The Silent Movie

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
When riding, and the music plays
All of the city, country outlays
As a scene from a silent movie.

I imagine the text, as I read the lips
The subtle nod, the hat that tips
As the text from a silent movie.

And then when walking, A youth I see
Whose ears too, full of music be
It becomes a strange silent movie.

Has the world become all black-and-white
For him also, the gray day and night
Of the flickering silent movie?

All things pass at a faster rate
Memory of love, memory of hate
Make haste in a jerky, silent movie.

For him and I, does reality pass
From real to film through projector glass
Into our own private silent movie?

Or does instead this now roll back
The ugliness, the noise that all attack,
Soundless in this silent movie.


  1. You keep getting better and better at this poetry thing.

  2. I guess if you keep throwing paint on the wall, some of it will stick? :)

  3. That's what Jackson Pollack thought.


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