Two Poems about Art

[DonSchaeffer]

Fingers on Strings and Mouths on Tubes

I keep watching orchestras.
I watch choirs as well.
The calm of soul carriers,
gathered in chairs,
facing books with bits of soul
smeared on them.

We took that language from
before birth. We always nimbed
and nammed it. But it began to
fill space and moved
between bones.
Mere air
lifted on its body.
Bits of nothing
were granted the skin
to command sound. It
never spoke, meaning never
equaled it.



The Late Afternoon

It's quiet out.
Nothing reaches far enough
to obliterate the distance.
The sound is muted by the walls,
originally designed to protect me.
The quiet was designed,
it was mandated by the inventors of
sanity. It was designed to
protect us from danger and death.
It was a wise invention for
shared self defence as we
get closer to silence.
I loved it for a time.
As time, I loved it.