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ether

whetstone slips
oiled motions hypnotic
the seconds weighted
flung in steady clockwork

a clasp undone
a mechanism wound
taught and crafted perfect

laughter through the dark
floor above
a green sheen dancing
beyond the curtains
beyond the hazed eyes
dreaming
a black vortex mouth
caught in the feeble light
escaping into night
brushing on the cedars
slipping limber from the
warm nigh winds
shivering in gusts
like a beast awakening

the streetlight comes on
beneath its enamel hood
chipped green from bored
kids and passing transients

the little puddle of light
watching dust flit past from
the concession road

a torn scrap as animated
as the huge boreal moths
newspaper snowflakes
caught in attics
perpelexed with time

the blade gleams in the
light
hot and alive

Editing stage: 

Comments

You've never failed to amaze with your imagery...If only I can comprehend all!!

❤❤❤❤❤❤

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words
........Robert Frost☺

Follow me
www.instgram.com/rularules1

or he described himself to host
right now he is taking photos of
british columbia city somewhere
montages street scenes
windowscenes mannequins

the visual to the word context
and like professors and lecturers
the travelling sideshow men of
the eighteen hundreds in their
horse drawn vans

the icons of the russian steppe
and river cities for the illiterate
the non published

Non Published
like graffitti
like anti banishment

slideshow projector
modern now

chalkboards something
still here
ancient as ink and fountian
pens
formulae and theory

story is
someone is sharpening a knife
steady like the metronome
atop the stand up piano

a television plays in a living
room..an old model
dusk has fallen
no lights have come on
inside the house
just the television when daylight
was full and sweet

someone is resting
on a chair...on a couch
mouth open
snores...sleep talk
the vortex....
unlike the television they
are unplugged

the television speaks to the
room...the laughter filling up
the stillness except for the
tap dripping...the fridge
compressor humming
the wind hitting the house
the tall shrub trees outside
the window catch the light
from the television in the
breeze and from inside
they are frightening to watch

a whetstone is for honing the
edge of a knife...
like a metronome hones
piano players..pianists
to fall into a cadence for
scale....for beats....like
dancing a waltz....over and
over till its intuition...
okay like a barber sharpening
the razor for shaving

toc toc toc toc..
winding up the metronome
the clasp is the triangle wooden
door on most classical models

but in vague out of focus writing
or symbolism in film it can
be of many things
representing much

example...its not an eye or hook
its not locked

streetlights are the edge of night
a power outage will best show
what its like to live without light
artificial power assist light

if a town is at the edge of a forest
there are moths..bats come to
seek sustenance

snowflakes and moths browned
christmas everything went into
the long crawl space attic
dishs packed with newsprint
in the sixties browned like
moth wings
i read later it was from the acid
in the paper and oxygen in the
air that oxidizes the paper
the interaction

snow would blow in from the vents
in places
but i like the
perplexed in time line
like how do the moths get that
large....

streetlight was looking out
at night....we just had the one
and neighbours yard lamps
everyone respected their property
lines
and from the road everyone pretty
much had television and used
it to fall asleep with
and a night light sometimes
although most stations signed
off eventually in my childhood
and young adulthood

i did not have great dialogue
parents worked all day
us kids chatted
kitchen was for talking
television was cultural
shows pop big then
massive audiences
in a narrow band

maybe i just see scenes
more caught up with that
while all the chatter just
goes on

anyway its poetry....
abstraction
but that is the basic
storyboard of this poet
how this came to be
this poem from all of
that....

author comment

Loved the journey of this one and the description of all it touched.
I shall ask about the second stanza as the word Taught didn't seem to fit.
It took me a while to find the correct spelling of the word Taut meaning tight to fit the space I had there.
Hope this is how you wanted it to be, Yours Ian.T

a clasp undone
a mechanism wound
taught and crafted perfect

taught the product of teaching, to be taught
taut stretched or pulled tight; not slack, wound up.

.
There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

sometimes meaning perfected
not just a random moment..
but of calibration..

thank you

author comment

Your comment was as poetry, I was brought up in the 40's and 50's, many of the things you talk of here honing things, cut throat razors and strops to hone their edge.
We use to have an old man come around to sharpen scissors with his small wet stone.
The things we had to do, made life a working experience, from tearing news paper into squares, to making rugs from hessian and strips of rags.
Moving the toilet each year, using guzunders (Large Pots) at night.
My father use to work on the farm, life was hard in those days if you were a labourer.
I expect by the way you write that you have seen many things that the I Pod generation would not believe.
I look back and realise just how much our parents gave for us to be as we were.
Thanks for your writing it brings with it an image into other places that most never see, Yours Ian.T

.
There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

i am coming from a fog...twelve years
the voyage of decade
i am rushed to comprehend
how i came to be
here
from there
to the now

in this is the links like a chain
like a woven coil
swiftly moving

steam

mists

brilliance of the light
this new reasoning
and the re enlivening
of my rooms of a home
in a context of the grandiose
and the minature

looking in
and looking out

my ideas of twin theory
of mobiues strand
like nuclei
like argon purity
that light
as and almost the
most favourite colour
yet of mine
the spring dusks
of violet and burgundy
lavendar
exotica for those
with vision
and an extension
of clarity for the hearing
the sun leaving
and the cool of night
slinking up and about
like a flood of surrender
and joy to the tumult
of stars or the nights
eternity of passage
of the atmospheric
condensation of water
the wonder of clouds

each verb each memory
rushing up to meet
each level of neutral buoyancy
from the depths...

where is the weakest
of it all
everyone breaks

everyone slows
and savours that
tension
like a tempo
and meaning
of symphony
or the singular
in a great orchestral
movement of complexity

i know nothing more and
more
as i awaken from this
lair
and smell
the world like my
dog fourth line from
the wolf
an old breed
in tonights wind

reading with her
senses
...

it all makes sense
..thank you..

author comment
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