Did You Hear That
Become a
Premium Member
and post notes and photos about your poem like Vernon Witmer.
Running, dripping, or still;
Life's a faucet, we’re a thirst,
To never drink our fill.
We drink and think
We are immune to pain from one another,
But brother, when it comes,
The waterfall or shower towers each
To block the sun.
Into a depth of puddles we stare
With all the wishes hearts forsake.
While voices whisper
From each rain for us to wake.
All drops stop, then disappear,
Take no side but reach our ear
In long or shorter stride to touch
The origin inside.
The place from which no one can hide;
The Hand that turns our faucet on or off.
From caves to huts and soup to nuts,
Each of us an entertainment,
The scope of which directed by
The compass of our choice.
We have and hear a different voice,
But it is our own we stretch
Across this voided earth,
Spiked with certain curtains and callings
Our ceilings manufactured.
These times are not newer
Because there are fewer miles
Of synapse between us.
It is a small but constant distance
From cheek to cuspidor
And what is not expected
Is expectorant on the floor
As we walk into our slippers
Through each shower of hours.
Chapters of happiness layered
With a faith that is guided by
What we have been without.
It is far more elegant to dress
Our moments in what is missing
Than dismissing the obvious
For the want of more,
Yet to stop is to become
That which we were chasing.
Our ears grow with age.
While cold guides our fingers flattened rage.
We can say what we will, turn the page,
Or eat a pie, starting every bite with I.
Who would be the wiser?
What gains a penny whose face is proud
And speaks aloud to the backside of a life?
Follow or fallow It’s what we are made of;
Harvesting hairs, split with indifferences
Spilling from the mouths of babes,
But Maybe baby, we just want to be held
One more time before we go,
While knowledge and understanding
Come from the language of others.
Each place or face is a foreign orb
That we err or blur into a refinement.
It is not a magic pencil but a crazy crayon
From which the cartoons of our life are born.
Oh Gabriel, come blow that horn!
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2021
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment