From a worn chair in a dim, dusty room,
Old ears listen for a familiar tread:
The fast, heavy clicks of heels,
Focused and fast in a no-nonsense drive
From home to work and back again.
But, no. A breath. That tread was from then.
Tired eyes close. Then wait for the beat,
The pitter-patter of dainty feet that
Jump and flutter down the stairs
To head to school or outside to play.
No. Those feet grew. They moved away.
A sigh. A breath. A weary shake.
And the head turns for a slower step,
Careful and reliable in sturdy shoes,
Always there, each year, each hour and day.
And so in the silence the old ears stay.
Tag Archives: Poetry
Old Ears
Elements of Everyone
A hundred subtle vowel and
Consonant changes – inflections that
Challenge the ear of strangers with
Elements of everyone you know:
Nanoscale bits of people absorbed
Through life and reflected back.
The Poetry Store
“Oh, no!” she cried, tears in her eyes,
“The poetry store is dark inside!
The shelves are empty – the rhymes are gone!
No books! No schemes! No driving song
Of meters pushing each word on.
This cannot be! This is a crime –
To take poetry but leave us time!
Who would bury us with such woes
As to live and die with only prose?”
The Writer Writes On
The writer writes on
As reading fades away –
Only letters and words,
All jumbled and misplaced,
Remain in a pile
Of scattered fragments
Like clues to what once was.
To be interpreted,
Not read or said,
A language bleeding out
Until it evolves – or finally
Lies dead. A memory,
Some strange hallucination
Inside the writer’s head.
The Hunt
Some yearn for sugar-spritzed marshmallows
So bright they seem ready to spring,
To caper and cavort across the plastic grass
Until, headless, they fall – or rise again,
Joined by dismembered cohorts of chocolate,
The wish of other hungry souls along with
Eggs and chicks – all the same rich confection.
Among them eggs that bleed rich cream,
Bought in handfuls and consumed to a coma
While the hunt continues through the yard
With rewards of bright-colored plastic (empty)
Or worse, a discarded craft project,
That holds only food – no candy or coins –
Unless, wait, yes, it could (oh please)
Contain a chorus of glitter awaiting its prey.
The shower of sparkles, the laughter, the chase and (eventually)
To sleep with a chocolate-smeared smile on your face.
Dream While You Can
Dream while you can
Til it fades in the dawn:
The dawn of marriage,
The dawn of kids,
The uncountable dawns
Of the life that you live –
Look! There! Can you see
Responsibilities break
Through the clouds
Of dreams left behind:
Ambiguous, undefined, hidden
In the depths of your mind –
Taken over by dreams
Taken over in kind.
Be Still
Sometimes (thought too rarely, in truth),
I like to sit and be still, to
Listen to the world and
Empty my mind of thought, of plans –
No worries, no inner monologue: a
Calm, tranquil pool of water, too often too
Easily unsettled, unbalanced, or drained
A Little Irish Craic: Happy Saint Patrick’s Day
An oversight, a quick mistake,
But now, it’s more than I can take!
Thinking of songs and dance and beer –
Of Irish craic, fun, and good cheer –
I forgot one thing (one little flaw),
And it’s like I broke some sainted law!
Constant pinches, laughter, too!
What country’s colors are black and blue?
And to pinch a girl for not wearing green?
That’s not Irish – that’s just plain mean!
Nearly Inconceivable
Impossibly
Major yet somehow
Possible – in theory
Or, at least, in
Some futures: Nearly
Inconceivable, with
Noisome overtones and
Grueling implications.
twytte 