Sunday, July 24, 2016

3 poems || Felino A. Soriano

Of this Momentum Song (thirty)
                          _______________
                          We must be as pure as our music.
                                                                             —Albert Ayler

   Acclimation sound
  we must move
               to
    involve these spectrums
   these sedentary teachings
                       a
     more than theory
    operational thrill
      to control impulse
                     falling
    back, inward, insight
   glazed the sky calls
      upward faith
                  the
    prose in our lean
   depicts suction
     from bone from
    bridge carrying
                 our
   music… this is
  what we’ve become
    and are in between—
                    such
  clarity the rare focal
   gauge, we marry we
  engage we hold and
                  hide
    the impulse more
   than fathom, of
      color the tone
    -life and the mass
                  thrives
  in how we make
    our wander
              bold—




    we do not look
  toward where we’ve
 entrusted, where we’ve
   hidden hope in the names
  of wing and wander
                     we’ve
   much to become
  to find in these
     undulating hands’
                    clutch



      of
  the
            emblems stored…
         we
  will make our way,

                                unaltered

 
Of this Momentum Song (nearly thirty-one)

   We, made of teeth
   of whole strength
     language.  This
                 symmetry
                          above
                  us, whimsical
                              silence
                                   an
  invention of
 what will
    never
         harm
             or
pivot into an absent
  discovery, father
 of a frayed-cloth
   impulsion. 

 
Of this Momentum Song (thirty-one)

    Night gone, night now
   glowing, winged—flurry
     of names hang gliding—
    the dead, not discarded
                         describe
  our steps, our momentum
   singing into inver
  -ted halos: what we
 find when pivot
    is behavior
               we
  pushpin into
 the righteous wall
   of memory…
             with
     newness, praise
   from gilded tongue
      looks forward,
                 always
 from where birth
  hand forms clay,
analyzes weep of
               the
   shadow’s ongoing
 gray… what this
    constant calls
                body,
  we examine
  our own to
         answer
   why bone
 is strong yet
            weak
 when its language
becomes burden
  becomes blurred,
 unforgiving?…
          with




  
now, the wing of
  glowing night, the melody
 haunts and the dead
    holds the halo
                  still,
  distance speaks
 into the circled gold
    calling toward a
  specific clarity
   what was then is
 now in the handmade
    folding

                         identity
 presents in the
  empathy this life travels          
 
     toward this night
  now

           aflame

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