The Sound of Soul

Guided by the eminence

Of being here,

A master sat with clay,

Enlivened in the aroma

Of sage and age-less incantations.

Take up the reigns,


The irrelevant guise,


Crushed between thighs,

In the symphony of this downpour,

Wash yourself clean,

Purified in the deluge.

Chaos breeds

A harmony inexplicable,


In a seat of awesome power.

Control elusive and irrelevant

In the cascading existence

Of the glacial stream,

Here lies the source

Crystallised in nothingness,

The bluish grit and glory of being

Prevalent in its vastness.


Preceding all things,


Perceived by the heart

Of the beholder,

We bath in the light of love,

Just this.

As great ages pass,

Rain scents vision ecstatic

Washing clean a mystery serene

With memories of who I have been.

Senses revived,

Shadows dancing on the walls.

Shivering far from dawn.

Unfettered by pronounced logic

in the divide,

Chasms bridged eternally

With the blink of a sightless eye,

The endemic mirage a tireless expanse

Of reason,

Hear it fall

And feel reborn,

The echoes of a thousand Buddhas

Resound within your skull,

Pad lightly alongside benevolence,

Perfectly present,

Never alone.


6 Responses so far »

  1. 1

    NIKOtheOrb said,

    Beautifully written. Reading it is like visualizing meditation and it has the cadence in its form of a meditative trance chant and breathing.

    Love the phrase “perfectly present” as a description of the prolonged and ever Now.

    • 2

      leroywatson4 said,

      ‘Meditative trance chant’ I could not have described the writing process any better. The beauty of words is they come and go like clouds, but prevalent is the great blueness of the open skies behind them. The words just seem like a bridge to such places of truth, but only in fleeting glances. It seems the moment they form words and solidify their true meaning is lost forever and the quest to express the inexpressible continues. I feel that every emotion felt since birth has differing resonance and one generic word is drastic compromise. How many subtle forms of love are there? Infinite! Poetry is truly a dying art! Namaste and Joy, lee

      • 3

        NIKOtheOrb said,

        That is also known as a stream of consciousness. 🙂

        As long as you (and others) continue to compose poetry, it shall never truly die as an artform.

  2. 4

    Ivelina said,

    Wow, Lee, this is like poetic meditation. Thank you !

  3. 6

    David Almeida said,

    Very good!

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