| General Poetry posted March 3, 2008 |
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Even when alone, we may not be.
The sound of life.
by Mike K2
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I sit high upon
the precipice overlooking my life. The gentle rain screens out what is bad, but also mutes what I love. I went up there alone to celebrate it, but I find a cool comfort and warmth of spirit. In my quiet contemplation, it is as if two people are sitting on that cliff. My imagination gives way and a sound is heard through the din. A soft lovely and gentle voice starts singing. Playfully, lilting and lighting my way. I know there is someone out there with that same soul, that I seem to possess. Your haunting harmony comes to me in an area held sacred by our indigenous brethren, they too, echo and so I follow... ...Can you hear? |
 Recognized |
Sound produced and multi-tracked by Michael W, Kohlman. The flute is of native American design.
This poem is written in a spiritual sense. More then once, I have come to ares in my woodland travels that just had a sacred feel to them, call it a hunch, usually up high and overlooking a river. Once my suspicions were confirmed by a US Geological survey in one area and it was noted that pot sherds and points were found. Another was confirmed as my scoutmaster mentioned that the rock piles were actually graves. He was afraid to tell me where, but in my explorations, I have found them. This poem is also about a state of mind.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. This poem is written in a spiritual sense. More then once, I have come to ares in my woodland travels that just had a sacred feel to them, call it a hunch, usually up high and overlooking a river. Once my suspicions were confirmed by a US Geological survey in one area and it was noted that pot sherds and points were found. Another was confirmed as my scoutmaster mentioned that the rock piles were actually graves. He was afraid to tell me where, but in my explorations, I have found them. This poem is also about a state of mind.
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