haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

Honey Voice

for Peter Ganick

I spoon organic honey, raw and doused with cinnamon, into my singing, to resuscitate the mezzo voice. Come hither, say the vocal cords, come bother me awake unto the bold director in a civic choir about to lull a snapshot audience to its sotto sleep Filtration systems live through brave new brackets holding pose. The only imposition I can weather is notation to adapt my thought to song modules to be rung through little hemispheres of composition. I have long been able to sit still, and yet I scamper, I invite my students to mimesis of an eager motion. When I sing I am indelible. And when I sleep I dream new song. I have a slide rule in my sympathies, I glide away from cause. I break rules because they're mine. I limber my way through the aisles and show the population what they represent a sample of. I lose my train of thinking on a preposition. When I speak I may have sung. I whistle some, I scurry through endowed chairs, winter in the desert, summer there. I practice being healed when I am healing. Bees accumulate on blossoms I can name. The jars replete with honey hold their pose on shelves I raid without compunction, for I pay, we pay, limboic antlers also pay. The screech owl leaves a mood of being young synonymous with wise, cracked like a sculpture we have molded to artistic hands. Forgive in-situ and my way of work in play. My life bred day bed leaves me to role play my sainthood during light of day.

Quasi-methodical doldrums weighing slivers less of matter find a voice to say

Sheila E. Murphy