Best Eavesdrop Poems
I am somber
like November days
and my words speak
weak, as if through tired tongue
I see the trees
stand naked
reaching their limbs
across the stream
as if touching
and comforting each other
from the bitter cold
that's settling in
sometimes I envy them
I want to stand naked
arch my back
reach towards hands
and feel the comfort
of more than I am allowed
and escape the bitterness
as it settles in
it doesn't seem fair
to question a day
or night that wears the same veil
as me, colorless
and silent in the breeze
as it whispers
through the trees
sometimes
I want to lean my ear
and eavesdrop on them
I want to peak beneath
the skies veil and see
the colors blend
to see the rain
less clear
through colored drops
fall upon a canvas
and paint a masterpiece
I want to feel my hands
finger a pen, without tingling
from bottled up emotions
to feel my soul inside me
not as if locked outside
looking in, as if a stranger
to my own life
not be the afterthought
or an emotion beyond words
of some poet's muse
I want to know the meaning
of this emptiness
I want to understand
why the tree is as naked
as my thoughts in winter
yet dressed heavy in the summer
and most beautiful in the fall
why does beauty fall
become grounded
and dance in November's wind
somber, like the day....
Forbidden fruit they had eaten
At the bidding of the snake
New ashamed that they were naked
They had to cover up, for Heaven's sake
"Adam, lets sew ourselves some fig-leaves."
"Sounds good to me, dear Eve."
God paid them no attention
Had he a trick up His sleeve?
Instead of random eavesdropping
The Lord did something eye-popping
He searched for Adam as if He had no clue
Then cried out, "Man, where are you?!"
Did the All-Seeing not know Man's whereabouts?
Did He need resort to a primal shout?...
Within God's question lies a lesson
to which some choose to adhere
God does not want man to eavesdrop
~ Do you hear?
December 11, 2019
Listening In Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Julia Ward
I eavesdrop on chatty breezes
whispering words of gibberish,
amidst the sound of rustling leaves.
By setting the leaves aflutter;
they garner secrets from the trees,
interpreting their sighs and heaves.
Autumn creates a fairyland,
at the first hint of Jack Frost's breath;
stripping all the trees in the park.
And rays of light freckle the ground:
playing tag with shifting shadows,
cast by naked twigs, bare and stark.
Strolling through Fall's kaleidoscope
my anxieties disappear,
and I tend to manage a smile.
The sweet laughter of the children
frolicking in piles of dried leaves:
makes Summer's departure worthwhile.
“A tattered soul isn’t always dark; there’s light within, amidst broken wings. Only a hyacinth heart would see the sun when it rains. ” ~
Quote by Poet
I
am like
tattered twigs
on dying trees,
facing freckled skies~
watered with blooming grief,
as tainted roots of life-lines~
keeps carrying emerald scars,
scattered along feathered rain-forests,
where devious dragonflies and cross-eyed~
crickets croon remnants of forgotten times.
There, fluorescent wild-flowers eavesdrop,
mocking tales of my weathered wings.
But will the rain ever see
how the sun in my soul
still spreads rose gold light,
across torn skies,
adorned with
splintered
dreams…
Four characters that we know well
have problems they all want to tell
in therapy group.
To get all the scoop,
let’s eavesdrop, for all is not well!
Believing no more in himself,
sits dear Santa Claus and an elf
who is hating his work.
Santa says, “What jerk.
I should put you back up on your shelf!”
The elf, in a huff, then fires back
(for confidence HE does not lack),
“I believed in you once,
when you weren’t such a dunce.
Old geezer, go stuff your own sack!”
The anger inside the room grows
when Rudolph, who hates his red nose,
screams, “Don’t say such stuff.
St. Nick’s work is tough,
and MY job, dear elf, frankly BLOWS.
You elves get to go to the mall
and smile at the children and all.
No one’s calling you names
as you play reindeer games.”
The elf yells, “At least you’re not SMALL.
You think you have woes? Look at ME.
I’m called silly names constantly.
There’s a song about YOU
and your red nose debut.
Geez, a hero you’ve now come to be!!
An elf is an elf all the same.
Kids don’t even know my real name.
Reindeer get names like Cupid.
Well, your name should be STUPID.
What I would not give for YOUR fame!”
A snowman sits stoically there.
He turns to the arguing pair.
“A carrot’s MY nose!
To death I have froze,
yet I’m melting right now in this chair!”
I wonder where the wind goes
To be alone
To listen
To the whispers
Of idle leaves
Eavesdrop on the
Ripples of the pond
Succumb to the silence
Of nature’s hum
Huddle in the shade
With un-tumbling tumbleweeds
Vagabonds sharing a story
In a dusty train yard
When you rise in the early morning long before the sun’s first light
you have this wonderful opportunity to eavesdrop on the music of the night.
If you don’t hear the music at first…wait!…it won’t be long…
before the crickets, whom you never see, choose the rhythm of the song.
Once you catch the rhythm…just as your body begins to sway…
as if the maestro pointed in their direction…the woodwinds begin to play.
Their music enters from every direction as you walk through the neighborhood…
The melody changing depending on how the wind chooses to whistle through the woods.
The woodwinds can enter loudly on a gust…or softly on a gentle morning breeze…
either way….wherever you turn…there is music in the trees.
