Hummed Poems

Cathedral at the end of night

The cathedral was still lit late at night 
dance music played faintly t
the drapes waved gently
the feet spun and floated
the silhouette danced gracefully
the silhouette grabbed a hand and spun
the silhouette spun in love late at night
the silhouette was alone
there was no hand to hold
there was no body to spin it in the air
but the music still hummed softly
the silhouette left
the silhouette let go of its grip.

Let the Flowers Grow Again - Mystic

Dreamily, she whiled the empty hours
with her little dolls and her crayon box.
She drew lonely princesses in towers,
hummed to herself, pulled up her socks,
and sketched a field of colorful flowers. 

The forlorn blooms lay flat beneath her gaze.
She wondered, would it be as she had feared -
this would be one of those sad, hollow days.
Then, on the page, the sun and breeze appeared,
as lovely blossoms came alive, ablaze.

Warping the Mirror Inside Out

Last night I drifted between dreams.
The dawn was too weak to keep me awake.
I closed my eyes with intention—
to step back through the curtain.

The dream re-opened lucid,
not as I had left it then,
but as I wanted it to be.
I warped the path of the flowing stream.
Its waters following my lead.

I called to the spirits,
the half-seen and half-forgotten,
and they came in up close.
They hummed their mantras,
their eyes enlivened with flame.

Their fire did not burn.
It melted old dregs away;
things I had clung to.
Renewal rose through my chest,
bright and oddly burden free

I pressed through the ashes.
Sought not to awaken but to reshape—
To change what was fixed.
The dream became pliable.
A soft-clay under my breath.

I felt doubt and concern as,
I opened the door, entered the space,
feet bare on the floor.
Each corridor was pliant for me—
the walls redrew with each sleepy sigh.

When morning awoke and returned,
the dream’s pulse still beat in me.
As my eyes opened, I knew,
that we can rearrange whorls,
when sleep and waking coalesce.

Children of broken promises

Title: Children of Broken Promises
(25 Lines)

They signed their names in ink made of blood,
A treaty scrawled on the bones of the poor.
They shook hands under marble skies,
While cities burned in silent uproar.

Children played with bullets for toys,
Lullabies hummed in the throat of a drone.
A mother stitched hope into her shawl,
But war tore the thread and left her alone.

What prayer can pierce a soldier’s ear?
What hymn can silence a tyrant’s laugh?
They plant flags like daggers in the earth,
And call it freedom—this butcher’s craft.

The rivers carry whispers of bones,
The mountains echo their iron song.
History bleeds through pages of lies,
As empires fall and yet march on.

O children of broken promises,
Your cries are etched on a shattered sky.
You are the ink in tomorrow’s poems,
You are the reason the stars still try.

Interlude

Lying betwixt and between is a pause,
For breaths held, to pirouette with drawn claws.
Lines prompted between curtain call and fall,
With mantra hummed to become or befall.
Hoping the wait is worthy of the chase,
To give mystery the time, space, and place
It needs to wade in the stilled quiet mind,
To awaken what haste has left behind— 
In the questions never posed nor begun,
About shadows in the eclipse of sun.

When Night Had No Mercy

When Night Had No Mercy

I walked alone, dusk held the air,
A fork ahead—school light there,
And on the right, a shadowed wall,
Where silence hummed the siren's call.

Then feet—too many—closed around,
A hand, too rough, too fast, no sound.
My mouth was sealed, the sky went black,
They dragged me down, no turning back.

A van—its door, a waiting tomb,
They flung me in—a shifting room.
Blindfolded, breath against the floor,
Their boots—my blanket, pain and more.

The engine screamed, the night took flight,
My name dissolved into the night.
A hunted pulse beneath their heel,
No law, no face, just iron and steel.

I wake with sweat, the dream still burns,
As if the van forever turns.
No trial, no voice, no morning sun—
A terror time that’s never done.

Flower Chide II,the bloomquake

They will not honor your fragrant breath
They’ll use it as ode, or veil, or death.
Not love, but lack—will wear your name,
Your petals will ache beneath borrowed fame.”
Lotus's voice now split Nefarys in bloom and bone
A bloomquake of breath from root to stone.
It hummed through husks and whisperseed dark,
Not all bent—but some curved toward the crack.”

They conjured a crown from the tilt of her head
And wore their suspicion like garlands of dread.
Rose's poise now echoed as plotting or pride
As if grace could not bloom without thorns to hide.
She hadn’t crowned herself, nor thorned by decree
But rumor, like ivy, climbed every tree.

Petalring came, and Nefarys stirred in bloom-fire,
Drifting in garlands, in hymns spun from lyre.
Colors rang louder than the lull they concealed,
And praise filled the air, but one name was sealed.

Rose drew near the rim where the chorus ran high,
And Tulip stepped forward, with a glint in her eye.
“You sit on your throne,” said Lily, stiff and clear,
“This isn’t your place, your roots end here.
Rose turned, not defeated, nor eager to flee—
But as one who had grown past the ring’s legacy.

