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by
flyys
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Poetry And Lyrics
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| Submitted on 06/24/2010 |
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Strolling into a run down Movie Theater,
Without a screen,
I see
Black and white penguins
Holding little peculiar gadgets of all shapes and sizes.
Wooden ones, and ones of tin.
They wobble in like flies attracted to honey,
Spread to their overly rehearsed seats
And sit so fastidious, and anxious,
For all but one seat is occupied
All but,
The chair nearest to the front
I smile as the young little penguins boggle at the absent.
Nervousness wavers in the air
Where is that one person?
Then suddenly, emerging over at the side,
He comes. The group stands,
And sit right back down again.
I could see them stiffen as
Another person wearing black and black
Come, and again they all stand.
But this time,
She holds a stick:
A small black twig with a white tip.
She twirls it into place
Pinches with the gossamer touch
Between two fingers,
Waves it like a magic wand,
And magic begins.
Emerging, like a picture and all silence stops.
And in that exact moment,
I saw flames, blizzards, and lightning.
I felt the earth shaking
The wolves howled
The bears growled
The winds were hurricanes.
The Gods argued
The seasons passed
Time traveled between years
Rachmaninoff, Prokoffief, Beethoven, Bach
Rose from the dead,
And danced upon the stage.
I was holding onto my seat, breath-taken
In that instantaneous sweep
And with another cue of the magic wand
Suddenly,
Everything,
Disappeared, as nothing ever happened.
And all those young penguins stood,
Lined up behind the magician-
They too were breath taken by their first practice
They walked into an endless fate
Where time rides on the waves of a circle,
And a place where age doesn’t exist.
As I walked out, I found this most intruding
I discovered something as I stared at the domed theater
To keep this diamond ritual
To be a teacher of rituals
And so I did, as I still do, as the petite penguins did,
As a part of, the magical orchestra.
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