Sounds from
the Dead
I can listen,
But not all the time…
Only when I’m centered,
Strong.
His touch on piano
Lines
Coming back in time
Press rewind,
I love that phrase…
Again,
And he plays…
Flooding interior of my car,
sound track
of the world passing.
But I hesitate to hear
The strings of my father…
Violin song
Too close to his voice
Heartbreakingly sweet frequency
long ago,
My young world then…
Washes over
an uncertain aging heart.
She speaks
On fragile Maxell.
Worry I might loose captured
ghost of speech…
breaking
in antique Sony sound machine.
Her laugh rising
from plastic speaker holes,
her timid song
in tune
self conscious
beautiful…
I had forgotten how beautiful,
As tone flies through my ears
To my tightening throat
I empathically sing along
With her…
Finding this process
Painful
I press
Stop…
Eject.
Room quiet
Ears buzz
Her voice remains.
And you
Who made your
Voice song captured
to be replayed on time
The focus of a life.
You sing
and grab me
from unexpected places
resounding
past,
ever present.
belted lines
of dissonant collisions
and sorrowful calling.
Again I press stop,
Open
And remove the vault
Where sounds flood back
Returning memories
To a jewel case grave.