Hello Echo, Hello Echo!

Echo
I never get no letters.
Even my shadow don't
follow me around no more.
I've posted many
notes to you,
cried out in the night,
hummed our tune,
sobbed.
But all I hear is echoes:
"Return to Sender"
"Address unknown,"
"No such number,"
"No such zone."

I opened these letters.
Heard what the echoes
said in reply,
but there's only
what I wrote to you,
what I spoke to you,
what I screamed out at you,
when I was alone, 
which I always am.

Why can't these echoes
lie for once, just once, just once? 
To give me something back, back, back!
I've tried and tried and tried.
I've cried and cried and cried.
Me shadows and me echoes
are the only friends I have.

Sometimes I close my eyes, 
I pretend I'm alright.
But it's never ever, never ever enough,
'Cause my echo, echo, echo,
my shadow, shadow, shadow
are in the 'Lost and Found'
but alas, I have long since
lost the address!
Hello, hello, hello, hello!
Anybody out there,
seen my shadow, 
my echo
Lost!

Just sitting

A little bird sat upon my window steel,
 Cheep cheep it hummed as I sat so still,
I wondered how where and when ,why and if ever it had adventures yet,
 For I sit still and gaze about no adventures here near or bound,
Sadness forms from sitting still for if I had wings I'd fly free will,
Never more never less the Birdy I assume has many adventures yet!

A Pond's Melody

hushed at dusk and dawn
I long to hear the pond's song,
a lullaby melody
hummed on the ripples
that lilts, quivers of shimmers,
across my wet fondled skin

Muted Song

His lips parted,
yet the notes clung,
threaded in silence
by invisible keys.

The song stayed,
in a nest of aches,
where wishes fluttered
with no hope of flight.

He hummed,
but no one heard
the melody curled
beneath spoken noise.

They praised
his calm, his quiet,
and manly things
he always played.

Never knowing
his practiced hush
was a wretched note
never to be sang aloud.

He nodded,
clapped in soft time,
while his ribcage beat
a slow mourning tune.

Some songs bloom
like flowers aloud,
but his grew in pain,
rooted deep in hush.

Still it throbbed,
a muted plea—
just once, a tune
to be heard and freed.

Rolex

Rolex


If it’s a creation, 
then science and spirit should explain each other.
Not argue. Not compete.
They should echo.
Like a wave entering water—
and the water nods.

I was born into a field,
not a house.
The floor, the couch, the corners—
they didn’t creak.
They hummed.
The rooms didn’t scare me.
The electrons did.

The lies—
It came through pattern.
Through footsteps stored in drywall.
Through the breath someone forgot to exhale
Twenty years ago

My body is made of quartz that learned how to flinch.
It keeps time like a Casio—
$10 of stillness more honest than a Rolex.
Because truth doesn’t tick, nor dress up.
It vibrates.

Who said nostalgia is memory?
I know better.
Nostalgia is presence with a shadow
Eden remembered, but not currently lived in.
A waveform that still fits me
like the glow-in-the-dark stars
I stuck to my ceiling
before I knew how the sticker glowed.

Love enters and leaves no residue.
It echoes clean.

It’s a return.
A collapse in the name of peace.
A God crystal humming 32,768 times per second,
while we scroll past ourselves
looking for the next thing to react to

The Starling

When I was small
the starlings roosted one by one
on grandma’s party line wire
	(like jittery black clothespins)
to bandy their gossip back and forth
until the wire hummed
with their inanities.

By luck my slingshot found its mark.
One toppled from the wire soundlessly
like a clothespin blown loose in the wind.
The others rattled on, oblivious,
no questions asked.

It dropped straight down.
I ran to see where it had fallen
	(headlong into the trash)
expecting it to be stunned only
and I would laugh as it flew off.

There, 
between a flattened can of Campbell soup
and a Brillo pad used up,
and bleeding from one empty eye
the still warm bundle of feathers
looked ready for flight.
	(so fly!)
But when it did not spread its wings
or chatter any more
I cradled death in my hands
	(soft and almost weightless)
and cried 
as I buried both victim and weapon
in the same box.

keyboards

keyboards
chasing ripples
through hummed interludes,
pounding, drowning crushed love….
ebony

Purple Dreams In Other Realms

She hummed a tune of moonlit grace,
soft as whispers through the trees,
each note a thread of ancient tales
woven on the breeze.

Her eyes held storms and lullabies,
stars tangled in her hair,
she beckoned me with crooked grin—
a dare hung in the air.

“Tell me,” she said, “a tale of hearts,
of wishes never told,
a secret born from silent dreams,
or memories gone cold.”

So there beneath the silver leaves,
I let my story flow—
of love once lost, of hope still bright,
of things I longed to know.

She listened close and with a smile,
she whispered back to me:
“Every story told in truth
unlocks a hidden key.”

Then with a wink and flurry flight,
she vanished in the dew—
and left behind a shimmered word:
believe, and it finds you.

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