Broken City Sounds

(Have we lost our voice to modern civilization?)

Within the cubicle confines of the clamorous city,
regimented rows of bolted-up vacuums store massed-up dehumanized souls.

And amongst the smoking sidewalks
whispers that started in the Womb of the earth below
are adulterated by the dull echoes off concrete walls.

Soft sighing Breezes, force funnelled through
jagged edged alleys, are
perverse to abet the cacophony of tin chimes,
dangling discordantly from dirty strings knotted, cross-crissed, dented,
clanging, from claustrophobic ceilings.

Human tongues yearning but tired, miss their Rythm,
blocked and cued by brick and cell.
They talk with smacked lips, through syllables split staccato
by clenched teeth and grinding jaws.

In the city of men they taught me their acidic dialect.
It flamed in my throat, burning to stumps cords once multi-versed and smooth.
So I talk the talk, and say little else.


Old Story, New Script

 (Life and death in these Times)

 There was an old woman at the window.
Now she is not.
In that glimpse, soft voice masked,
did I hear her say,
wearing that Crown of Thorns, in these red blood words,
gasped, lungs, as you now know, in the end revolt:
“Hold my Space, most precious, could you, please”?

And my hands were already there around that most special Place.
They held her final letter within,
new script, ancient language, written:

“After the birth of death,
the light emerges, fresh,
at the setting of the sun, in a different dawn”.


Mind the Moment

 (A sort of reflection on reflection and a trance within a trance)

Mind the moment.
The rest – that which is all that is not this – is, for now, the only now.

I was going out, breathe, on my way in, hardly noting soft warm air, cool touch
beating lungs though bellowing hearts.
Leaving I in the arriving exactly here: nowhere.

Along the way, following, what we thought we knew,
but had left right at the side of ourselves. Yes, it goes all the way.

And so here I find myself, with you, and you, and you,
already lost from where we were before,
in that this moment now anew, at the edge, it seems, in our futures’ past.

You see words, when heard aloud,
or read with eyes wide shut, move,
and all of the worlds shift with them.
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Comments to: Broken city sounds & other poems
  • June 25, 2020

    Loving these poems! Broken City Sounds reminds me of Allan Ginsberg\’s Sunflower Sutra… beat reflections on an urban cityscape and untarnished heart 🙂

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