An Evening

My First Try in ASMR Poetry

An Evening—an ASMR Poem

Evening air caresses my skin, gently, like your finger tips usually do.
Calmness settles in as the open window offers a stage for my little robin’s song.

My inner eye shows his curious bobbing, little toes clicking on the garden table as he settled in to watch me work, following the rhythmic tapping of my keyboard. He was silent then. Watching. His tiny feathers a cloud of softness around a sharp beak and bright eyes.

This was earlier, when the sunshine tickled my nose.

Now. I am done working.
Content silence is interrupted by fresh sheets rustling when I move.
Cool cotton on warm skin.
The breeze picks up ever so slightly.
I can feel my breath slowing down.
And with heavy eyes, I watch the dusk embrace our garden trees.
The little robin is still singing to me.
I find my toes playing with the fresh washed sheets, clench, let go, clench, let go … let go.
And so I drift into sleep, a cool breeze still holding me gently in her arms.

Fighting Ego

Do you sometimes stumble over your ego, and then realize that if you gently would let go, things would just be that much easier? For me this is an ongoing fight against my competitiveness, stubbornness, and yes quite a bit of pride. The penultimate metaphor for ego comes from Disney’s Aladin:

…which is what Ego wants.

…which is what Ego achieves. Because we are caught in the illusion.

There were a couple of conversations lately that brought the focus back on Ego. Luckily, there are always teachers when you need them:

During my undergraduate degree I did Tai Chi with sword. Our teacher was a Chinese lecturer who started the course in his spare time. Now, my friend and I were best in class, and we knew it. One day we went through a fairly complex motion, when he made us stop in the middle of it. We stood on the left leg, holding the sword in the right hand above our heads pointing to the turned heal of our right foot and holding the left hand in a fancy pose.
Now, I got rather cocky because I knew I nailed that movement, which was obviously written across my forehead. There might have been bold lettered neon signs involved.
The teacher made his way down the first line of students, in which I stood. He corrected each student, and we he came to me, he stopped. Just ever so slightly the teacher lifted the corner of his mouth, and then turned around. He proceeded to correct very slowly (gosh soooooo slowly) and deliberately every other student in class. Meanwhile, I was too proud to move, sweating blood and tears to avoid shaking—mind you all still standing on one leg, twisted like an Octoberfest Pretzel—until he finally was done with the whole class and came to me. Only to pause again—for about three hours. He just kept judging my form. Finally! Finally this barely noticeable smile emerged again, he nodded and then ever so slightly twisted my left hand (the fancy pose one) a quarter of an inch.
My friend, who stood next to me cracked up laughing.

My Ego got a big smack on the ear.
It still echoes.
I am still grateful.
It helped me do my own smacking.
But the Ego is persistent.

It’s Muggy

The humidity clings to me
Like a cat saved from drowning

Air is holding her breath
Wind has hidden away
Only daring to gently tousle
The uppermost leaves of the tallest trees

Stillness, as midsummer approaches
The elements play peek-a-boo

The shortest night of the year
Dives through the whole length of golden light
She swims through the silence
Even the birds are quiet

Vertical blinds draw crooked stripes of light across the duvet
Glaring funnels of boogieing dust-specs bombard the room

The wind picks up now
Wood clangs against glass

The little cat purrs
Peaceful now

Like Wildfire

Racing over beheaded stalks of wheat

There is not much nourishment
In stubble

Faster and faster
She races desperate to keep the flames going
Desperate to keep control

So, so scared that once the flames run out
There will be nothingness

And out of the nothing a shape will form
A shape so terrifying
So horrendous
So frightening
The only thing her rage will not burn

Out of the nothingness
Will rise
A mirror

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