Best Listening Poems
Vivaldi’s Violin
The sound begins vague as a thought from perhaps
a misted remembrance made more distant more soft
in the surrounding sunset not trusting eyes only ears.
I sit up and listen indeed stretch all hearing as music
surely music more than the wind’s whistling moves
ever closer alerting me to a whole physical smiling
through the opened backdoor I cast my sight past
the silhouetted trees of early December past
yellow-glowing windows of neighboring homes and on
past the twinkling white low-altitude warning lights set
like many a Venus on the horizon I notice I am
not frozen from weather but rather awaiting a sign as
a startling soloist continues Vivaldi’s allegro non motto
violin in a love affair with nature a secret in splendor
a flying to heights just beyond human
ears or prayers in this courting of my soul and its
further reaching in Winter III Allegro that could lift
the twilight ever more than experienced in dreams.
***********. ***********. ***********
(c) sally Young eslinger 12/3/2020
Thanks be to God
God, if you're listening,
I haven't heard from you in a long time.
I thought we had a great thing going here, but my prayers have yet to be answered.
I know this sounds crazy, but I think that I am dead.
That must be the only answer. That I must be stuck in this spiral of hell for my sins.
That he murdered me that day when he pierced through me. That I must be lying there dead this very minute, left alone on that splintering, cold, hard floor.
God, if you're listening,
Is this some sort of punishment? If this isn't hell, then what messed up purgatory is this? What is my test? To see if I can make it out alive? Or, better yet, to see if I turn to you in my time of need?
God, if you're listening,
Here's the thing. Why put me in this place?
Why give your "strongest soldiers your hardest battles"?
Why give me so much pain that I must reflect it on my skin?
Why make me feel shame for tarnishing my porcelain hips with marks that burn like a scarlet letter?
God, if you're listening,
I don't think I quite understand how all of this is part of "your plan".
What exactly is your plan?
Whatever it is, since it apparently involves me having to relive my most traumatic moments in my head from dusk till dawn, I do not want any part in it.
God, if you're listening,
I'm sorry if I am coming off too harsh, but don't you see that I am angry?
How can I worship you when there is so much pain in the world?
For someone who claims to love all of their children, sir I would be calling CPS for child neglect.
God, if you're listening,
Your children are crying and suffering. No matter how many times we go down on bended knees, proclaiming our dedication to you and our love to you, it seems as if it will never be enough.
So, God, if you're listening,
Go to hell.
I never did the
''He loves me not....
He loves me'' game
with flowers.
I already knew nobody loved me
so why should I listen
to a stupid flower?
I did make wishes
on dandelions
after the bloom died
and it was tiny spikes of fluff
waiting to blow away
till next year.
I hated wasting my time
but I couldn't resist.
I figured
''If there's even a small hope
that this will work....
I've got to try! ''
I would find a spot
where nobody could see me
and I'd whisper
my one wish
the same wish
every time.
Thousands of dandelions
blown away
by my pleading breath.
I never told a soul
my wishes.
Until now.
I wished to be happy
one day...
with a husband
who loves me
and kids who love me.
I wished so hard...
I never thought
those dandelions
were listening.
I'm only happy when I'm sad, she said.
When people say their glad,
I get mad because,
they used the word glad, she said, we laughed.
The things she said, I guess,
wouldn't seem important.
If you asked if she knew Shakespeare, she'd say,
when I was born he was already dead.
She liked autobiographies because, she said,
they were books about history,
written by people who were there.
She loved the new testament,
because of what a mess it is, she said,
how great it was that Jesus gave,
gave such a big storytelling gig,
to his four buddies who couldn't write a lick.
That Jesus must have been a piss,
to hang out with, she said.
Important or not,
I didn't want to miss a word,
whatever she said,
I never waited to talk, with her,
I was happy to be,
just listening.
Music is a big part of our life to sustain
Listening to music takes the whole brain
It can also improve your memory
When someone shouts at you expertly
You become alarmed and silent
But when someone resonates for you
The sound makes you happy so he intent
If someone with a deep hoarse voice you knew
Speaks to you shivering
It might create fear to your listening
And you will be more watchful for what’s next to surround
I imagine a movie without music in the background
Would not make us think or let our minds cheer
A low voice is quiet and difficult to hear
But illustrates emotions and lifts a feeling
If someone dies and people do not sing
People are upset
They say that’s not respect
I like the sound of vehicles’ horns at night
It carries my strength to write
I like the nature and electronic exaggeration music portray
Someone will promise to give you all their life and soul in a day
I love listening to music aloud
It’s a sun wiping off the cloud
Masereka Amos
It seems easier to hate
because you're different then me
If I change my way of thinking
then I might be able to see
Everything has a reason
If I take time to look back
By truly understanding
I won't go on the attack
For once I begin hearing
my ears will open my heart
Change can happen in a moment
if I'm willing to play my part
For if my expectations
are for you to be just like me
I will become your oppressor
and neither of us will be free
I ask you not to fear me
instead listen to me too
Those things we have in common
I believe will be quite a few....
For Becca's Contest
Written July 23rd 2016
There is only color here
and solitude and
warmth of sunlight
A sense of waiting for
a flash of wings
and flights of fancy
that lonliness can bring
The bright delight of flowers
and butterfly wings,
all the joys of memory
that thoughts of you instills
like a jewel reflecting pool of blue
I am listening for you
Suzanne Delaney
Learning is listening.
