you don’t hear;
you are not listening
to the underneath of love
but to the lovely surface sounds
which are all cooings and slurpy kisses
catching your attention and filling up your ears
so you never discern those almost inaudible notes
that sing the promise of pain, of looming, inescapable sorrow.
An etheree is this form of poem, lines increasing by either words or syllabes, 1 - 10. I’ve used a word count here rather than syllable count. There can also be reverse etherees, and double etherees counting from 1 to 10 and back again from 10 to 1, or even double reverse etherees. I suspect I’m not done with this new (for me) discovery yet.