One Note

They draw you, those brass bowls,
each polished smooth, holding a single note.

They are for some reason irresistable
and you succumb, taking the striker and tapping the edge,

listening to that one perfect note, ringing,
somehow commanding attention

No matter where they are, a ringing
that seems to cut through the noise around you,

yes, even the noise in your head,
and holds you in thrall, From the first eruption of sound

to the long holding of the music,
and the last fading, holding you still

as you wish you were. A stillness
that goes deep inside. One note,

the only perfection in your life.
And if the sound lasts only a minute or two,

It is worth the listening.

About this poem.

I have a thing for oriental singing bowls, chimes and bells, I have serveral in my home. There is a pureness in their tones that holds me, calms me, brings me peace. I ring them often. I seem to have more of a need for peace than most people.

The picture was taken at AisiaBurano, a place that bills itself as the largest emporieum of Asian Antiquities in the U. S. I can spend hours there.

Tom