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.

No.

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.

ringing ringing,

bell-less tones,

of the caller they intone,

brazen, glassy,

surface glister,

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.

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

splatters

onto my jeans

as I step into it.

To me,

that doesn't matter.

I sigh,

remembering

something that happened

earlier today.

It sounds

kind of

like

the whisper of a secret

or a gentle breeze

quietly synchronizing

with

the

wind.

I wrap my hand

around the door handle

and the door closes

with a satisfying

click.

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,

Follows us,

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?)

Crack…

listening

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?

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;

hanging, “gliding”

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,

steady “beeping”,

steady “beeping”

accompanied by

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.

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.

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

“Mmmhmm.”

“Ahhh.”

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.

Whooooosh,

splash,

thump,

thump,

thump,

bluuuurp,

gurgle,

thump,

thump.

Silence.

Screeeeech,

shouts,

“Oh dear,”

Oh dear.”