Silence
Kate Sparks
2/19/26
The future loosened
from its moorings.
Rooms still hold
his echo.
Rhythms tapped on tabletops.
Sticks turning restless
between long fingers.
Music arriving
without response
The silence widened
where laughter once leaned
toward tomorrow.
Chairs unfilled.
Names seldom spoken.
A drum line
broken.
Rhythm;
once moving
between them
now
silent
No longer called
by the living voice
of “Mother.”
Never summoned
into “Grandmother.”
memories;
dreams,
Silence…
Birthdays drifting;
Silently
unclaimed.
Faded photographs
left
too long in the sun.
Even so,
she remains
what love has made her.
Mother;
un-spoken,
un-answered,
un-mirrored
And beneath
the long passage
of time,
a simple question:
How does a heart grieve
What still lives so vividly?
Little fingers, big fingers
Red fingers, blue fingers
One finger, 10 fingers
Long fingers, stubby fingers
Pointer finger, middle finger
Ring finger, wiggle finger
Leather fingers, soft fingers
Cold fingers, warm fingers
Stinky finger, slimy fingers
Fingers manicured with pretty painted fingernails
Fingers that can hold a pencil or a pen pal
Fingers that can tap on laptops or typewriters
Fingers that can tap tap tap on tabletops
While I transcribe or press “RECORD”
Poetry will always be the Midas touch to me
Bringing forth the Golden Age of Man
The Poet’s need to free the soul
Is as old as the knowledge of fire
Sometimes the Poet bleeds
With words beyond the funeral pyre
Never underestimate the Poet’s power
To create changes that are magically mystically miraculously
Spun into a reality that only poetry
Can inspire.
Double-dutch ropes slap the sidewalk -
snap - snap - snap -
braids whip air,
girls jump in, counting
uno, dos, three,
feet flick like drumsticks.
The ice cream truck jingles off-key,
icy lady shakes paper cups,
piragua man shaves ice into snow -
his knife scraping the block awake.
Pastelillos pop in hot oil -
spit, sizzle -
plastic cups clink with rum and cola,
congas crack, maracas shake salt in the air,
horns blare like chisme in heat.
Heels click-clack over concrete -
punctuating each spin,
each swirl of hips.
Whistles split the air -
one from the lifeguard at Jefferson,
two from the men on the corner,
three from abuela
when the coals are hot.
Somebody throws meat on the grill -
ssszzzz -
smoke climbs windows,
neighbors bring foil trays -
yellow rice, ribs, roasted corn -
each dish a downbeat.
Kids yell cannonball,
water smacks back,
lifeguard’s whistle cuts through splash.
Old heads tap dominoes on tabletops -
crack, slap, smack -
hands older than the stoops they sit on.
The block fills itself
the way music fills a drum -
the street hums under bare feet.
Tonight,
the moon will smell like charcoal
and sweet ice.
A large green iguana fell out of a tree
onto my head.
Ohio has no invasive Iguanas.
I don't smoke anymore.
Right in front of me
a speeding red van killed a woman.
I have developed an allergic reaction
to all kinds of blind spots.
Latterly,
balding eagles have buried their memories
under symbolic windfarms.
Since moving to where I am,
the mail truck arrives far too late
to do anything about it.
I used to leak over sterile tabletops.
Now and again, a thin lifeblood still drains
through systemic digital aqueducts.
Upon a time, I considered following the ways
of an autonomous wildebeest,
no matter,
an habitual herd instinct
led me to drink from only shallow waterholes.
I have reconsidered.
Ever since,
a rung-less ladder gets me high enough
without the use of heel lifts.
I choose my socks carefully.
Cream freshly whipped up
Lime zest rests on tabletops
Sunlight streaming in
The tinted walls’ filled with paintings -
Max, Bull, Fanch, Chen and Noah.
The mantel, shelves, tabletops cleared
to be lemon-dusted and windex-spritzed.
Company’s coming. Lots to be done.
Blinds brushed, windows squeegeed,
cobwebs cleared, Blue-teal rug vacuumed -
prepare for our grandsons’ two week visit.
The saddest task - relinquishing my books.
Of course the boys are all worth it. Home
will be filled with laughter, arguing, tablets,
wrestling, rewards, cooking, two more boys.
Four grandsons and grandma against the world.
In my midst a sea chief, defender of mankind,
strength of God and then there’s “fifth.” These
are the boys to men that surround me - proud.
