Songbird spoke of translucent harmonies,

the transistors of context wrapped in viridescent reactions

that trail behind the counter weight of tradition.

Tumbling inclinations tethered to tranquility. 

But, the sentiment of kings passed in a haze of structures

unsupported by people who were the same since yesterday.

Never seen, never sure, the sentimental, convicted by tendency

where sapphire blues were overlooked 

by the staff of the heartbreak hotel. Crafted and created,

the songbird called to each cavernous whole that conformed 

in connections hidden, driven, concealed within consequence

before the wheels, coach and control, cavity and crude.

Yet her tune floated, a melody to mesmerise the membranes

of a world lost in mass-market paperback plastic.

A whistle of meanderings days long dawned, but never misheard,

the memory of things to come, the meeting place of the mad.

Or so they say,

Am I mad as

I watched the warbler sing her wanderers waltz,

Collecting whim between the world’s of where and when.

The world’s before the warming summer breeze,

Capturing the white innocence of welcome illusions.

My heart frequents her soul, ridding wings of free thanksgiving,

The madness of the dreamscapes promised in our DNA,

And what is wrong with madness matched in resonance?

Coming home to natures waiting embrace.

Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness.*


*Allen Ginsberg 

Poem © Phen Weston 2015


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