Just as you’re thinking to yourself…is there a better way to start the day…
the birds pick up their horns…and the brass begins to play.
If you’re lucky…and you listen closely…sometimes the music of the night…
offers a violin concerto…of the hummingbirds in flight.
Some walks take a little longer…you stop more often…close your eyes knowing you don’t have to see…all you have to do is listen to nature’s morning symphony.
Sadly…when the sun begins its rise…the symphony quickly fades away…
as the music of the night relinquishes the stage to the music of the day.
But another symphony begins tomorrow…if you rise before the sun’s first light…
another opportunity awaits…to eavesdrop on the music of the night.
The devil’s dry fields
dirt farm, not much yields
damn sun
one forlorn tree shields
Texas battlefields
the one
recline that appeals
low water reveals
not done
no reprieve day’s sun
no wind, land barren
poor crop
windmill slow to run
water still and dun
well drop
worn clothes overdone
unbleached and homespun
no fop
dry, dingy sweatshop
broken fence post prop
damn sun
blind heat nonstop
a silent eavesdrop
poor crop
bleeding fingers mop
hellish spinning top
Grandma
A huge tree of varicolored leaves is raining beauty,
In the days of thrills, just past a sunshine spree,
On the steady march of glory, lasting all the year,
Until the lovely snows of winter takes up its rear!
Colorful leaves fly all day and throughout the dark,
And swirl gaily and engulf me with beauty's remark.
I listen as a birdsong is floating from the treetop,
He totally unaware someone has stopped to eavesdrop.
I am certain all the world would love my pretty tree,
That rains all the luscious colors of autumn over me!
Dismiss me so gently like swishing chiffon
To dream like a phoenix, time to drone on
But dead like a doormat,unable to pain
Pillar of salt , summoned by the urgent sea
There to be drowned but for the buoyancy
Pavemented path of ceaseless regret
Appartion goes past I try to forget
Oh that was us, why is this what we do?
We smash our beliefs so deliberately
Hopes doleful travellers, loves amputees
Tore out the page yet swore to be true
Promises made with a foot in the door
Eavesdrop a thought ,oh God I miss you
Claws step over ear bones,
tap on the tin roof. The cabin
creaks like an ark.
All day winding along
a Kentucky ridge line,
to lodge a night
in a bow-beamed shack.
I fry bacon and bread
on a smoke-licked skillet
as black as a fossil;
then settle down to listen
to April starlight
sweeping timbers.
Dark pelts pace moon trails.
Night birds hunt;
sloe washed wings flick shadows
through briery pines.
I sip an amber glass of bourbon
eavesdrop,
on my sleep-walking soul.
Midnight boom town streets have this allure
imagining an uncanny venture
eavesdrop veil surround but dark as coal
how I love my after hours stroll
Secret worlds unfold their impish plot
mesmerised entanglement a tiered whatnot
black crush velvet sky we must extol
how I love my after hours stroll
Gilt fantasies that float across each lane way
fluorescent gremlin from some ghostly parking bay
gust on salt ice pier might buttonhole
how I love my after hours stroll
Snow clad mall whistler gaffe prone
while wandering the ink hue urban zone
a chapter lift and snatch from begging bowl
how I love my after hours stroll
Traffic signals stellar stoic stance
heartbeat of nocturnal moonlight dance
frozen digit signage reeks of twinkling North Pole
how I love my after hours stroll
Walking on streets of the old city,
I eavesdrop upon voices of the past.
The worn out pavements of moss and stone
reverberate of glory, defeat, and pain.
Oh, Ancient walls of monumental towers!
Beauty of your prominence, and abundance
of your memories can not deceive me
for I know every single rock
on which you are founded
smells on blood, tears ,and putrid bones.
Leave your triumphs to ominous crows
that wait upon new pilgrimage of army leaders
who shout men's history in three words:
conquer, demolish, and pillage.
Listening how whirlwinds play
with autumn leaves on your square,
I am asking you... will roar of the armies stop?
Vesna Arsenich
The voices in my head spake thus:
"Pray heed a word from all of us
should what we prate to you make sense
as host we deem you somewhat dense
'Tis folly to believe we're real
to banish us would be ideal
we're products of your fantasy,
your own authentic fallacy
We're sexless; neither gents nor dames
pray brand us not with human names.
as playmates we have little worth
we're in your head, not human-birthed
Engage us not in dialogue
stick to one-sided monologue
our sole aim is to multiply
we're occupied, hence no reply
We find you're too inquisitive
and may we say insensitive
to eavesdrop, as you are inclined
(pardon the pun) where you've no mind
And now, dear host, we beg of thee
for some degree of privacy
scant your right to our domain
seek elsewhere to be entertained."
Swaying to the motion of the train
I look around
Jostled by the crowd I move aside when nudged
Smile when someone takes a seat
Studying my hands
Nothing has changed
Still five fingers on each hand
Looking down I see my shoes
Nothing remarkable or unremarkable
Just a pair of plain shoes.
Hearing conversations
I turn to listen
The first conversation doesn’t interest me
On my other side is a middle aged couple
Holding hands
Choosing to eavesdrop
I lean forward
Perched like an ancient bird of prey
With an incredible need
To hear what they are saying
So much so
That I forget the swaying of the train
The pushing, nudging and shoving
The heavy breathing on my neck
The sounds and smells
Of a living and moving
Steel monster.