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