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Brian Christopher Hamilton

The tree falling does make a sound

It shatters the forest silence

And echoes off the walls of light.

We are, as well, not needed

To define the scent of fire.

It will burn without our blessing

The way a flower which never feels

The pressure of a human eye,

Swells to bud, blooms,

Wilts and dies in beauty

Beneath the weight of its own breath,

Or the way fingers caressing piano keys,

Too long untuned,

Still trace the proper notes

And know the music as certainly as stone.



    Poet Reads Poem

Telling Lies

Everything passes in cycle,

Yet we look for signs from gods

To seize our senses,

Veins of lightening swelling varicose

In the melancholy skin of the sky,

Sudden eclipses of the moon

And floods to force us into change,

Only taking the truth, finally,

Held down, with our mouths pried open,

Or threatened with something more severe,

Like luxuries withheld,

Never knowing what is best

Till we are beaten into bravery.


And still we are seduced

By the reflex to deceive,

As if keeping these deep or shallow secrets,

However meaningless,

Gave us an edge on something

As if there were some part of us

No one else could own.