The Beat

                                                                                                                                              photo by Jan Sosnowitz

there is the breath of genius in these hills

the heartbeat of the earth

retold in song

the bowl that catches golden drops

of heaven and reflects them

etched in perfect Wonder

back into the skies

the eyes

of All Love

destination unknown and uncaring

Time is of no essence

the Voices whisper secret leaf-song

scream the mighty limbs at windstorm

howl at moonlit night

pierced by stars

there is the heart and soul of genius

in these hills

the bowl is filled and emptied

filled and emptied

ineffable smoke and mists of ancient colours

antique memories silenced drums return

rising

from the cracks beneath my feet

the exhalation of the old ones

told in the beat

          the beat

     the beat

the memory of silent footsteps Rings these hills

crisp morning mountains icy cut the dawn

releasing earth honey scented live air

miasma calling me to ground

or heaven

bird and insect chatter and hum shuttered

shattered

by night’s frozen blast

frost

locks the hearts the poems the fire-lit tales

inside the Heart the hearth the home

as winter folds us

in dream-time gathering time

listening time

there is the breath of untold stories

in these hills

the songs of those never recorded

whose voices wail in nightmare sendings

whose lost tales beg in the swirling vortices

of firmament

to be told and heard and carried

farther than one bag of skin and bones

one mind

the tears and dreams and antic schemes

of this generation

as last generation

as every cohort of this oddly-begotten race

crawls then walks then runs burning brightly

flaring

and then giving up the flame

in ghostly embers

campfires in the depths of forests

no longer here

tell the tales and sing the songs

though heart break

though breath stop

though mind cease

the light the colour the sound

will always be reborn

it’s the Nature of the ever-changing

cloud dioramas

play with the palettes of the sun

the moon

wind choreographs the trees

to ghostly poetry of jazz

beat skirling past the rushing water

skipping over stones

and headlong over mossy boulder’s edge

tumbling torrent telling

of the lost ones

Listen!

© 2012 pamela twining