the vibrato of a dying room
repetition plagues me.
There is a faint thudding encapsulating my thoughts
I cannot hear anything else.
This dull light that casts the saddened
reflection of my tired hands, is the
only thing that connects my pen to paper.
It is the only thing
that connects me to this room.
If, for somehow, i could detach my
tired gaze from my fluctuating mind
I wouldnt waste that moment, no.
Id hug time and then smash every
Clock within myself, simultaneously, almost devotedly.
Though time has ceased and rain
licks up the frames of my window.
The thudding persists.
Though now it has harshened to
pained sobs and wails, desperate gashes
embed within the walls of my captor.
Revealing the soft flesh of my room,
its tender paint and stucco exposed in a desperate embrace.
I am willing to risk
everything. anything quite possibly.
to taste the glass,
to huff the sweet scent of sticky air and pine.
I am unabashedly entranced
by the still droplets.
And if the shuttering and shivering clouds
that have unsheathed this dying sight upon me,
if those clouds could hear me in this warm, pale room.
I would scream out to them
how their attention tastes like honeyglow.
And i will always crave their adoration
no matter what is unveiled to me.
of the caller they intone,
by the 'lectric
they do twistyer,
by the message you will know,
if to smile or sigh or moan,
so they ring on ,
no one's picking?
picking up that awful phone!
raging so, they run the street,
whining urgent, they retreat,
so to send the ve'cles aside,
as they demand as they do chide,
white and yellow, blue, or red,
blinding lights upob you shed,
taking urgency as noise rebounds,
shun their path, upon the ground.
raging sirens diaphragm, bell,
the disaster they do spell.
hear that scratchy vinyl spin
as the play in anlogue en-gin
and the needle, needless stay
when there's scratchless
digitals to play.
oh nostlagia you scratch on,
stumble, hiccup, stagger on
stumble , hiccup, stagger on
stumble, hiccup, staggee on.
oh we jumped back to the groove,
it was such a lucky move,
there's a bell, a horn of tin,
amplify the scratch within.
will they mock me?
will the wind whistle
or will it whoosh?
will the brook babble
or will it gurgle?
will the grass whisper
or will it susurrate?
will the leaves swish
or will they rustle?
will the trees creak
or will they moan?
will the birds sing
or will they mock me?
The wind pushes past me
with a whoosh
and a swish.
I breathe in the smell of the rain
as it pitters,
as it patters.
A puddle of water
onto my jeans
as I step into it.
that doesn't matter.
something that happened
the whisper of a secret
or a gentle breeze
I wrap my hand
around the door handle
and the door closes
with a satisfying
Things may change, but they still sound the same
Crow-dark and crow-hoarse,
Sweeping black trees bend and break,
With a crack they fall,
We walk on,
A river corpse-deep and sure,
Thigh-high grass wilted,
Crack! They freeze,
To grasp with hands,
The feeling is lost, somewhere by a friend,
Somewhere, not close, is this the end?
Dare I hope for more? Or do I wait for it to-
Crack! Another falls, another walks,
I hardly hear them when I step on my own.
Crack goes our hope,
And the sighs, long and known, were soft once,
Not now, now they are hard and they Crack!
To the ground, to the mud,
The rain is new, so the grass rots, and the mud grows,
And the dreams drown,
Heaving one final sigh, one final Crack!
A crow yells, the first person ducks,
The rest follow, the sun is nowhere to be seen,
Footprints, footsteps, ice, dark,
Crack! The crows dive, and
We all fall fast,
Eyes closed, air cold and black,
Crack (is this the end?)
Car ride home/after~work
No music today.
Instead, the incessant “rattle”
of sunglasses against my
Ilia lipstick, shade “At Last”.
As the plugged white cord
“scrapes” the edge of the dash
quietly, yet annoyingly~“rubbing“ and hanging to the floor.
Suddenly, a constant “click, clack”
the green arrow, turning left.
Then, one big “swish, swoosh”
the rain, “swiped” clean;
collecting on the windshield
right after a “spritz”~ sun shower. Light droplets heard as only
just a “pitter”. Pitter turns ”patter”
within the next “tick” of the clock. “Tick, tick”.… another
“swish, swoosh“ is coming near.
