John Anderson Poet Lyric

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Acoustic Shadows

From sounds heard on eardrums
and hair cells in the inner ears,
we refract and warp their tones
into sound shadow puppet-plays,
in the mind’s disc-jockey's booth,
picking and choosing what to keep or lose,
softening hard edges, to time-warp what we can bear,
bending the ear away from dissent,
replaying covers of old favorites
when we refuse the unfamiliar.

The unwanted drifts into static noise,
we switch off midway,
we look away, hands over ears—
we laugh to force a chorus line.
We get up and dance
to shake away the doubt now stirred,
quick-stepping away sideways
to avoid toes being crushed,
when what’s heard moves up too close—
too close to the bone.
“That can’t be true.”
“Can’t apply to me, surely.”
“Where did you hear such nonsense?”
“It doesn’t really matter anyway.”
“Enough already—OK.”

Midway, the call we're on 
strangely is made to fade, 
it seems to breaks up—
"Sorry you've dropped out"
"It's garbled"
"Say again, Speak up"
Or the soundproof door 
quietly, gently swings shuts
before the message is complete.
Interrupting:
"Yeah, that's Right"
"I Know what you mean"
"That's so True"
"Everyone Agrees, Sure!"

We know what we like
the home disk jockey to spin:
old favorites, 
covers and tributes
echoing into sound shadows
along narrow self-worn and self-torn
protected shadow lit pathways.

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