Inspired by Allison Mack’s “25 Days of Poetry” Twitter challenge, I thought it was about time I got to writing some more poetry. The following is not new, I wrote it a couple of years back, but hopefully I’ll get to writing some new stuff in the next few weeks.
“The Music of the Spheres”
The artist took his seat on the stool beside his desk,
upon it his dear implement of expression there did rest.
His fingers sat on keys that had not been touched for years
as he contemplated how to write the music of the spheres.
Inspiration came not from him, nor was it predictable.
The outside source was nothing less than purely metaphysical.
But epiphanies are not translated through music blindly played
nor deep emotions and experiences easily conveyed.
But nonetheless the artist was certain of his objective
some would call it responsibility, he called it his directive.
His fingerprints pressed into dust as he silently did ponder
the true meaning of the life that he previously had squandered
From his upper-room apartment, through the window he could see
the sun was dimmed by clouds and smoke, refusing to let it be.
Yet beyond the earth’s atmosphere, he pictured those many spheres;
the sound of celestial bodies unheard by mankind’s ears.
He reached beyond our system, searched far across the stars
and beheld the silent beauty that’s now rarely found in ours.
He saw the fine precision and the masterful creative stroke.
Such sights they overwhelmed him, humility they did provoke.
There were no words, no music that could possibly express
the joy and the wonderment such a journey had impressed.
This journey of the mind also showed him far much more besides;
The intricacies of human creation found plain as day worldwide.
The artist he just sat and stared, he marvelled and he sighed.
These simple things he’d took for granted, now couldn’t be denied.
If he’d a purpose it was in telling, the wonders we could see;
The human body, that alone, a marvel of technology.
It could not be chance, nor some blind luck, the work of evolution;
But surely a hand, a wise creator, and one with a solution.
The artist knew all too well, a bookcase doesn’t grow a shelf
and a composition like this one sadly doesn’t write itself.
His fingers pressed against the keys as he began his greatest opus,
Comforted he was to know his quest was far from hopeless.
He could not force mankind to see, but he could direct their eyes,
And ask them to explore themselves what lies beyond our skies.