It’s raining harder now.
One Egyptian bead “swaying”, slightly “tapping” the
carved wood symbol of Peace;
to and from the mirror.
Another “click, click, click”, (turning right this time).
“Swish, swoosh“ away more water.
All the droplets pooling
but the blinker keeps “clicking“ long after the turn. “Clunk”.
“Snap” back the handle in place-
a vehicle recall never fixed
(to lazy to call).
“Ahhh” …. a long “yawn”,
for a long day .… “sniff“
(low immune system).
“Swish, swoosh”, my hand leaves the steering wheel once again
to click down the handle.
The rain continues to fall.
Then, my daily reminder,
the flashing red image.
”Seatbelt, beep, seatbelt, beep“. “Swiisshh”. Wet pavement tracks, seen in shiny grey reflections.
Swerve, “kerplunk“, the
“da~dum, rattle, da~dum” bumps, uneven car tilts “groans” and “whirls” in the road~
smooth pavement again.
“Whirling“ tires, slowing pads, “whining“ breaks to stop at red.
“Click, click”, blinker turns left
(past the batting cages this time).
“Crack”- fly ball.
“Giggles” and youthful “flirts“ heard through the half open window. “Weeeen wwoooon“ ….
the electric window goes up,
no more rain on the inside handle. No more giggles.
Pay attention to the busy road.
Last turn. No blinker.
Slowing to stop,
car “rattles”~ sunglasses too,
while the wipers keep
“swish, swooshing“ until, “badadadadum” … big “click“
and a sudden jerk into park.
Then the “click” of the keys
turns it all into “silence”.
if the footsteps behind me are mine
echoing off the marble floors in clips
and clops, heel-toe tempo in an envelope
do you think sound travels through time?
do you think the scream i release is
captured by the stained glass windows,
the same way harmonies and hymns once sunk
holy knives into ancient gilded glass for worship?
oh the song of God is a mourning call, as most
people will call out for their Father in times
distressful and hard. could i mail my death-throes
in the same audible envelope i arrived in?
wordless noise folded over and over again
pressed together and sharpened to a blade.
cacophony shoved into every corner and corridor
until the word of God is spoken under the echo.
so would you believe anyone can become a ghost?
since time is an echo and my last memories
tied to this place are a song i never wish to sing again.
since i remember a song i shouldn’t know.
since these halls are empty of sound,
and here, death is the only thing hallowed.
i’d wish my voice to travel far back in time.
if only to guide the people God left behind.
Melody of Life
The carol of the lonely cardinal cries,
Have you listened close enough to hear the tenor of the wind?
Can you find the woodpeckers mellow Metronome?
Do you hear that buzz of the hummingbirds wings?
We must listen close for the drum of a rolling cloud,
Listen close for the pitter of the rain that washes us.
Hear the thunder scream as its fist crashes into the Earth and sky.
Listen for the sharp last breath of prey losing the battle.
Do you hear the last howl of the wolf, before it lays to rest?
That swift mere silence, that the wind plays alone
The quiet that rocks one to rest, a soliloquy of sorrow,
Close your eyes and feel the world, listen to its song
as life and death continue to forever live on.
I hear you.
When you are annoyed the last word of every sentence thuds to a stark halt, you take a breath sucked between the gap in your front teeth and sigh out a whistle after the thought has been doled out to the person responsiblue for your irritation.
You don’t think people see you
I see you.
When you are sad, your whole body seems to go to sleep. and all the while your awake eyes scan your surroundings. You are shadows in a crowded room, the only sound coming is the occasional
And then sigh that sings low and sweet from your mouth.
You don’t think people hear you.
I hear you.
When you are happy you like to hum, nonsensical tunes in a low steady thrum, the melody lost on everyone, but you know the innate song within the joy you’ve found. You clasp
your hands as if in prayer with a thunderous clap, and breathe a steady inhale of awe. In that moment you are full of the wonder you’ve always held, yet never dared express aloud.
You don’t think people know you.
I know you.
So when you feel as if no one knows the soul you possess and the quiet seems suffocate, look around you-
I see you.
I hear you.
And I know all of you.