Monday, July 20, 2009

Civil War Drummer Poem

when all is still and hands quiver, still.
when time so quiet, as stopped.

the faint sound of a drum
remains a whisper
gentleness, an air.

a fading of skin struck, a day
a week
a month

a soft kind of exhale.

and the hand, the quivering
from within.
knocking from the inside
shaking on the outside.

some tiny area at the tip
of a finger, opens.

spirit released.
all blurred edges and shifting forms
upwards. drifting. moving
as if a cloud.

then still.

the hand
and its fingers
of visual vibration and stutter

an image of absolute clarity
without breath-
quiet as a group of small stones
sounding for those
with gentle ears.

certain moments
continue to drift towards us
resting, still, out of breath
upon our shoulders.
sounding softly
as we continue,
to listen.

Airform Archives
By Sroden (Pasadena, California)

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