Thursday, July 4, 2013


To plumb the rare earth metallic way
in a sweat of silver beads profuse,
in a dark smithy with the huffing
down ceremony just pearl hidden,
to feel the bell as slid to the hot left
and cast round right so best to sing:

chimes ring truest in a morning wind
calling again through wet white birch
begging free limits of sinew, a drawn
dawn breath ringing shine bark tones.

Chimes ring clean in quiet harmony too
when white is a here now silence carry,
a chaste escape echoed over noise tops.

Metal too is hammered to chime again
when speech fails under noisy times-
but the breeze speaks quiet truths in
the white past if only you can pause.


  1. Gerry,

    It was a welcome pleasure to find this poem...I am tempted to respond by saying that,' the answer my friend is blowing in the wind,' except that the chimes of nightfall have spoken..


  2. or the chimes of freedom if you're going the Dylan way. cheers.