat, so hollow and unwavering, the call for acclaim and success, for adoration and subsistence, all a glitter sandwich of desperate ugliness––the sound of modern life, inhuman and untenable, a constant craving whipped into froth, a call to entice appetites grotesque and foul…so is the sound of advertising. We are awash in it, and a new standard of stimulus has been achieved, much to the detriment of our better humanity. For all subtle and delicate things, do perish in the neon glitter and rubbish of this age. How brash is my voice, rattling and sore, simply to be noticed amongst the litter of broken shouts. The sound, is killing us.
I have long ago, decided to create something different. I had no choice. It was killing me. The sound. I will admit, I am exhausted and worn thin from the effort…so many essays…for no one appears to have ears for my words––subtle and bashful are the unspoken places, where thought resides. You and I, are fabric spread between moments, and but brittle cloth, so is time. Oh, how the folds unheard, do find within them…each new beginning. Subtle and sweet, is life. A sound and a rhythm…a pulse. I will show you. It is not brash or pungent. Here…This, only this… is the rhythm, of our better life:
Between silent fingers of ink, a bashful moon rests, silver pulse, silent and singing, fragile web, hovering in tender ink, a silver drop, but too pure to taste. Can you hear, the first imagining, which has conjured thought?…for I have laid it here, sleeping and perfect is the first moment…for tomorrow is but an imagining cast out, sacred and pure…a sound. We are but the first faded whisper, unsure and mellow, she calls within my ear, hints of the reason––silver cloth ripples under the breath of shadows.
Echoes have long vanished, into the empty sky. There is a tender place, a hollow, which has called the moments up to fill, and find, reason. Shhhh, my tender one…can you hear, the sound before…sound? Only within the graceful hollow of moments, can the first reason, be tasted.
We are but the hollow moment, cast out, and left…a shallow unfilled is time. This is our reason.
You are but reason to find and fill, the empty moments. I am the child and first father, of time. We are no different in this. Did you know that? Truth, is a tender riddle, too delicate to hold.
Can you hear the sound, of folded time, sweet and vacant, is the need, which has named you. It is in the empty places, that meaning, is first conjured. Hunger is the fount of all hope, the subtle poet of the unspoken ages. She who casts, gathers, and is affirmed.
As the dawn is but hollow into which the future is lain, our question is summed and spent. Oh, how deeply blessed are we, we who can hear:
There is a hollow, sweet and bashful, pure and wanting, spilling into the deepest wells of shadow, a silver question, brittle and unsure, as platinum web in drifting mist, tastes at a singing moon, her heart held and cupped in silent folds; vanishing and sultry is want, spilled into ink, and sweetly spent. In this…we are blessed.
As moonlight drifts over shaded waters, cool and rippling under a covetous moon…as the warmth of golden day, spreads her fingers of bounty over field and valley, painted in honied wind; as the most silent places, find the brightest chattering noon to fill up with warmth; as the snowy valley, cups the blue sparks of distant sky; as the hunger of moments, calls forth…so you may fill them; so do I love you. For this is the sound, of hope.
Moonlight, brittle and pure, spills over a winter lake, and tastes of the sacred places. Shining and bright, silent and hiding, is the sound…of hope. There is a moment, sunken and quiet is its need, a hollow of doubt, traced in moonlight. Can you hear, the folds, of first need, which have called moon from sky, and filled the night with stars? Oh, how empty, was the place, which has held you, and now receives. For we are but hope’s imagining. Can you hear her need, painted as silver ripples spread over the rippled cloth of moments, now sustained, as a poem, filled from within. Oh, how blessed are we, to hear! For this…is the sound, of our world.
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This work is the sole property of the author, Rich Norman © 2016, and is used by this forum with both permission and gratitude.