Recording/Re-Playing/Recording/Re-Playing
A little something on how it all spins around, life upon it’s endless wheel; endlessly playing/recording- lifetime’s living in all times, all when’s, all where’s, all at once. This is my definition of time.
Recording/Re-Playing/Recording/Re-Playing belongs to the following groups:
! Creative Writing & Poetry !, "Poetry and Beautiful Women" , All Things Poetic, Artistic, Philosophical, Parallel Dimensions, Sci Fi , The Word Tree, Up & Coming Writers and WMGThe farm
and the porch light hums
the sound of another
orange dawn.
Burnt up – crisp
aching new reaches
of the imagination turn
from corn
to wheat
to the pungent shade
of dried blood on hands;
kissing corners of a mouth
never kissed.
Sweeping across in whispers
two thousand years
and more, come
words on the flat-line horizon,
dripping sideways,
like a red cat’s eye marble on a circular seesaw,
knowing no bounds,
rolling infinitely back
and forth –
ringing in ears that were once
in that ago (can you hear it?)
hearing the coming of a storm
being heard
by another set of ears,
in some other when –
some other marble.
When, speaks the unspoken.
When, treads where none may tread.
When, grips the barren outcroppings
of space –
playing the unending moments –
where no other question hence forth
can grip.
Night sounds come in floods
of mauve,
and quiet apricot;
slicing through oceans,
unsung,
where no ears hear.
The farm: echoing, lowing and fawning –
trying to stay true
to form,
bleeds into the fibers of a dream
once lived –
recognizing its existence
through the act of a moment.
She turns to face the enormity
of all she has yet to hear
upon
the brazen, blazing horizon;
she strips down to goose bumps
on the skin
God gave her;
opening her mouth to hear all
that she is –
breathing in the dawn
as it breaks.
The farm notes this coming.
The sky knows;
the wind knows.
the earth knows,
relaxing
at her feet
exhaling
through her soles,
resounding
through the mouth
of the un-kissed;
breathing through this land;
humming through porch lights;
spinning through atoms;
sifting though heavens;
recording through lifetimes,
and through into another’s
open mouth.
© Kristin Reynolds 12 08
autumnwind
I feel the true sense of time here through this incredible poem, but it makes me wonder if everybody appreciates their connection to the earth, and to each other – and to everything else – as you do. I doubt it. Amazing. Love, Shar
Kristin Reynolds replied
my goodness, shar! lol this comment comes very late, indeed. forgive me, lady, for when I posted this, I was not really aware of how the bubble worked, and left you haning. :) lol
thank you!!!!!!!!! xoxox K
hsien-ku
as we are we can’t listen. even our hearing is stunted. we are deafened by our own inner dialogue. how often do we simply fail to notice that another is speaking because we are thinking something trivial – the shopping, the parking-meter . . . we don’t hear. listening is hearing with attention. and we have no attention – not for ourselves, not for another. if we did we would refuse to stay within our skin, we would expand to include all sound, the hearer would vanish, the speaker would vanish – then we would listen. anything less is a delusion. and i wondered reading your insightful thunderclap of a poem, you living creature you, if the farm you referred to might be one i know… long shot, but perhaps you were thinking of the farm with two rivers?
Kristin Reynolds replied
yes, exactly. I would be a liar if I said I did not do that, too at times. the dream within the dream.
your comments give me so much insight to my own writing. i love that. This reminds me of the Hathors, and their non-verbal communications. it’s the natural way for evolution, I suspect. after the clearing away of debris of this gravity, that is.
Please, enlighten me on your farm, as I, at least, when writing this poem (99.9% of them just come; no thought, no mind) I would love to hear of your two rivers, if you wouldn’t mind sharing?
thank you, HK. so much, love, Kristin xo
hsien-ku
two-rivers farm, in ohio, it’s still there – operational. founded by orage. they published the only unedited version of beelzebub (and believe me the edits were extensive!). if you’ve not already got a copy of this version (small, blue) i recommend it. two-rivers farm was, until recently, run as a group by mrs staveley (student of G).
Kristin Reynolds replied
Wow. No way. Alright, i must have that book. Do you think you could give me a link, maybe from amazon? they have so many versions in the used sections, I never know if what I’m getting is what I want. that would be beautiful, thank you. :) I would love to read what the world wished to cut; I’ll bet it’s the most important of all.
thanks, Hsien-ku. :)
Mark Ramstead
I am glad you two are talking… Take your time with each other…
Kristin Reynolds replied
Yes, it’s been very interesting to say the least. it’s not often you find another who knows your true meaning.
thanks, Mark, you are so cool. :)