Chills emerged from someplace near
And someplace far, with half-known fear,
Quick bringing forth the naked cold
Of mind with dust blown off, so old
Times – so old they were youth –
Return to current, waves uncouth.
Freeing things unknown but hid,
Their never-before key melded,
To open strong the heavy door
That had been only walls before.
So that the wind blows without things
To block it, muffle how it sings,
How it sings songs raw and heard
And deep-wailed from this earth-wide bird –
Its strong but subtle power freed,
To move the air, release the seed.
Tag Archives: Rhyming Poems
Chills emerged from someplace near
The stage and crowd moved with the sound,
The music pulsing through the ground –
The voice, the guitar, drums and base,
Mixing subtly, interlaced
With all the feeling of the song,
And all behind it – all nights long
Of finding true its notes and chords
And melody, all soaring towards
The goal, in all its mystery,
Joined through by lyrics’ poetry.
And layers more that lay behind
The music – set free as it binds –
These layers from times long before,
With surface lost and inside pure,
With pain and ache and joy and hope,
All intertwined in the same rope,
To push and pull, climb and repel,
Maneuvering the ancient bell,
So maybe a slight sound would toll
Barely heard and fully whole.
And all of this was covered slight
In mirrored, striving, aural light,
For all of it was in the beat
Of stage, crowd, heart – as pulses meet.
A single ember, single spark,
Single wave of light through dark,
Pushing nighttime far away,
This close-held nature, newfound day –
How wonder-filled they must have stared
At how it lit the sticks that ere
Had only seen light from the sky,
Never before running so nigh.
And perhaps too they wondered awed
At how they – how these creatures flawed –
Could find miracles hid inside
Of them, things grander that confide,
And why the world cared for them so,
That there were things deep they could know.
Perhaps their minds new-flowered too,
To paths that no one ever knew –
To paths of mystery, paths of awe,
Paths of length to walk not crawl,
Paths that showed them clear their name,
Lit by the gifted twofold flame.
The keyboard clacking makes its sounds,
Its subtle tones, its dexterous rounds –
Piano of another form,
Its own played melodies new-born
With every sentence, every word,
Every letter, read so heard,
And these together bringing thoughts
That fly through air, untie its knots –
Some stinging sharp in quiet tones,
Some staccato, some deep-yearned moans,
But all forming as one their score
Of prose or poem, fact or lore –
Making the piece that is the whole,
That is the storied-music soul.
A couple simple lines sewn through,
Brought forth together to signs new,
And placed beside their other shapes
To make their pattern – as though drapes
With lace are they, fluttering strong,
Reflecting breezes like a song,
And when pulled back revealing day
And night and scenes where each would lay,
And through these views revealing both
The revealed and revealer’s oath,
In all their ancient lace-line forms –
These simple, complex letters sworn
Through things intrinsic, things beyond,
To show the world, to keep its bond.
The blade of grass stands still and tall,
Alive among his fellows all,
Growing slightly each moment,
Though never changing, never meant
To shock or wallop with disquiet
Passersby who calmly eye it
And let it fill them for a slight
Instant of time that must be right –
That must be true and must be calm,
That must be soothed with gentle balm.
This point of time hidden but there,
Close-knit among the clearest air
With sights, with dreams, with feelings caught
From the grass blade and all it taught,
And all its fellows taught as well –
The silent, growing hopes they tell.
The dull gray walls towered again,
Blocking the green, the path, the friend,
With their mechanical, complex,
Confusing face of forms to vex.
And the man sat among the gray,
Letting it numb him far away
From the green days, which soon had fled
To their own youthful flowered bed –
Those days with hues like jesters’ caps,
That clustered lost on useless maps,
Those days that had once seemed much more,
Evaporated ere they poured.
“But this is how it is,” he said,
Glancing back at days once led,
Absentmindedly at first,
Until he was caught by a verse –
A verse of the days lost and gone,
A verse of the days trudged upon,
A verse that was but silly too,
Yet still that froze him, old and new.
And he felt the verse catch those days,
And lift them in its secret ways,
So that he saw them between walls,
And between gray – this green that calls.
He had noticed it not before –
These past notes, how they made the score,
But now he did, and now the dull,
Gray barriers bowed for a spell.
The wind blew him then, with deep air
Newly freed in soaring care,
And the man looked, so he could see
The landscape saved for him to be.