Ken's Poetry

Natural Music

When I hear the cuckoo’s dull repeat
or blackbird’s medley dancing in the leaves
my mind is overflown with calm and ease
and images of a thousand summers gone
smudge into a feeling of repose
settled in the fragrance of the air.

And when I hear the stream with tinkling voice
skirling its way through mossy rocks
juggling the drops of sunlight falling
from twittering leaves in tall old trees
my heart begins to flutter happily
and cares drain down in spiral swirls.

But when the north wind comes
scything with his faceless teeth
the richness of the autumn leaves
with wound up whirl crashes on the wall
and shakes the house, my heart beat stops,
fear and anger stir deep in the mind.

For in a sound, as in a picture too,
there is an essence can be found
and woven by a master into tune,
the reference gone, the ancient source
lost in the cluttered mechanics of the art
that pass the skill down scores of years.

Your mind was trained by lullabies
anticipates the old familiar sounds,
the master brings surprise and mystery
to scatter on the order of your ear;
minor third, augmented fifth, he takes the chord
and meddles with the ancient buried mood.