I wonder if I shall ever find
wonder, magic, all together?
Not bits and bobs, flotsam
scattered through my life,
perceived by my perception.
Expressed through my creativity.
In our world, our universe,
put together just so.
Where life rises and life falls,
each in proper order.
Neither creation nor destruction
Hold pride of place.
Life and death
A union of equals.
Walk with me by the tree,
the flower.
Listen to the bee and the bird.
We, who pride ourselves
above all
have not, cannot change
the pattern of creation.
The song it sings,
fabled music of the spheres.
Still, we can and do and have
changed the tempo,
the time signature.
So our symphony of dirt
to dust and ashes,
Composed to last eons,
Is finished in years,
In days and hours.
Neither coda nor encore.
Walk with me by the tree,
the flower.
Listen to the bee and the bird.
The brassy trumpet, the trumpeter
speaks danger, sounds warning,
signals retreat; will no one
listen or abide?
Pounding percussion, perhaps,
moved forward, to lead our band.
Beats the rhythm,
ever louder, ever faster,
to drown out the brass.
Leaving the conductor
collapsed or gone, absent
from the stage.
I wonder, is there a composer,
a conductor, who sets the time,
waves their baton?
Or have we only ever played
our own music,
on our own instruments,
in whatever way we chose?
Still, music as analogy falls short.
No instrument, orchestra or choir
makes the discordant music,
the mighty organ-pipes of industry’s
booming, the knell of pollution.
This noise, once cherished,
proven toxic and poisoning all.
While piccolos and flutes,
melodious, yet piercing, highest
pitched, played to the few,
By the few, an eager call.
To the clash, clamor, cacophony
of constant conflict, waging war.
Driven by the drums of greed,
power and insecurity.
Pounded to drown all else.
Any seeking harmony
must sing, though fearing to
remain unheard.
Mine, but one voice screaming,
danger, warning. Despair,
though rarely heard.
It’s as if I whisper, murmur, mumble,
speak a language, unknown,
mysterious, without translation.
Ignored, as if my mouth moves,
yet no sound issues forth.
Do I even exist or am I hidden
within my mouth’s cavern,
the dark, twisting pathways
of air and blood.
Cells racing, neurons flying
Lightning fast.
Within a system
Without outside contact.
Even as my skin, largest organ,
my being, self, my spirit
touches air, which touches all.
I breathe air, life, a breath
which may have expanded the lungs
Of the first creature, mammal,
Proto-human to walk warm earth.
Long before names, designations.
Prior to the big con, the world, modern,
explained by lies of honest greed
as that which we do not,
Cannot understand. The mystery
Of creation and destruction.
Life into death, into life.
Without ending, without beginning.
No alpha, no omega,
only ever cycles, forever,
all aspects essential.
If I ask you to join me,
to simply walk away, today,
we would need to play our part, still.
Join the chorus, no matter
how distant, or when
we depart.
Can we create harmony,
mellifluous melody to draw
others away from chaos, discord?
With needs fulfilled, wants addressed,
despite that most near.
Out of time, out of tune,
sow disharmony, confusion, clash
in places so far distant
we can no longer hear them.
Nor can they find us, until
they grow silent, listen, hear.
And, in this moment, I realize
I must surely follow
my counsel, advising
me, grow silent, listen, hear.
For sound alone cannot express
me or my existence..
Only, joined with silence
will sound become music.
The music of my spheres, full,
a note, followed by a lull.
Whether smiles or sorrows
expressed by laughter or by tears.
~~~~~
Peace is Purpose, Nonviolence is Strength, Diversity is Unity, Empathy is Empowerment
Harvest Moon ~ Philip Brent Harris
Harvest Moon ~ Philip Brent Harris
thepensmight.com 