No poetry today. Perhaps the sounds of my girls is poetry enough. In lieu of poetry, though, a comment: this is my 100th post on what began as a gift to an audiophile friend when our daughters were born. Ale had challenged me to use my microphone to listen deeply to the world; eight years…
The song he sang: the woman who rocks her child, and then her man. Who will rock the woman? CLICK TO LISTEN TO THE RECORDING
The paint on her toes, curled against the cold, unearths me. How it begins. This winter light. She has: a dish to sell, and red soil ground into the fold of a letter. Her toes, curled against the cold. She gives me her name. Two bags that hold a spoon for bread, her smile, wide…
This peak that keeps drifting in and out of the clouds. Each flake that lands stays, layers into history. Freeze, thaw. The constant motion of things. Wilderness, and this life we carve into it. CLICK TO LISTEN TO THE RECORDING
(Thanks to Curiaudio follower Tara Bryan for submitting this found sound from Newfoundland’s west coast!) CLICK TO LISTEN TO THE RECORDING
Thunder calls me from the dishes last night’s arguments dissolving in bubbles to the door. Open it: the world comes alive. Silver sky, wet earth, the great pause as the heat breaks. The leaves fidget, the dog fidgets, the baby fidgets in sleep. Then a ripple across the sky. I close my eyes and…
In flip flops and jeans he calls up the pathos of a rainy Sunday afternoon, cars passing, the river muttering. He is thin as a scarecrow and missing teeth. At his feet, a complicated score that lies, staring up at the sky. CLICK TO LISTEN TO THE RECORDING
Pad out to the fire, listen for birds and the distant sound of trains, of traffic like water. Pause. Delight in the chives and other things hard to kill. CLICK TO LISTEN TO THE RECORDING
