How many coffins laying six feet down I have poured a handful of dust onto their shiny wooden lids Brass handles and a crucifix screwed down fast Wherein the body is laid to rest, someone known, loved for themselves And life goes on even with a saddened air that seems to suck all the joy from your aching heart. Faced with such an immense truth of life so many times can weary a soul and stop a poets song, or so it seems, as the bell tolls on and on relentless trying its utmost to chime for death whereas in fact its joyous deeper tone at the passing of a brother into eternal life can be distinguished from its sadder note and for sure will toll one day for your own funeral and final journey back from whence you came.
A bell tolls Friends join in to walk With me to the end of the path Carrying on heavy shoulders, All that last journey, and All that was not said And all that silences Which will echo forever in our hearts.
Some where Silence waits for the desert spaces To speak up And break our lives Into small grains of sand Which pours within the Hour Glass Of our togetherness
Some where - a blast-off to distant stars In the cloud of dust In the drum beats of Shiva's Tandav* dance.
Some where, Love alone Worships the intensity of the togetherness Or Truthfulness of belongingness. Or Remains A mute spectator to the Tandav* of emotions
Silence some time does sound In, Our lives And A bell tolls forever Calling in lost soul Or soul mates To be in the valley of lost flower stars. _________ Tandav is the eternal dance of Lord Shiva, a dance of destruction as well as creation...
Among the dead, two heroes, Octavian, and Philip Augustus (from the house of Capet)... to all hopes of a revived Hollywood Encircling them, fermenting as many credible names - Strange people, poisons that smell like perfume - what? Lord anthony is dead - is that how one says it? Simply as that... mark anthony is dead - The soup is hot, the soup is cold - anthony is living, anthony is dead - SHAKE WITH TERROR WHEN SUCH WORDS PASS YOUR LIPS... FOR FEAR THEY BE UNTRUE AND ANTHONY CUT-OUT YOUR TONGUE FOR A LIE... AND IF TRUE... FOR YOUR LIFETIME BOAST THAT YOU WERE ABLE TO SPEAK HIS NAME IN HIS DEATH... A DYING OF SUCH A MAN MUST BE SHOUTED... SCREAMED! IT MUST ECHO BACK FROM THE CORNERS OF THE UNIVERSE! ANTHONY IS DEAD! MARK ANTHONY OF ROME LIVES NO MORE! I know of only two men be worth a taxing memory, A taxman's assertion worth of bookkeeping... That one was Octavian, and the latter remnant of Charlemagne, Namely Philip Augustus, father of the Magna Carta... Beyond the celebrated procession of Westminster Abbey... There the minded tear... They binding i admire most... keen puppeteers, Such that i too suffer sufficing to be with the smallest army of Exercise in the demand of owning land bereaved From ever being lost, as sufficient demand for Posthumous reenactment of the up-kept bibliography.
Everybody knows that Lovely sound When the bell rings And you're homeward bound Freedom calls your name At long last
Skippin' down the hallway No time to play Gettin' the hell out After another long day You couldn't pay me to stay
bell.
Author: John
0
Date: 12/03/2020
№ 1171090
The Bell at the Drum Circle
It was All Hollow's Eve.
From all around people were coming to the south eastern seaboard to pay homage to the full moon, and beseech the moon to bless them in the upcoming harvest season.
As was customary, the people brought their bongos to attract the attention of the moon. The drummers settled across the length of the beach in many little groups and began drumming their rituals. They drummed for many reasons.
To this ceremony came a young boy. He was a quiet boy from a tribe of very meager means. He did not have with him a bongo, ornate and with a bold resounding rhythmic thump. All he had to bring to the ceremony was a single tiny bell and a sounding rod with which to strike it. The bell, when struck, would render a soft, high pitched ring.
The boy knew it was a drum circle and not a bell circle, but he wanted to be a part of the evenings events.
The sun was beginning to set and the drummers had begun.
The boy with the bell joined a group of drummers who drummed to ask the moon that the breeze would be cool and gentle, instead of savage and destructive. The boy was feeling the rhythm, and when he felt he was found the place, struck the bell with the sounding rod.
The drummers stopped drumming. One of the drummers, an older boy around the outside of the circle shooed the young boy with the bell away from the group.
The young boy felt sorry. He hoped he had not been to much of a disturbance to the circle. He walked down the beach a little way. The faintest sparkling of a few stars could begin to be noticed in the sky. The sun had nearly set.
Another circle of drummers drummed so that the moon would intercede with the vast ocean and ask that the tide be gentle instead of large and destructive to the crops in the field.
The small boy liked the rhythm made by the various hands rapping on the tight skins and the sides of the bongos. He could hear in his mind how his bell might fit in with this rhythm. He was patient. He waited. When he felt it was just the right place, the boy struck his bell with the sounding rod.
The drumming ceased. Many drummers scowled at the young boy with the bell from a far off village. One of the drummers waved for the boy to go away from this circle. He pouted a little and left.
The boy did not mean to cause a disturbance. He had only wanted to join the ceremony.
The sun had long since set. The moon and stars illuminated the sky like a silvery blanket. The boy felt the love that was on the beach deep in his chest. He began to smile.
The boy was drawn in by the rhythms of another circle of drummers who were drumming to ask the moon that the crops be plentiful with fruit, the goats to yield plenty of milk, and the chickens many eggs.
The boy thought he might try one last time to find a place for his soft, highly pitched bell tone. He was hopeful because a few of the drummers were rapping and shaking beaded pottery. Surely this circle would be open enough to allow the boy with the bell to join in and help beseech the moon.
He waited and listened. When he felt that he had found the right place in this rhythm, the young boy struck the bell with the sounding rod.
Once again, the drummers stopped. A man wearing a frown pointed sternly with an outstretched muscled arm and sent the boy further down the beach where there were no more circles of drummers.
His head hung low, and with nobody around to see, the young boy with the bell who had been sent away from all the drumming circles on the beach let heavy and hot tears roll down his face and drip from his round cheeks.
"Do not cry, Young One, " the boy heard a soft voice say.
The boy took a breath and the raised his head. Standing before him was a woman in silver robes fettered with strands of fiber shimmered like stardust. A soft mist surrounded her.
"The tone of your bell was most pleasing to me because it was possessed of a sincere gentleness and simplicity that was unique among a multitude of sounds that all bore a similarity to each other. By the time they reach the heavens, they are all the same.
Because your bell was different, it got my attention.
Because you rang your bell with the first circle of drummers, the wind will be gentle. Because you rang your bell with the second circle of drummers, the ocean will be calm. Because you rang your bell at the third circle of drummers, the crops and livestock will produce a plentitude. "
The young boy could barely believe what the beautiful woman had said. She seemed to be cloudy through his lingering tears. The boy brought his palms to his face to wipe them from his eyes. When he looked back up to see her clearly, she was gone.
The round full moon was brightly shining in the midnight sky.
A Midnight bell rings through the night cloaked village. The high standing clock tower has surveyed the night, And deemed it high time to sing its chime.
A procession of men in crosses cloaked Sway forward with eyes searching dirt. A humming unison, softly painting pictures Of mankind's final days.
Their humming chorus carries slowly down the empty streets, An approaching fog creeping through the alleys, Smelling of soft odor sage.
Ever building organ chimes build, Frantic hands introduce each note to next All culminating to its bitter end, An apex, each note cryingly rings at once Deep into the fearful fox's core.
