Is it ironic that I spent half an hour here writing about my evening exercise in listening, and it was all swept away when I attempted to run a spell check? Not particularly ironic, I guess. Just frustrating.
Damn, I put some effort into that too. And now I'm too drowsy to recreate it. So, until I have the wherewithal to return and try again, I'll simply paste a very old poem of mine about quiet (well, the lack of it). I wrote it in response to an e.e. cummings poem. Do note that the title does not contain a misspelling or typo.
the Mystery Of stilness
the relentless vestige
(like fresh, wet boxers to be h
and crashes the thing
through the wall up the floor.
at the stop
a too-long cord -- wrapping dizzily among shags curling here Crinkling, twisting --
the blackless shadow
now what? is beseeched.
no time for peace
© 1995 Corene Ellis Young
Also note that all poems written by me or my alterego, Corene, are open to interpretation. It's been a long time since I've taken up the pencil. Maybe it's time to make new sense out of new circumstances. The old sense seems senseless now.
What the hell am I saying? Man, I need sleep.