Notice how the birds sing long after we listen.
We oft’ are engulfed with our trampoline thoughts.
With gossiping beaks, they chirp and they flap.
We mimic their tweets, in our minds, as we beat
out the negativity of tenacious tumbleweed and burrs.
When wings catch the air - either we can’t breathe
or we catch commonsense & attempt a sound mind landing.
The canal, closest to the great outdoors, detects signals
of the sweetest sounds, beckoning the eavesdropper -
reminders of a mother’s cradle drop; will we fly?
Let go; indeed fly. Flap those wings. Give it a try, baby bird.
All ‘round, the spellbound flight of robins, bluejays, sparrows.
The goblin king had a mind that worked magic within.
We have also heard rumors of the goblin king’s twin.
The play tricks on you, so keep your head about you.
Goblins are rare here, more likely in yonder blue.
What tricks do they pull? I asked the gossip galore.
She looked quickly around at the house next door.
I cannot say, for I have an eavesdropper there.
I was careful around the goblin king but admit I did stare.
It is almost automatic to stare at people different than you.
I could not help myself, my mind thought of yonder blue
There are a multitude of goblins there, why did this guy leave?
Some guy had a theory, but it was not plausible – his name was Steve.
Old timers in a dark tavern were telling tales
I was the eavesdropper, and none seemed to know
Where exactly is the hanging tree? One asked.
I was horrified, but not enough to quit listening.
An address was given, so I headed out there on foot.
The house was simple, but every light was lit.
Odd for this time of the evening. A crow watched me.
Was he listening to my footsteps? They slapped against the walk.
Looks like rain a grizzled cowboy type said.
I nearly jumped out of my shoes. He laughed.
Gave me a nod and tipped his hat.
I was too shocked to smile.
I had not heard him creep on me.
Silent footsteps; how often do you not hear that?
It was an odd evening; Halloween-like and not Halloween yet.
I turned to say, “I didn’t even hear you!” But he was gone.
I looked in every direction. “That is the hanging tree,” a man’s voice whispered.
I looked past the house and knew this was the hanging tree.
The crow gave me a sharp-eyed look and flew off.
I felt like he had been an ethereal visitor.
Truth is, my fellow peers throughout my school years,
I am the unintentional eavesdropper, the one who is so quiet that I actually listen.
I listen to everything you whisper or speak loudly of to each other,
Sitting at my desk working as hard as I can.
Honestly, part of me feels like a mad genius who feels high above you,
Yet another part is someone who can absorb your behaviour or speech,
Someone who deep down is just exactly as lazy and talkative, when I want to be.
My countenance, a melancholy
After strange footsteps possess our balcony,
Close to my two-room apartment,
Now limitlessly a source of contentment..
I do anxious listening,
The hairs on my skin glistening;
My ears coming alive, a-twitching:
Those of an eavesdropper soon a-snitching.
A near filtering of the snatched sound,
As they keep gaining ground;
The fullest conviction that they didn’t belong to a friend.
Or if they did, who was heading for another end.
To my window walk up, risking important life
To part its blind by a couple inches;
My grimaces, summary of the inner strife
Of one inwardly wrestling with prickly pinches.
It’s a forced recreation of “curiosity killed the cat”
And Unlikelihood of soon lying on my mat:
More contortions of my face.
Like a marathoner badly ending a good race:
Several repetitions of “Who goes there?”
And you shall have to tell me, “From where”.
He is a catcher of unrevealed thoughts,
his mind staking out the spaces between words,
his patience in a tug-of-war with emptiness
until hidden truths are pulled into view.
She is an eavesdropper on unheard tones,
her ears tuned to the labor of pregnant spaces,
waiting, waiting, until the next note emerges,
piercing with an unsuspected beauty.
He is a voyeur of the abyss between colors,
his eyes wandering the barren spaces on canvas,
while rummaging a memory of worn-out shades
until they surrender a fugitive light.
And out of these long vigils over blankness
kept in the solitude of creation
and the agony of drought,
are born man’s infrequent raptures,
tattooed on life ordinary.
tap --- tap --- feet and beak
worms still --- eavesdropper doom sounds
sharp hunger above
anger, betrayal, confusion, how i feel, life, spoken word
BITE YOUR TONGUE ©
Tongues march forth in a wicked line---
From harvests of viciousness potent as wine….
Their stories can escalate to a viper’s bite!
Victims do retaliate in a set manner of ‘like’---
If not taught understanding and shame….
They will ‘too’ also walk bent and lame.
Bite one’s tongue a fore it splits---
And the eavesdropper is made ‘deaf’ to all words!
the taunting tinkle of her laughter
pokes fun at the hushed silence
and drowsy darknesss of the night
as though intended to mock
a long expected, but unrespected,
jealous eavesdropper behind the door
but something in her defiance
soothes and assures him that,
there's no need to worry, it's alright.
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