5 min

POETRY SERIES • “1,000 Secret Whispers Through an IT Tower Knoll‪”‬ Mica Sun Reflections

    • Performing Arts

S2:E5

This episode consists of a poem born from the top of a panoramic hill southeast of Asheville. Read by yours truly. 



1,000 Secret Whispers Through an IT Tower Knoll

Hilltop of open cattle land and cell tower IT needles,

Sun setting over endless grass.

Are we always whispering across such spaces

Mole hills tunneling their crazy paces

Beneath the only tall things left, the thistles

And last seasons’ dung. Bare rocks

Turn face towards Sun when she

Molasses passes far above. On microwaves

Dart messages of love, like fishes

Navigating corals some thousand miles below this knoll

Which holds the concrete toes of spires’ wires

Passing their threads of spiders messages

Above thru viewless space dimensionally inaccessible except

To ears of precious metal mined at feet of war torn wilderness

Thousands of miles away. So we may say

Into tight microphone like a child’s game of telephone

I love you, I hate you, come home, stay gone, I will.

—19 November 2020



Mica Sun Reflections. 

Drop deep for a moment. Getting art to your ears.



@micasunreflections 

https://micasun.bandcamp.com/


---

Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/micasunreflections/support

S2:E5

This episode consists of a poem born from the top of a panoramic hill southeast of Asheville. Read by yours truly. 



1,000 Secret Whispers Through an IT Tower Knoll

Hilltop of open cattle land and cell tower IT needles,

Sun setting over endless grass.

Are we always whispering across such spaces

Mole hills tunneling their crazy paces

Beneath the only tall things left, the thistles

And last seasons’ dung. Bare rocks

Turn face towards Sun when she

Molasses passes far above. On microwaves

Dart messages of love, like fishes

Navigating corals some thousand miles below this knoll

Which holds the concrete toes of spires’ wires

Passing their threads of spiders messages

Above thru viewless space dimensionally inaccessible except

To ears of precious metal mined at feet of war torn wilderness

Thousands of miles away. So we may say

Into tight microphone like a child’s game of telephone

I love you, I hate you, come home, stay gone, I will.

—19 November 2020



Mica Sun Reflections. 

Drop deep for a moment. Getting art to your ears.



@micasunreflections 

https://micasun.bandcamp.com/


---

Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/micasunreflections/support

5 min