Both Hands
I am walking
out in the rain
and I am listening to the low moan
of the dial tone again
and I am getting
nowhere with you
and I can't let it go
and I can't get through...
the old woman behind the pink curtains
and the closed door
on the first floor
she's listening through the air shaft
to see how long our swan song can last
and both hands
now use both hands
oh
song performed by by Ani DiFranco from Ani DiFranco
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0008 A Ghazal
I lie awake as the light night-rain falls, listening
to its irregularities, listening
as the breeze blows it now and then
against the window and the curtain flutters; listening
and wondering if I can hear
the rain listening
to itself, as if – I sometimes think I hear this –
there’s a moment just before it stops as if listening
to its own decision to stop, as if it sighs,
thinks, that’s enough; it could be listening
to the gratitude of the closed flowers, the wet earth,
the ecstasy of roots which are themselves listening
to the flowers sleeping, sighing in their sleep.
But do you wonder why I’m listening
instead of sleeping, this warm rainy night?
What’s so important that it needs my listening?
It was the rain that woke me; and as I turned, sighed,
it was the thought of you last night here next to me, listening
not to me, but to your own dreams – which I may never share;
though I may share you in my listening
to your sweet sleep’s breath, felt faintly on my shoulder;
and so, there’s a question in my listening –
did you awake at the same night rain, you so far away,
awake, sigh, and in your half-awakened listening
know that I too, thought of you?
Sighed that sweet thought, of our shared, single listening? …
As the perfume of a rose may be more evocative than the rose,
So sweeter, steadier than thought, dream, memory – the listening!
[A ghazal has a rhyme scheme aa ba ca da >]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Walking The Floor On My Hands Over You
Walking the floor on my hands over you
I just cant believe what youre trying to do
Spinning around and around and you know im
Walking the floor on my hands over you
Walking the floor on my hands over you
I just cant believe what youve been trying to do
Spinning around and around and you know im
Walking the floor on my hands over you
Everybody wants somebody
And I can make it just for you
Wont you tell me please tell me
What youre trying to do
Everybody says you want me
Baby Im not too sure
Just what youve been doing
It should be against the law
Walking the floor on my hands over you
I just cant believe what youre trying to do
Spinning around and around and you know im
Walking the floor on my hands over you
Well you got me
I dont know whats going down
Tell me where you want me
And put me back on the ground
Everybody says you want me
Baby Im not too sure
Just what youve been doing
It should be against the law
Walking the floor on my hands over you
I just cant believe what youre trying to do
Spinning around and around and you know im
Walking the floor on my hands over you
Walking the floor on my hands over you
I just cant believe what youre trying to do
Spinning around and around and you know im
Walking the floor on my hands over you
Walking the floor on my hands over you
Walking the floor on my hands over you
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Around The Dial
Radios of the world are tuning in tonight,
Are you on the dial, are you tuned in right?
One of our d.j.s is missing.
Are you listening?
Are you listening to me?
Can you hear me?
Can you hear me clearly?
Around the dial.
Ive been around the dial so many times,
But youre not there.
Somebody tells me that youve been taken off the air.
Well, you were my favorite d.j.,
Since I cant remember when.
You always played the best records,
You never followed any trend.
F.m., a.m. where are you?
You gotta be out there somewhere on the dial.
On the dial.
(are you ready) were going round the dial,
(are you listening) around the dial,
(are you tuned in) around the dial,
(are you searchin) around the dial.
F.m., a.m. where are you?
You gotta be out there somewhere on the dial.
On the dial.
Where did you go mr. d.j.?
Did they take you off the air?
Was it something that you said to the corporation guys upstairs?
It wasnt the pressure,
You never sounded down.
It couldnt be the ratings,
You had the best in town.
Somehow Im gonna find ya, track you down.
Gonna keep on searchin,
Around and around and round and round...
(theyre searchin) around the dial,
(theyre listenin) around the dial,
(poor station) the best in town,
(poor d.j.) who never let us down.
While the critics kept on knocking you,
You just kept on rocking around the dial.
Around the dial.
Ive been searchin for you on my radio.
This time your station really must have gone underground
Somebody said you had a minor nervous breakdown.
