everything is not a contest
if you don't want it to be
I don't want it to be.
what if they held auditions for the birds
what if some birds didn't make the cut
how triste we would be.
the forests filled with pared down song
maybe two. tops, three. what would the mute birds do
limited to:
whatever wasn't previously sung.
why should you wait for months
to hear back from the magazines
till Kingdom come
when you can go anywhere
in the great outdoors
maybe to the canyons
and recite for free
I like canyons better than magazines.
think of the echoes.
the resonance. the company
of blooming cacti keeping their secrets.
they know how it feels to be patient
awaiting their flowering, published to the winds.
patience doesn't really even come into it.
not being compared. not worrying about
first serial rights.they can fare.
friends with the starry nights
unaware of the contradictions and the spite
of trying to prove in a dry spell
to the resident cognescenti
they really are capable of flowering.
meanwhile they defend themselves
from condescending smiles
with their prickles like Exupery's rose.
well, they might.they could. who knows.
really, they don't have to do anything.
just wait for the desert Spring.
isn't that something worth singing about?
flower on your own. crawling to no throne.
you will know
the happiness of not being paid in copies.
not bartering your Manhattan for trinkets.
of singing because you want to.
painting or dreaming.
skipping in the lanes.
sans the workshop disdain.
the grim reengineering
right within your hearing
for the MFA.
stand in the clearing.
far from the fray.
joy is better that way.
sound never dies they say.
already you would be immortal
sing song saying it
even in your dust bunnied room.
even in a tomb.
due to the laws of sonics.
happy in your phonics.
barely whisper your latest sonnet
to a crowd of angels...
sound never dies. nor music.
music in God, the trefoil union intact.
the heart singing all on its own
undeterred, silvery perhaps,unbeknownst.
like a ghost.
in its own mystique.
proofread by no creep;
poor editor with no sleep.
a heightening mirage
leaving its sound print, invisible track upon
the open universe soaring above the pines
so that the leaves sigh.the upper atmosphere.
clouds in their vagueness;
the air, bursting with wings
and turquoise.
mary angela douglas 18 march 2019
if you don't want it to be
I don't want it to be.
what if they held auditions for the birds
what if some birds didn't make the cut
how triste we would be.
the forests filled with pared down song
maybe two. tops, three. what would the mute birds do
limited to:
whatever wasn't previously sung.
why should you wait for months
to hear back from the magazines
till Kingdom come
when you can go anywhere
in the great outdoors
maybe to the canyons
and recite for free
I like canyons better than magazines.
think of the echoes.
the resonance. the company
of blooming cacti keeping their secrets.
they know how it feels to be patient
awaiting their flowering, published to the winds.
patience doesn't really even come into it.
not being compared. not worrying about
first serial rights.they can fare.
friends with the starry nights
unaware of the contradictions and the spite
of trying to prove in a dry spell
to the resident cognescenti
they really are capable of flowering.
meanwhile they defend themselves
from condescending smiles
with their prickles like Exupery's rose.
well, they might.they could. who knows.
really, they don't have to do anything.
just wait for the desert Spring.
isn't that something worth singing about?
flower on your own. crawling to no throne.
you will know
the happiness of not being paid in copies.
not bartering your Manhattan for trinkets.
of singing because you want to.
painting or dreaming.
skipping in the lanes.
sans the workshop disdain.
the grim reengineering
right within your hearing
for the MFA.
stand in the clearing.
far from the fray.
joy is better that way.
sound never dies they say.
already you would be immortal
sing song saying it
even in your dust bunnied room.
even in a tomb.
due to the laws of sonics.
happy in your phonics.
barely whisper your latest sonnet
to a crowd of angels...
sound never dies. nor music.
music in God, the trefoil union intact.
the heart singing all on its own
undeterred, silvery perhaps,unbeknownst.
like a ghost.
in its own mystique.
proofread by no creep;
poor editor with no sleep.
a heightening mirage
leaving its sound print, invisible track upon
the open universe soaring above the pines
so that the leaves sigh.the upper atmosphere.
clouds in their vagueness;
the air, bursting with wings
and turquoise.
mary angela douglas 18 march 2019