Listening is wanting.
Wanting is longing for capture and holding.
Holding can be understanding, if we are prone to loving.
Loving is everything!
I, I have to start again.
Learning is loving.
Loving is willingness to listen.
Listening is patience to hear.
Hearing allows a conversation.
Conversation means two people are listening.
Does it?
I, I have to start again.
Conversation is dialog.
Dialog is expressing perspective.
Perspective leads to opinion.
Opinion is always relative.
Relative opinions suspend reality.
Reality and relatives are subjective.
It’s too hard to remain relative with relatives,
I, I have to start again.
Relativity is reality.
Reality leads to focus.
Focus underlies understanding.
Understanding is awareness.
Awareness depends on willingness.
Willingness depends on longing.
Longing depends on loving.
Loving is everything!
I, I have to start again….
Are You listening, God?
I'm not perfect; I'm flawed--
Spoke not the truth; 'twas all fraud.
And did they applaud? Hah! They guffawed.
Are You listening, God?
I'm weak; I'm not tough:
Not strong, a creampuff;
Like twinkies, cotton candy, fluff.
Are You listening, God?
I thought I was brilliant; I was dull:
My 'great ideas' all came to null.
No genius was I; I had a numb skull.
Are You listening, God?
Then hear my plea:
I confess to my abysmal condition;
Have mercy on me and on my petition.
Why SHOULD You help, You say?
Isn't it enough that I pray?
Well, You're right. I need to do better; I need to improve.
I need not to grumble; I need to be humble.
I need not to curse and make things worse when I stumble.
And now that I've tumbled,...
I need to show that I mean it when I say I'll do better;
A man's word is his bond, right down to the last letter.
I'm going to improve! You just wait and see.
So, thanks for having this little pep talk with me!
Will you walk with me?
I feel a change help me see
One I should have made so long ago
Will you talk with me and see me grow
For if I don’t succeed in the journey
I may fall into another lost eternity
Help me leave my pain in the past
My life is moving way to fast
So Lord will you walk with me?
Under the starving oak tree
The sounds from
my CD player
work their way
into my soul
The spirit I have known
in the past
will come to visit me once again
Only if one tastes the
poetry of the senses
Can one fully realize
the truths one needs
A quixotic quest, perhaps
but one which we all should try
Tasting magic from the sky
Listening is of such great value
compared with just doing talk
this has been my real experience
makes one stand alone like a rock
Having had a stammer all of life
I have learnt to listen far more
for listening is much easier
as talk is so noisy and such a bore
An active listener is so rewarding
hearing sounds that are so rare
truly magical to listen with intent
ear and hear make quite a pair
Learning to listen is such a gift
taking in all that's been said
this bring such comfort to the speaker
for their words show what's fed
Listening is better than talking
it's so liberating made to fit
so many need a patient listener
giving real time can stop one quit
"The soul, fortunately, has an interpreter – often an unconscious but still a faithful interpreter – in the eye,"
from the novel "Jane Eyre" by Charlotte Brontë
You might think I don’t see you.
When you are around, I feel so shy.
But you need to know I DO see you
though I glance away when you look me in the eye.
You are popular, good-looking, smart and fun.
Every girl I know must dream of you,
but do they really know you deep down
the way I believe I do?
Your beautiful eyes -chocolate satin brown -
smile at everyone, but is that all for real?
From the shadows, I am hearing what your sweet eyes speak.
There is something I think you’re wanting to conceal.
A sadness, smaller than a tiny teardrop,
hides inside the depths of those eyes that mesmerize.
Although warm as honey, they’re hiding something buried.
I know, for I’ve been listening to your eyes.
You could have anyone, yet you often look my way
every time you happen to be near.
I see you, and the hurt you carry I can also see.
Please open your heart to me, for your secret hurt I hear.
As I was checking out a father at the bookstore his son began to talk to me…
before I finish…I think it’s time for a little history…
For 39 years I taught Autistic students…a career that was as wonderful as it was long…
My job was to help my students, in spite of their weakness…find what made them strong.
I had successes…I had failures…each made me more compelled…
to see their Autism not as something we needed to ignore…
nor as a place we needed to dwell.
I think the moment I became a good teacher was the moment I learned to see…
not the label but the person who was staring back at me.
I return often to that moment when my understanding and my empathy grew…
for not only did it make me a better teacher…but a better person too.
Which brings me back to the young man talking to me…he was wildly gesturing with is hands…his speech was mostly unintelligible…impossible to understand.
So I listened even harder…his eyes I tried to meet…and when he finished I said,
“Sure…it’s on the corner…just across the street.”
His dad’s eyes widened…his mouth dropped even as he continued paying…
“You mean to tell me you understood…” he asked, “everything my son was saying?”
“Oh God no!” I smiled. “My hearing’s not that good.”
but I believe I heard him mention ‘ice cream’ and those two words I understood.”
The father smiled as I handed him his book…his transaction was complete…
then he and his son headed out the door…to the ice cream shop across the street.
And once again I thanked my Autistic students…
for helping me discover a way…
to look a little closer
and listen a little harder
to what people are trying to say.
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.