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Anha

Australia

dreaming of goddesses, sunflowers and italian sunshine.

write free, SomeFormOfWriting
miss you, LackingASocialLife
go be great, paperbird

Message to Readers

Oh god this is so cringe and cliche, but I don't know how to improve it. I need help

This Song Has No Title #songtitlepoem

September 9, 2018

FREE WRITING

7
    when you're on the porch
and you hear the whistles
of times long gone by,
a secret tune
hidden in the call
of a rogue cockatoo
hidden in the creaking
of a house not meant to last
hidden in the far-off grating
of the rusted windmill
tell me
what do you call that song?

    the night air is quiet
but not silent
the bush rustling
of their own accord
the firepit crackling
its sparks like childlike spirits
the methodic hoots
of an owl not seen.

    the bush night is its own symphony
a cacophony of sounds
that intertwine seamlessly
to create a spontaneous orchestra
where the percussion
and the bass
are one.

    the rogue cockatoo
now mocks the saxaphone
loud and haunting
impossible to ignore
so we acknowledge him
until his cries fade out.

    the creaking of the shack
the wood imitating
a dozen stringed bows
on a dozen stringed violins
sometimes striking furiously
othertimes with a lover's caress.

    the far-off grating
of an industry turned westward
is high and piercing
like a chorus
of untuned flutes
attempting to play in harmony.

    the bushes
played by six-limbed musicians
so accustomed
to shaking the maraccas
the band has hardly noticed
that they weren't supposed to be there.

    the fire pit
in which flames dance
can sing just as well,
their acapella rhythms
lulling and soothing
the wary traveller
who began to conduct this piece
long before we can remember.

    the owl is the star
the most loved
never out of tune
and we look out for him
wherever he goes
like a thief in the night
not afraid to announce his presence
with a performance
that is overshadowed
by the stringent pull
of sleep.

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  • September 9, 2018 - 11:11pm (Now Viewing)

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