Rarer than an organ’s flesh,

or pipe in a churchly nave,

is when one and one mesh

in a listening will to save

 

what lost, becomes noise,

when ears seek to close

what otherwise would poise

when open channels propose

 

that sound, when it’s loud,

could rupture all that’s true,

that esteems itself proud,

could sever two into

 

such quakes that breed rifts,

and endeavor for Man to split,

since all we care to lift

is the Ego that won’t commit

 

to all that the Ear of Fawns

hears quickly, without attempt

to calculate, and ever pause

to plan a solipsist’s contempt

 

for every little sound, in the Forest, or not,

that arouses inner will

to hear a voice so rarely sought,

which is any outside one’s own fill

 

of none but caresses the Ego’s song,

and tells only what one will hear,

and tears, into shreds, what remains too long

for whatever will kiss a lazy ear!

 

This, so it is, with all Man’s troubles:

we struggle, and fight, for loss of how easy

it is just to listen to even rains, in puddles,

which for the Fawn seem like hurricanes seething,

 

and this is the Ear:

 

We seem not to think

that anything wrong

could

Be

Our

Own.

 

Always the fault lies anywhere else,

and those, who accuse, do love to stray

from any such thought, except what sells

that which they bought, already, to play:

 

what games, are those, for soulless eyes,

where hearts divide, and pull aside

soul from soul, and a lovely surprise

would otherwise make this life a prize

 

No, not today! Today is War,

and Tomorrow and Tomorrow,

into Time evermore,

 

and so, it is, that often is said,

“the End, of war, have only seen: the Dead.”

 

And this War here, of which I write,

is not quite the guns, the mines, and lights,

but first a closed ear, Man’s oldest blight,

that rips all things with ultimate might:

 

Babes, and Fawns, and women, and men,

and beasts alike, and every new trend,

for society entire, is a dreadful Act,

and none but the worst impose the facts!

 

Is this the Ear?

 

No, it won’t do,

 

for nothing so noble may so be defined,

but the Fawn will tell the Final Word,

for never by lies has it been confined:

 

“Hear, you wayward, stupid Stones

who, callous, pretend to be such Men

as God called forth, to upward ascend,

while instead you chose the rot and the Dead!

 

That which, elegant, sides your head

is everything good, and truly led,

when close it keeps such sounds so fed

by winds, and notes, and voices bred

 

not to shout, or clumsy, speak,

but instead, alive, make Songs the peak

of all that Man so surely can

so take from air, and make quite clean!

 

The choice is yours, as to whether the Ear

shall do you good, or join the appendix

as one so able to, if needed, disappear,

or else remain, so amorous, to fix

 

all that you suffer, as not like Fawns

do you know such guileless, child-like Ears

but we can teach such precious Songs

if only you listen to all that appears

 

meet, and right, to diligent souls

who ever watch: themselves, and claim,

‘that nothing awry would ever unfold,

if only that I, would see what pain

 

is caused each time I flutter and fail,

like birds, when clipped, in forceful rain,

and my own sight remains as frail

as an Ego within, and dark, insane!

 

Therefore, ought not from now go on

any such thing, but reflection born

from all the pain that spiritual Songs

reveal where the world prefers forlorn

 

all those such Eyes that expose our sin,

and causes that we just look within,

for never do want, the sinners and kin,

for Truth to win, and reveal our fibs!’

 

See,

 

Here’s the rub,

 

and this is the difference,

between all of Man that’s good and ill,

so follow us Fawns, and all our limerence,

 

for this is what gives,

from Hell,

 

Deliverance.”

 

 

_________________

 

R.V. Smith: “The Ear”, 01-22-26

 

© 2026 by Ryan Vincent Smith