Many do not hear His orchestra playing.
The diesel, gasoline engines rumble
From Detroit and Toyota
Filling the space between concrete and glass
Stealing the act.
Hearing only the opening bells
From Wall Street
While the media shouts with Yellow Headlines
and bullies threaten behind pulpits,
False prophets with
For a few,
Dark mornings start
With the clatter of
A mating ritual followed by the soft patter of rain
On earth and roof
Each snow flake distinct.
This opera plays below a stage of oak trees,
A forest of pine,
Grand canyons, and
Breathing cold, hot winds through cactus, leaf and limb
Rattling melodies and
There is a blessed silence
In the High Sierras above ten thousand feet
Trekking along high trails,
Stopping to listen.
Buzz of insects
Wail of wolf
Yip of coyote
Purr of lion
Trembling herds running.
Rustle of wind among trees
A backdrop of mountains and clouds
Skipping across blue skies.
At midnight, you hold your breath
Afraid what you see will melt
Soaring into the Milky Way spilling across
The dark sky—the lights of a Celestial city
Distant from hate and violence.
The forest audience celebrates
With the crescendo of thunder and lightning
Shaking the earth
The Conductor stands before the orchestra.
Raising His arms,
The final curtain ready to fall.
With a burst of blinding rainbow light, He
Wipes the slate clean
and starts creation a second time.
My Splendid Concubine
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|Reviewed by Juliet Waldron
|Lloyd--this is a beauty, a hymn to the divinity of creation. Yes, these are the real songs, the ones worth hearing--not the eternal/internal combustion engine--which deafens and drowns out birds and heart beats and wind and rain. This cutting off will be our ruin. I think everyone past a certain age feels it.|
|Reviewed by Lori Moore
|A nice metaphor. Enjoyed.|
|Reviewed by John Flanagan
I share your disillusion, that 'fedupness' with the way we've gone. Thematically and structurally this is very fine, moving from the hateful unnatural to the natural, wanted sounds of the world, its real music,
"Buzz of insects
Wail of wolf
Yip of coyote..."
and then the (symphonic) movement upwards to the stars, what's beyond us and awaits eternal, spiritual, fulfilling. And you might well be right, a final (deserved) destruction, a wiping of the slate and a new start.
Thank you for this fine offering.
|Reviewed by Karla Dorman, The StormSpinner
|Much to ponder in these lines, Lloyd - so many forget what it is like to wake up to the call of a bird, the click of antlers, the holyhush of morning. During the crush of the day, they forget the sounds of creation. At night, TV takes the place of the whine of a mosquito, the mighty crack of thunder, the quietude of another blessing given (and forget to thank Him for it) Thank you for the excellent reminder. My new favorite of yours.
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.