Company’s coming, not rest, nor peace nor quiet.
The floors, walls, doors, sheets, pots and pans
will be amused and explored. TV and tablets,
feet out the door - to parks, golf, church and more.
6/6/2022
Some people’s homes are sparkling;
You could eat right off the floor,
With not a speck of dust the mop
Decided to ignore.
Each day they polish, vacuum, scrub;
All surfaces are cleared,
The picture frames and knickknacks
Shiny when they reappeared.
But I do not include myself
Among those folks I know
Whose homes are neat and spotless
With that lemon oil glow.
Yet every now and then a voice
Within me starts to nudge,
Reminding me it’s time to clean,
A job I do begrudge.
So now today my windows gleam,
The tabletops as well
And if you came to visit,
You’d detect that lemon smell.
Of course, nobody’s coming here
But still, I’m gratified.
If I claimed this was my new routine, though,
You will know I lied.
My own gypsy roaming in countless hemispheres
A painter who splashes emotions of life’s tones
Maybe a lightkeeper flaming a child’s wonder
Also, a bookworm awed by enigmatic anti-heroes
My siblings’ event planner for grand occasions
Yes, a film buff loading adrenalin at plot’s turn
This off-key singer come open mic time
An insolent activist when values are compromised
My kin’s nervous wreck... afraid of heights
A non-stop dancer jigging even on tabletops!
Indeed, an angel card reader faking psychic powers
A believer of joy based on destiny number 7
The female version of Pan trapped in child-like whims
An incurable romantic who dreads goodbyes
This poet draining the marrow of a parched pen
A meditation/ yoga soul grounded in nothingness
Thus, one pilgrim in search of my higher self’s grail
~ In my roller-coaster, charmed world, I am still
finding parts of myself that thirst to be known.
I AM Contest
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
5/11/2020
Numbers, numbers, numbers, numbers...
Are you numb from all your numbers?
Social security, drivers license, identity card numbers
Numbers, numbers -- numb from numbers
Library card, insurance card, employee numbers
Credit card, debit card, loyalty club card numbers
Numbers, numbers, numbers, numbers...
Are you numb from all your numbers?
Telephone numbers: Landlines, smartphones, cellphones
Computer passwords: At home, at work, on laptops
Desktops, countertops, tabletops, rooftops, mountaintops too
Remember when "I'm not a name but a number" was not really true?
Sometimes it is just too much
I am up and want to touch
I am jovial and part of the crowd
Dancing on tabletops, being so proud
Drinking and laughing, I want to stay high
Spinning and grinning up at the sky
Sometimes it is just too much
I am down and don't want to be touched
I am sad and not part of the crowd
Not going out to dance, not truly proud
Drinking, yes, I am trying to get high
I want to spin and grin and look up at the sky
Brain moves like lightning bolts and snails
Mood is rocky like a boat that sails
Sometimes it is just too much
Overwhelming is how I feel and such
I don't want to be like this
Mania is only when there's bliss
Down is down down dark and deep
What I do then is my secret to keep
I am mentally ill
Corridors with wall sized windows are always places of rummage
Where copper candlesticks glisten and
Wood is polished by dirt particles from strenuous journeys.
Everything emits faint smells of
Brandy and vermouth -
the sweat of great silver haired storytellers.
Glasses flood downwards
staining tabletops and armchair sides:
Musings of grey, wrinkled Gods pondering over
50 year vendettas and century long betrayals.
Hardwood floors creak and crack with the footsteps of ghosts:
Generals, grandmothers, and cousins in love.
Luminous forms of dust reveal nothing and everything,
Cycling unto itself over and over again.
Loneliness is having to buy
your own calendars and coffee mugs
and talking to a TV talk host
over ice cream and a paper plate.
Loneliness is a heart that roller coasters
through a humdrum day
finding comfort and solace
in the endless umbilical of a twilight road.
Loneliness is an airmail birthday
and a store window Christmas
punctuated by a relentless search
of tabletops and doors.
for the friendly message
that never comes.
Opened like a morning leaf
exposed beneath the moon,
Resting in the tentacles
of a clouded ink coccoon.
Wringing hands now rest at peace-
the solitude of night,
a lantern in the wilderness
the miracle of flight.
Dancing on the tabletops
or falling from a swing,
is noticing the networking
of every living thing.
Observation is the art
that shows a single frame,
experience will turn to stone
the given and the gained.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.