Was it something that you heard,
Or something that you saw,
That made you lose your mind,
Did you lose control.
Did you step out of line?
If youre there, give us a sign.
I cant believe that youve been taken off the air.
Think Ill sell my radio now that youre not there.
You never gave in to fashion,
You never followed any trends,
All the record bums tried to hack you up,
But you were honest to the end.
Gonna keep my radio on,
till I know just what went wrong.
The answers out there somewhere on the dial.
On the dial.
Can you hear me (around the dial)
Are you listenin (around the dial)
Are you out there (around the dial)
Can you hear me?
Around the dial.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Black Bruises II
I can ponder upon the blackness,
the garrulous of silence
placated by benign solitude
I can endure the ostracizing
listening to lulling lullabies,
listening to trembling metals,
listening to enraptured echoes,
listening to a soundless shattering,
listening to nothingness,
listening to guffawing crows,
listening to diffident clocks,
listening to the waning time;
but am I the only one listening
to these black bruised whispers?
poem by Norman Santos
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Too Long
It’s been too long since I felt the soft touch of a woman’s hands rub my bald head.
It’s been too long since I felt the gentleness of a woman’s lips press against mind.
It’s been too long since I cuddled with a woman’s head up against my chest listening to my heart beat.
It’s been too long since my tongue has slipped between a woman’s thighs and her juices drip down my throat.
It has been too long since I have made love to a woman and felt her inner walls pulsate.
It has been too long since a woman made my leg shake as I climax.
It’s been at least nine months and that’s far too long.
Tonight
Tonight
When I entered my apartment
The stairs were lying like tired men after a hard day's work
The door a yawning mouth
My TV was listening intently to the sports newscast
And
Like a huge fat woman, the couch was sitting on the floor
Hardly breathing the used air
The curtain tickled the cheek of the window……
Swaying gracefully above
My books slept like babies on the hands of the bookshelves
The dining table was listening to the whispers of her chairs
The lamps were winking at to each other
The fan was busy flailing her arms indifferent
In my apartment
The life looks the same as I left it
Everything is normal
No,
It is more than normal
Strange…….
No one missed me?
By Faleeha Hassan
poem by Faleeha Hassan from Breakfast for the butterflies
Submitted by anonym
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The Listening Week
This is the listening week of the year
Listening-in.
A-cock and alert is the national ear
Listening-in.
All over the land in the country towns,
From the back of the Leeuwin to Darling Downs,
Layers of 'quids' or the odd half-crowns,
They are listening-in.
On the far-flung farms they are round each set,
Listening-in.
The work and the worry they all forget,
Listening-in.
Wherever an aerial soars in space
To the Cup, or the Oaks or the Steeplechase,
To the roar of the ring and the lure of the race
They are listening-in.
In the far outback there are sun-tanned men,
Listening-in.
Where the woolshed stands by the drafting pen
Listening-in.
Old Dad's come in from the Ninety Mile;
He scored on the Cup and he wears a smile,
And he 'reckons this game is well worth while'
So he's listening in.
To the edge of the desert the sound-waves go;
And, listening-in,
Ned of the Overland, Saltbush Joe
Listening-in
Recall the giants of years long past,
And the loneliness of these spaces vast;
But they reckon that life's worth living at last
With this listening-in.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What A Bastard The World Is
Early in the morning I feel my pillow,
I listen to the soundless phone.
My thighs are sweaty, freezing inside,
Our beds empty as ever.
What a bastard you are,
Leaving me all night missing you.
Slowly the door opens, you stand for a while,
See if Im asleep or just closing my eyes.
I quickly get up and throw my pillows,
Throw an ashtray filled with butts.
Where were you all night if I may ask you so?
Though I dont care at all, Id just like to know.
Right! you werent near the phone to call me from,
Or is it you were afraid to wake me up?
Im sick and tired of listening to the same old crap.
You know half the world is occupied with you pigs,
I can always get another pig like you.
Youve heard of female liberation, well, thats for me,
Youll see me walk out one day and then where will you be?
But dont you be too happy,
I aint walking out yet to give you satisfaction,
Im first gonna find something other than the walls
To have some human conversation.
Then Ill glow, Ill be happy inside, my limbs will relax.
