The following poem is written collaboratively, line by line, by the Red Wolf community, in response to Nicole’s prompt here.
by the Red Wolf Poems Community
What’s that sound? Like a piccolo. Does anybody know?
It’s heaven’s refrain bouncing off ethereal eaves.
Summer rain patters on chestnut leaves
as soul does weep at what this world does cruelly show.
We wear masks, move deftly through plastic crowds
un-noted. Polymer minds are willfully deaf, implausibly blind.
Listen, listen to the piccolo’s call. See, see each rounded, sweet note.
Better the sound of the piccolo than the call of the peacock —
must art make noise?
Trills snagged in the clouds, carried and there to tote,
notes ride rain drops back to Earth.
Silvery ping with thunder for bass
as the albino peacock looks for color
in those reflective crystal drops of life.
Crystal curtain beads, white peacock blues,
and the piccolo blends with the peacock’s call
backed by monsoon drumbeats on concrete veins;
one would think the death of the day would be enough,
yet the waters flow through an ancient channel,
challenging the rocks of time,
using time’s own acid to etch stone. Tracks
bleed. We are drunk in time. And truths,
we like them black-and-white: a zebra crossing,
skunks lifting their tails tall. Instead, we clench
cinereal clouds in our fists.
Color: we sink briefly in rainbows. Where are the pots
filled with gold? Or a pirates chest filled
with silver pieces of eight? Who will lift my veil?
Are there no charmings? I want to dance,
to be the dance so you’ll not know the dancer from the dance.
Piccolo music slithers, weaves through vertebrae, plays Kundalini.
Prince or thief…woven mystic; who am I? Silver piccolo,
etched with a peacock feather.
Ocellus, look and see, fan your lashes, lavish love on me
sing your flutey siren song of come hither, whether,
come dance with me as the leaves dance
on the branches of the chestnut tree.
Beneath the sheen of chestnut leaves
in silvered moonlight glow I dance into the piccolo
as the shining darkened skin of Soul encases
the tender, precious nut of Self.
Hold notes like gumdrops on my tongue, hope to never swallow
the bitter rind of gossiped words that paint false pictures
of true loves’ spirit. They cling to my teeth, stick inside my jaw —
a plaque of jelly-bellied unused words, unsung, unheard,
each word a world that seeks a voice within my lungs.
Release these birds. They carry current breath.
Render the unknowable in misty mountains
and fly through hallowed heart where heaven
breathes the dust of earthy dreams.