I first heard the
lullaby in the
womb.
It has a pulse
and rhythm.
It was embedded in
my tissue and cells.
And when I was shot out,
bloody and naked,
the cord was cut.
The journey began.
At five years old,
I remember closing
my eyes, and lying
down to go to sleep,
it felt like I was
being rocked.
I wonder if the
subconscious mind was
remembering the
rhythm of the womb.
My Mom--pregnant with me
walking upstairs--downstairs,
elevators
escalators
movement
pulse,
the eternal lullaby of
the womb.
When I closed my
eyes, it felt like I
was being rocked.
It felt like I was
in a swing;
back and forth.
Easy, like a fragrant
spring night.
I feel and hear the
pulse--the rhythm,
the heart in everything.
In footsteps--in the wind,
in the ancient river, and
in the mermaid's song.
I feel it in
the beating of the
hummingbird's wings.
I see it in
Van Gogh's jagged sky,
in the flight pattern
of the wasp.
There is a rhythm in
death and birth.
Oh my God, the rapture of
the rhythm of love and
joy--so sublime.
The primal beat of a
heartbreak--pain,
like painting with
blood.
So real
too lucid.
Icarus, let's fly into
the sun, drunk on
vodka or cheap wine.
We'll escape--liquid smooth,
until our wings melt,
and we fall back down,
crash
to the pulse
the rhythm
bum bum
bum bum
bum bum.
Sometimes,
I wish I were
a rock.
lullaby in the
womb.
It has a pulse
and rhythm.
It was embedded in
my tissue and cells.
And when I was shot out,
bloody and naked,
the cord was cut.
The journey began.
At five years old,
I remember closing
my eyes, and lying
down to go to sleep,
it felt like I was
being rocked.
I wonder if the
subconscious mind was
remembering the
rhythm of the womb.
My Mom--pregnant with me
walking upstairs--downstairs,
elevators
escalators
movement
pulse,
the eternal lullaby of
the womb.
When I closed my
eyes, it felt like I
was being rocked.
It felt like I was
in a swing;
back and forth.
Easy, like a fragrant
spring night.
I feel and hear the
pulse--the rhythm,
the heart in everything.
In footsteps--in the wind,
in the ancient river, and
in the mermaid's song.
I feel it in
the beating of the
hummingbird's wings.
I see it in
Van Gogh's jagged sky,
in the flight pattern
of the wasp.
There is a rhythm in
death and birth.
Oh my God, the rapture of
the rhythm of love and
joy--so sublime.
The primal beat of a
heartbreak--pain,
like painting with
blood.
So real
too lucid.
Icarus, let's fly into
the sun, drunk on
vodka or cheap wine.
We'll escape--liquid smooth,
until our wings melt,
and we fall back down,
crash
to the pulse
the rhythm
bum bum
bum bum
bum bum.
Sometimes,
I wish I were
a rock.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 24th, 2024 17:01
- Comment from author about the poem: Check out my book, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems on Amazon.com
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
- User favorite of this poem: Teddy.15.
Offline)
Comments3
A fine write Thomas. I can't keep calling you 'T'. Or shall I? lol.
Thank you. T is fine.
I first heard the
lullaby in the
womb.
It has a pulse
and rhythm.
It was embedded in
my tissue and cells.
And when I was shot out,
bloody and naked,
the cord was cut.
The journey began.
And still it goes on. Awe the pain and anxiety of each day yet to come, superb poetry Sir. 🌹
Thank you, I really appreciate that.
The rhythm reflected in the rhythm of the poem itself. Yes I have felt it too and when I am in synch with it life goes well and when out of beat not so well. I think even rocks feel the rhythm of their mother earth.
Thank you so much for reading and commenting.
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