And I can walk out into the world, singing with my people.
But now I couldnt even move my muscles to go near the door,
Ive been sitting here too long and my legs are numb.
Are you listening, you jerk, you pig, you bastard,
You scum of the earth, you good for nothing?
Are you listening?
Oh, dont go, dont go, please, dont go,
I didnt mean it, Im just in pain.
Im sorry, Im sorry.
The door is closed, shes left alone,
Making herself a breakfast.
Her hands are shaking, her eyes looking out,
Watching the trees grow day by day.
What a bastard the world is,
Taking my man away from me,
Taking the world away from me.
Female lib is nice for joan of arc,
But its a long, long way for terry and jill.
Most of us were taught not to shout our will,
Few of us are encouraged to get a job for skill.
And all of us live under the mercy of male society,
Thinking that their want is our need.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dropping By Your House This Morning
i dropped by your house this very early morning
the windows are closed
but the door is half-open
and i could have given in to this little curiosity
that cats keep on their paws
and soft feet
or hands if you may
but i didn't. there is something in the houe
that says
you had a bad day and that night you did not have
a sound sleep
the roses are wilting and a flower pot falls on the ground
broken
the soil splashed like spilled water on the grass
there is no sound of the wind
from the storm last night
i just dropped by. I respect you. The door of the house
finally closed
i did not see the hands that closed it.
it maybe yours
or someone else's
the rug has spoken. You want to be alone.
to keep the faint light left
in that little room. the curtains fall. the lights
went off on that very early morning.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A man with a pink umbrella
Pink day
Pink hedge
Pink porch
Pink balcony
Pink woman
Pink ghost on a pink road!
Pink door
Pink hello
Pink dream
Pink sparrow
Pink night
poem by Framarz Bagheri
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Jaws
Seven nations stood with their hands on the jaws of death.
It was the first week in August, Nineteen Hundred Fourteen.
I was listening, you were listening, the whole world was listening,
And all of us heard a Voice murmuring:
“I am the way and the light,
He that believeth on me
Shall not perish
But shall have everlasting life.”
Seven nations listening heard the Voice and answered:
“O Hell!”
The jaws of death began clicking and they go on clicking.
“O Hell!”
poem by Carl Sandburg
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Listening
Listening.
And being there for someone loved...
To do just that!
With a mind willing,
To be receptive and clear...
Of opinions sitting,
On the tip of one's tongue.
With a giving of attention,
And staying mum.
Listening to someone.
Listening is not easily done.
For those who have experienced...
A life in which peace of mind has come.
When a listening ear,
Had not been volunteered by no one.
And some who know this...
Do their best to sit with patience.
Listening with no other reason...
But to be there as is wished.
For someone who has selected you,
Just for this.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Pink Pearl Necklace
Pink Pearl Necklace; and heaven is this,
My island an afterthought mornings glow
and pink sands where coral waves grow.
Happy are the clams every night as pink
sand washes them in your dreams.
Under water so clear I sometimes forget
and stay to long listening to the waves
sing your pink song.
Drifting with the currents of sleep pearls of
yours pink, slip out from beneath my hand.
Filaments permeate the strings of your
dreams leaving me behind on a pink pearl
necklace on this island yours made of dreams.
poem by Is It Poetry
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Pink Pearl Necklace.
Pink Pearl Necklace; and heaven is this.
My island an afterthought mornings glow,
and pink sands there coral waves grow.
Happy are the oysters every night as pink
sand washes over them in your dreams.
Under water so clear I sometimes forget
and stay to long listening to the waves as
they sing your pink song.
Drifting with the currents of sleep pearls of
yours pink, slip off from beneath your neck.
Filaments permeate the strings of your
dreams leaving me behind on a pink pearl
necklace on this island you float on made of dreams.
poem by Is It Poetry
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Rain Falling......
Well, I'm listening to the pitter-patter of the rain
Alone in the middle of the night
My ol'heart begins to feel the pain
Of missing you with all my might
But your not here to share my love
So I'll just face this pain alone...
And listen to the rain falling from above
And face the fact that you are gone
Rain falling from above...
Rain falling for my love...
Rain falling from the skies...
