Poetry Challenge – A Letter To Myself

22 February 2012

 

Dear A,

The years pass by like landscapes painted and pinned to the walls of consciousness, moments caught like musical notes strung into a sprawling jazz piece where spontaneous brass and ivory court the senses with teachings of grandeur.

We hear only the sounds we permit ourselves to hear. Of them, take only a few, and of those few, experience them like you are made of sand. We are but travelers with a silent yearning. When the heart gestures at the bird in flight, follow it.

Abide generously when the mind searches for silence. It is your music it longs to hear. The mad man and the poet know the way. Wipe their tears with your palm and water the garden. Watch what blooms, illuminated and awakened, when you let go of false certainties.

The artist transfers the shades of their vulnerability onto canvas. Listen as the shadows fall away. Tomorrow the sun will set as always and man’s growth, will rise with the moon…

The dead bird, to dust births flowers. There is consequence, and consistency. The seasons, a great journey forward. This is harmonies dependance.

Cradle your melody upon your heart and corner the breast like vanishing dew. In your grasp, faith, for next season. The wound is where the music flows from. Everything has life.

And A, don’t let the piano play your song without you…

 

Sincerely,

Yours

 

 

 

 

NOTE: With thanks to ClownRhymes Poetry Challenge found at http://clownponders.wordpress.com/2012/02/21/348/#comment-1595

 

Advertisements

Letter – 15 October 2011 II

 

Beloved,

I have tried so many times to respond… but however does one begin to write a poem for a poet?
When I search for comfort I find my breath, concealing you in song. There, our voices sing to the moon and the blossoming dawn, as they lay bare the fragrance of the earth. Aching, for your feet to step to my path, to penetrate the expertise that comes from loving over and over and over again, I wait, hoping you will remember the shared field, our lips amongst the harvest, bodies tied to earth searching for their truth…

A

The Art of Subtlety

It is not a surprise that you see at all!

All poets are in love!

You see beauty, and we are surprised.

As I write this, your Beloved waits

Where you hold the unveiled,

Where we all wait for love,

Yet we, excluding you, do not know how

To shiver from a dizzy kiss in the arms of love.

You see your Beloved’s hand on a golden shore

Wreathed in jasmine, bathed in moonlight,

And we, we keep our wings in your hand

Learning your subtlety.

(c) A Hannan