Song of Predawn Space

Mornings I come back. Choose my place and my day starting in sound before solid. Permeates my being, my space when the window is still open. You know? Like the life spirit of a new shore. When awakening is still silent. Listen.

 

 

Song of Predawn Space

Slow the pull from speed in peace

Retake and slip, and rake the sleep

From bright to fog returning faint.

I muscle forth 'gainst limbs still bound

From pallet down to love seat choose

The peel, the toll of other rules.

 

Open book, yet half unwritten.

Write a seed of peace decipher

Between the lines then voice, a master

Clear till mind choose chapter pages

Lines to x and white-out writing

What is the matter gray not wasted?

 

Stop in halted thought and listen

Sound the room and sing the inner

Spring from deep and dream the race

Now heard the essence of this rest

The song we sing in predawn space.

To bless this day as we awaken.

 

 

© 2015 Ardi Keim

Dance Lessons

(It is a process: understanding life. We do it in family. In dreams.

In thought and writing.

Even dancing.)

Try to see beyond my blindness.

Say it's all good.

What eyes now blind me?

Oh listen! It's ticking.

Tapping. Clicking

So much to write

Caution to the wind.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

In gusts of hot air

and white-wood fuzz.

Nothing that words will fit.

Membership in the life club: Savants.

One word, idiot, comes to mind.

But I love me anyway.

In my impatience.

Fingers dance in broken steps.

Mind penetrates the dance floor

of plastic and glass.

Not good -- till sunset.

Oh magic.

But I can feel it now

like Mom's silent prayers,

so loud, nothing else sounds,

but the absence of Dad.

Payday. And The Outrigger.

He's home other nights.

Dinner. Chores. News in black and white.

All is good, not thinking about it.

So it is a dance of dreams.

Commencement and light.

If I made this, I made it with he

who was my brother.

Father, Mother.

Two step. Or square dance.

To penetrate the dance floor.

Or is it the ceiling? Translucent.

Light breeze. White curtain.

They are both there now.

A visit after sunset.

In prayer and The Outrigger.

The music we wrote

and learning to dance.

Not easy but sweet.

These lessons of love.

Still learning.

© 2013 Ardi Keim 6/28/13

Happenstance

To all who see the higher cause of art and creativity...

.
by word in verse
with borrowed pen
on paper towel
the sound
the truth
so few could hear
till sung aloud
by one of love, delight
and happenstance
.

All events and circumstance give chance of service and advancement.

.

Refine and Expand

A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture
every day of his life. --Goethe

Rather:

Every day I hear the music and poetry and secrets whispered by all creation, because it is by listening that I recognize the subtle color, finer detail and broader picture of this life. The Sound emanates from every atom in the universe. And between atoms there is nothing but The Sound, because all matter is but a crystallization of It.

When you hear It, you know.

--Ardi       .

.

Fish Answers

Life has its ups and downs.  We strive for the best.

But there is always turmoil in the world. Strife. Upheaval. Threats to survival. 

Could be economic. Weather. Geological. Political. Relationships.

Always disruptive. But sometimes -- after the storm...

Reprieve. Or new beginning.

A place of peace.

~~

Alone

in darkness

quiet . peace . a dream

then

almost imperceptible

a whisper . or . distant wind

approaching . quickening

rushes in upon me

a flood envelops my room

my life

inundates my being

wrecking the reality 

of this moment

this world.

.

I am 

completely overtaken

by the undoing

the flood . the rush 

o sound

.

Retreat or succumb

run in panic

or swim in death

Peace.

Lifted outside myself.

Who am I?

Where?

.

I am this Sound!

This flood.

Tsunami.

The ocean moved in

and I moved within it

Is this death?

Or life?

.

Fish says,

What you call your death 

is my breath.

I say, 

I'll have to grow gills 

to make this mine.

But my new buoyancy 

prevents such utterance.

Just the Sound.

The Word.

The roar.

.

I am one with the fish.

The Ocean.

The Current of New Light.

Of Sound.

I see. I hear.

I ask you,

Is this real?

.

Fish answers.

.

I listen.

.