Song of the Scribe

painting by brian simons.

SONG OF THE SCRIBE

“Some days there won’t be a song in your heart.

Sing anyway.”--Emory Austin.

You know anything that moves 

                               or emits noise

                               can be/is an instrument,  & I really dig

the perpetual music that surrounds us;

      the beats,

      the wailings,

      the chords, sharps, flats,

the slides, the octave shifts, the riffs, bellowing, braying,

      & sweet lullabies.

                                 Urban Rock

The heavy clank of gears, misaligned

                           or otherwise engaged,

the wet whoosh of steam venting,       hammering,

                                                        pounding,

                                                   crackling,

                                              echoing,

                                          exploding & crushing;

radial tires on rain-soaked pavement,

                       windshield wipers,

                                 defrosting fans,

                                            heaters radiating,

brakes & rats squealing,

damn doors slamming, solo, or in tandem,

call & response at dinnertime,

garbage truck piston-driven refuse compressing,

hard leather heels clacking,

                        children laughing on playgrounds,

                        stray cats growling & hissing & kung fu fighting,

                        women screaming, young boys yelling staccato

                        obscenities;

old fashioned metal garbage can lids banging, 

                                               man hole cover boulder ballads,

                        twenty dogs barking,

                        rivet & nail gun chattering,

table & hand & chain saw blades ripping,

lawn mowers coughing,

hedge clippers snipping,          church bells regaling,

                                                 though too often pre-recorded,

heavy horns honking, street light changes clicking,

                        power lines passionately pulsating,

                        rod iron gates squeaking on rusted hinges,

pigeons flapping ten thousand wings,

cooing like doves,

crapping like bats, busy fingers texting, computers whining,

Beatles ringtones,

gunfire & sirens. 

                        Rural Sonata

John Deere combines thrashing,

as the deep diesel throat chanting soars,

           horses hooves on barn floors,

           sheep shoulders rubbing wire fences,

a pitchfork stabbing hay, 

a two-handed scythe cutting off wheat stalks,

melons being thumped, 

                       oil being pumped,

                       apples being stroked, 

                       wasp nests being poked,

a farm forklift hefting bales,

cows kicking pails, loons laughing at sunset,

         a soft breeze across a small pond,

         amorous trees rubbing trunks together,

branches snapping, stags trampling thistles,

insects buzzing,

dragon flies hunting,          

                    wind symphonies in alder forests,

                    or whipping down steep canyons,

                    or capping peaks & citadels; 

rainbow leaves shimmering, shaking, dying, & falling,

                    leather chaps, saddles, bridles, 

                    jackets, straps, belts & latches

                    creaking seductively;

big tractor pistons popping while digging

                                           furrows,

                                           trenches,

                                           ditches or post holes;

birdsong in backyards & on barn beams,

owls in haylofts, black birds bickering over dead rabbits,

rolling raucous thunder in the distance

just before the terrible crackling

                  of chain lightning

as it strikes the hundred year old oak alone in the field,

splitting it in two, rain pelting

tin roofs, then rushing

out of downspouts as a torrent, 

various herbivore herds shuffling,

            horned heads butting

accompanying the dry lethal rattle of antler combat,

far off cougar cries

           that sound just like a baby wailing,

wolf’s sorrowful moon ballads, while

           coyotes & foxes yip

           & bad-assed badgers grunt

                                along with bumblebee wing throbs

                                & flocks of butterfly flutters

as the hawk romps the thermals,

screeing it’s joyful but determined challenge.

             

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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