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Poetry of Afer-Anderson
SYMPHONY IN A JUNKYARD

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SYMPHONY IN A JUNKYARD | AND THE CHILDREN GO ON CRYING

 
 
 
Distant rolling of tympani thunder,
darkening clouds painting canvas sky
in patches of gray and navy,
faintest hints of sun fading,
and sweet smell of moisture
assaulting every nook and cranny

the forecast of melancholy storm,
heaven's moody opus
over forgotten junkyard,
a graveyard for human invention,
aging archive for music of life spent

slow, steady, bass-like thudding
of obese water balls
exploding atop empty oil drum
staccato, tom-tom pounding
of raindrops free-falling
into hanging rooftop gutters,
and soft cymbal roll
of countless droplets dancing
across sepia-colored tin roof
covering office shack
abandoned long ago

then sudden, deafening peal of cracking thunder
like manic clash of cymbals
following cue of maestro lighting,
the conductor of nature's clamorous din
in this archaic amphitheater of man's surplus

yet, in midst of ephemeral tempest
fluted bursts of glee gush forth
as wind gusts whistle through copper tubing,
and skip across crated, uncapped bottles
still waiting to be returned for deposit,
while turning rotting tires
into vertical tuba stacks,
with scattered exhaust pipes trumpeting

and rogue winds
rummaging about tin shack
pluck cords of antique loom
still threaded tightly,
prompting taut strings to sing
like resurrected harp,
then heartily brushing against ceramic charms
of discarded wind chime,
the effect reminiscent of limber fingers
stroking piano keys
forgotten junkyard,
this desolate burial ground
for inanimate castaways
of humankind's spent convenience
and euthanized dreams,
a wasteland where spirits now roam
rain
wind
thunder
lightning,
making orchestral magic in pit
of orphaned things,
injecting life,
music,
into rejected items with suicide fantasies,
creating symphony from scraps

oil drum tympani, hanging gutter tom-tom and tin roof cymbals
percussions

copper tubing flutes and uncapped bottle oboes
reeds

the brass of rotting tire tubas and exhaust pipe trumpets

antique harp looming and wind chime piano
strings

and even once mobile audience approves,
having settled in,
dilapidated autos
with twinkling eyes
headlights reflecting lightning flashes
and the chip-toothed grin
of broken grills

stray storm turns
isolated graveyard for human invention
into magical, mystery land
where Heaven and Earth intersect
and God smiles,
in absence of man,
contentedly listening
to His symphony in a junkyard.



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Copyright Terrance Afer-Anderson, August 22, 2001 and August 2001 by Ulonka.