Voyage ©

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written April 3rd, 2010

Listen here for my reading of “Voyage.”

 

In the silent interval between two storms,
A somber ship cuts the weight of rippleless waters.
See where the wake divides, and a trough of calm
Quietly foams between the here and gone.
Now we succumb to night and become the pulse
Of a slow and primitive slumber of affection.
In the cavernous room with the crystal chandeliers,
Whose constellations glitter in the stillness,
Taste how the dark adagio swells the air,
And fills the lungs with the antidote to sorrow.
When the colorless ship slides through the lolling ocean.
Feel how we glide once more through the heavy splendor,
Our veins dilating in the exhalate.
Hear how the song elongates through the night,
As the vast ship slips below the smooth, black waves.

Mute Rendezvous ©

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written January 8th, 2009

Listen here for my reading of “Mute Rendezvous.”

 

The loud, but little sounds of the replicas
Slide down and away after midnight,
And the silence becomes like an expanding
Projectile, softly exploding outward
As the calmest violence. The masonry crumbles,
The steel and glass dissolve.  Then, out of the clatter
Of the endless city, comes a larger form of endlessness,
The last intimations of those mortal souls,
Whose impulse is to be forever lost.
Here is where one meets no one,
Where the being without organs
De-bones the flesh, and leaves a slow,
Streamer-like fluttering, unscrolling in the breath.
The time in the clock unravels, like smoke in the wind,
And the haunting completes itself as a cavernous yawn.
It is quiet.  You may speak now.  It is allowed.
But here, in this blank, you may find
You have nothing to say.

Morning Music ©

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written April 28th, 2008

Listen here for my reading of “Morning Music.”

 

It was a blue bird that sat in the top of a red tree.
His tail bobbled up and down as he squawked,
And the midmorning air was hot.  The sky was white.
Little clicking sounds nicked the air from unseen
Insects hidden in the foliage, and old thoughts,
Desires whose colossal and ancient edifices
We have inhabited for many millennia,
Began to creak dangerously in preparation —
In preparation for what?  A collapse?
A disintegration?  A powdering of steel
And concrete into the microdust of white skies
Where a blue bird sits in the top of a red tree,
Etcetera, and squawks of a new day
Being born right out of the slippery egg
Of the old one?  The air is warm, but a slight breeze
Cools us as we sit in the new world,
Happy amidst the swirl of wings,
And the clicking sounds of millions of hidden angels.