a poem created amid the hurly-burly


Re: What We Call “Quiet”

The shift to lesser noise,

an aural field we find comfortable,

one we are able to “manage” (read – “organize”).

We have thresholds.


A humming machine; her breath;

pat of a moth on the pane;

even traffic.  I imagine I hear moon –

cultured consideration of night.


But I’m at a swimming pool,

boy in red shorts, girl in purple,

or that’s how I see it – rippling

blue-silver water and white light.


It’s not that what (or how) I see is

it constitutes my visual field, as

constituted by my kind of being,

having traversed the paces to here.


These words are just a version –

a May-be: true as I perceive it –

relative by type.  It’s different

for the fly and the water, oxygen


and surely less than O.  Or beyond.

I heard differently last…

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It’s Language – Must be a story of something

for Friday Fictioneers during cacophony – July 5, 2013

Copyright - David Stewart

Scales, rituals, angles and lines.  Struggling to make sense, instead of staying on the ground.  Design, construct, infer, deduce.  Climb that ladder.  Circle that ring.  Aching for a view.  We’re earthed here.  But we keep on grasping.  Incessantly.  Invent equations, theorems, rules and laws.  Apply to sensation and perceive.  Revise.  Repeat.  Try numbers, letters, words.  Try gesture.  Communicate.  Calibrate.  Be social.  Get everyone to make the hike.  We make sense by making abstractions.  Distractions.  Bastardizing metaphor.  Some things go deeper, some things go out.

N Filbert 2013