And rain falling from my eyes.
So I'm listening to the pitter-patter of the rain
And listening to how sad it sounds
The rain's only an indication of my pain
And eternal loneliness I've found
poem by Ritika Abigail Masih
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Rain Falling
Well, I'm listening to the pitter-patter of the rain
Alone in the middle of the night
My ol'heart begins to feel the pain
Of missing you with all my might
But your not here to share my love
So I'll just face this pain alone...
And listen to the rain falling from above
And face the fact that you are gone
Rain falling from above...
Rain falling for my love...
Rain falling from the skies...
And rain falling from my eyes.
So I'm listening to the pitter-patter of the rain
And listening to how sad it sounds
The rain's only an indication of my pain
And eternal loneliness I've found.
poem by Patsy Jewell
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You're Everything to Me
In your eyes I see the fire.
In your eyes I see desire.
When they're closed I cannot see
the eyes that mean so much to me.
In your hands I feel the love.
In your hands I rise above
all the things I've known.
Your hands have always made me moan.
Closer to you on every day,
your eyes and hands show me the way
that you will always love me
no matter where I will be.
There is no look I haven't seen.
There is no space that's in between
what I've felt in every touch
and every smile that meant so much,
For you're everything to me.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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When Ears Don't Listen and Eyes Don't See
why we have two ears that can't be naturally closed
but we less listening than talking
why we have one mouth that technically is not locked
but we speak nothing less than complaint
why we have two hands that carved beautifully
but we use it to hurt someone we love
why we have two eyes that sparkling wide
but you only look at me from one side
are your hands made to close your ears
and your eyes are blind to see damage
are your hands made to lock your mouth
and you are scared to accept truth
why we have two legs that walk graciously
but you always step away from me when I try to get closer
why we have one heart that we keep sacredly
but we can't control to whom it belongs
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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The Elevator
1st floor decide what you'll be one day
With a head full of comment and nothing to say
2nd floor mixed up it happens that way
Soon you realize that listening don't pay
3rd floor in limbo, no easy moves
Up or down it's time to choose
(chorus)
The elevators going up
Quick the door's about to shut
Too late we're full just hang around
It won't be long - it won't be long before it's down
4th floor the job hunt and all that you ask
Is an honest day's pay for an honest day's graft
5th floor you may make a little more money
Now it's apparent downstairs ain't so fuuny
6th floor a mortgage, a collar and tie
2 weeks vacation in june or july
(chorus)
The elevators going up
Quick the door's about to shut ....
7th floor expenses and private schools
Pushing a pen you're not turning the tools
8th floor position, respect and acclaim
Move up the 9th for fortune or fame
10th floor for investment and real estate
Recouping the redies before it's tool late
11th floor the penthouse the final cut
With a head full of comment and a mouth that stays shut
(chorus)
The elevators going up
Quick the door's about to shut ....
song performed by by Ub40
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Listening
listening... for the sound
your hand makes when it touches mine...
for the words your eyes whisper
when you laugh...
for the song your heart sings,
and the prayer your sleeping body
becomes, pressed against mine.
for the sound of the cicadas
chanting in drunken rhythm...
for the boiling of beans
in my grandmother's kitchen.
for the crush of the bat
driving the ball deep into the gap.
for the gurgle of creekwater
running o'er a melon wedged tight.
for the sharp crack of the gun
and the bullets whistling overhead.
for the cry of the hungry baby
and the slap against his mother's face.
for the clank of the leg irons
across a cold concrete floor.
and the wail of the widow.
for the song of the workers
bent neath the sun in the field.
for the speech of the visionary
who already smells like death.
for the pounding of the oil rigs
raping the earth without feeling.
for the lies of the politician
stealing the souls of the people.
for the sound of hate's fists
pounding the gay boy to death.
for the scream of raging empty
when they bring a mother's boy home.
for the sound of the door,
closing for the last time.
for the memory of an old hymn,
calling from beyond the river.
listening... for the moan of lovers,
bodies slapping in the night.
for the wild beating of a heart
dissolving nameless into mine...
for the echo of something more
than a drink and a feeling...
that needs to breathe, to run, to fly,
and to dance
listening
poem by Eric Cockrell
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