And Downstairs


Contemplating dying,

I'm not concerned about “my self”;

I feel sorry for my hands,

sorry for my feet;

for everything in between!


I often sit back and listen

to the madrigal of my hands;

its ten voices,


and I watch, attentively, my feet

with their ten little drummer boys

pounding the path


I listen, in awe,

to their chief;

the bass drum

inside the rib cage;

insistent, fierce, enduring


and I hear the wheezing

of the rivers and streams

of the cardiovascular matrix,


while from afar,

inside my Vipashyana practice,

I see my thoughts butterfly about

over the summery meadow of mind,

which registers, in the distance,

a motorbike gearing up

out on the highway

in a remote auditive likness

of a housefly behind the curtain


in someone's recollection

of childhood,


and downstairs Glenn Gould is humming

over his keyboard

where The Goldberg Variations reside


Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 90 times
Written on 2023-01-19 at 11:00

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Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
It is a fine unique meditative poem, Ingvar. I especially like the construct of this: How you start with the physical elements for which you potentially feel 'sorrow' at the time of passing, and then fly with the meditative thought processes.
Blessings, Allen