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…

View original post 66 more words

"A word is a bridge thrown between myself and an other - a territory shared by both" - M. Bakhtin

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