The Sounds
i heard the sound of the clock ticking
some things come
i am remembering these some things
burnt, and melting in my forehead,
i like the sound of the ticking of grandfather's
clock at night, i hear footsteps
and drippings of water
from the gutter to the floor
the window is closed and the wind makes
the sound of someone caught between
door jambs, creaking sounds creeping
on the wall, something is terrible, really terrible
and i turn my body to the left side,
there is this storm, and the strong rain comes
with the grunting wind, and trees are falling
unto each other, i hear leaves and twigs,
and the roof wanting to leave the house,
something is terribly happening on this night
of the suicidal darkness, the shimmer of the river
looks like a stainless knife
who's there? i ask the door. The mirror on the other
side answers, how dare you?
it is nobody. it is just myself, my mouth answers.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Listening To The Clock Ticking
that last servant of the house
finally leaves
she also had to go to sleep with her mother
it happens this way sometimes
he is left alone and as he tries to sleep
he feels that the big mouth of the house is eating him
swallowed his body listens to the sound of the clock on the wall
ticking and ticking as if time is running out.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Grandfather Clock
The old Tudor house was half-timbered and gaunt,
Was gloomy and dim in the hall,
And time had stood still, since my father was born,
In the clock that had stood by the wall.
Its pendulum hung, never making a sound
I'd never so much heard it chime,
But then, on the day that my Dad passed away,
Its tick had begun to keep time.
My mother was dead and my father was gone,
The half-timbered house passed to me,
I wandered its passages, sad and distraught,
As lonely as one man could be!
I'd sit in the lounge and I'd read by a lamp
With the rest of the house cloaked in gloom,
And heard the dread tick of that grandfather clock
As it echoed in time through the room!
Each tick was a portent, the passing of life,
Each tock brought me nearer to death,
I'd listen for noises, the timber that creaked,
Sit terrified, holding my breath!
The warm summer showers pit-pattered the thatch,
The wind would sough-sough at the eaves,
And summer passed quickly to autumn that year
In a thick golden carpet of leaves.
I never once wound up that grandfather clock,
I waited for it to wind down,
But like a tap dripping, it never would stop
I felt I was starting to drown.
I found in the library's masses of books
An ancient collection of tomes,
And one that was covered in leather, I looked,
And read, and I wished that I'd known!
Sir Richard FitzWalter had lived in that house,
And he it was, ordered the clock,
He'd fought against Cromwell for Charlie the First
‘Til Charles lost his head on the block!
He'd fled to the country, was caught in the house,
And hanged on the tree by the gate,
His wife, Lady Mary, had begged for his life
But the Roundheads had jeered: ‘You're too late! '
She left them, went sobbing back into the hall
And she clung to the grandfather clock,
But just as her husband, his heart ceased to beat,
She heard that the ticking had stopped.
That clock never ran for the rest of her life,
But showed just a quarter to four,
The time that Sir Richard was pinioned and hung
At the gate, on the tree by his door.
The clock began ticking when Mary had died,
Had taken her grief to the grave,
And each generation it stopped or began
When the master was born, or was saved!
I knew then the clock had been ticking for me
And I wanted it never to stop,
I'd wake in the night and I'd tremble to hear
If my heart was still pounding, or not.
Then one winter's night I was restless, and rose
From my sleep, and walked down to the hall,
A Cavalier soldier stood facing the clock,
Adjusting the pendulum pawl;
Resetting the weights on that grandfather clock
So my heart would continue to beat,
From that time to this, I have lived here content
While Sir Richard returns as I sleep.
6 August,2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
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When The Rain Stopped Falling
there is this heavy rain
falling on top of your roof and it is so disturbing
that you wake up
and lock your windows
to shut yourself away from the sounds
of falling
but you cannot help worrying even when you cannot
literally hear the sound of the falling rain
you still imagine how they fall inside your mind
as though you can hear every syllable that every neddle of rain
is pricking in your brain
your ears
and your eyes still have the image of these
series of fallings
that even if the rain finally stopped
and you open your window to check
in the middle of this time
when morning cracks fromt the shutters of your windows
you still think like crazy
you hear the sound of the wind and it is like the sound of the falling
rain
and even if the wind has left like a leaf flown to the eastern side
of your house
even if there is no shadow of the leaf anymore
you hear your heart falling from your chest
now you must accept
leaving.
now you must accept the pain.
do not deny it.
it is you that is falling out
from the grace of her love.
it is you.
cry it out!
shout it!
it is you.!
it is you!
it is not the rain, it is not the wind, it is not the leaf that was blown away
towards the eastern part of the house.it is not the design of the house.
it is not the purple curtains. it is not the lonely courtyard
it is not the red bowl. it is not the tower.
it is not the blank sheets of paper.
it is not the bell.
it is not the winding stairs.
it is not the dirty garage.
it is not the scaffold.
it is not the white paint.
it is not the doorbell.
it is not the turbulence of the plane.
it is not the slap of the hand.
it is not the blue fan.
it is not the cellophance floating in the air and whirling in that corner
a dead-end.
it is you! and that is the truth!
be calm now. wipe the tears.
try sleep and dream.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Time Ticks Like Death Crawling In My Skin
at 6: 15
twilight,
darkness chokes the neck of day
i hear nothing
i tell the fence, steel and rusty, feeling death itself
on its rails,
that death makes no sound, it is only the time ticking
like the dripping of the water from the gutter
to the rocks
at the foot of the house
it is only its hands that move
round and round my body
feeling the irrationality of my wrist,
the mind closes like a window at night
the thoughts are turned off like the lights of the village
the self loses itself in this darkness
you hear nothing of its insanities
no one talks no one listens
at 8 o'clock in the evening all the eyes pretend that sleep is just nearby
in bed my hands argue
there is something wrong
the feet stamp against themselves at the foot of the bed
there are no changes without a bloodshed
that is still the philosophy of life
this world is not a playground for saints
this world spins upon its own foolishness
at the center is the hub of all selfishness
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Tickin Away
The clock above the bar
Is telling me its 12:15
And its not such a gentle reminder
That Im where I shouldnt be
I just keep waiting for something to happen
Waiting for somebody to come walking in
Somebody as perfect as you were
So I can try it again
(but) chances are so hard to come by
And the second one is impossible to find
The clock keep running
And the odds keep getting higher
That its all just a fantasy of mine
But I shouldnt be thinking about it
I shouldnt be worried about it
Its just a clock on the wall
But its ticking away
Its ticking away
Its ticking away
Its ticking away
I suppose I should cut all my losses
Go home with a six-pack of beer
There aint nobody in the world like you baby
If there was, she wouldnt be coming in here
But I shouldnt be thinking about it
I shouldnt be worried about it
Its just a clock on the wall
But its ticking away
Its ticking away
Its just a clock on the wall
But its ticking away
Yeah, its ticking away
Its ticking away
Its just a clock on the wall
But its ticking away
I suppose I should cut all my losses
Go home with a six-pack of beer
song performed by by Tim McGraw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Her Insomnia
this is a private affair
between her and her wall clock
there is this consistent rhythm
of the tick tock tick tock
her pupils roll and sometimes
still
staring at the walls of the house
restless she avails of all the possible
combination of postures
but to no avail
the clock keeps on ticking and ticking and ticking
she feels like a tick
and she cannot talk
this is her private affair with her wall clock
above her head
her mouth is closed shaped like
a lamppost
without a light.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Sounds
I can hear her heart beat
It seams a little strong
I can hear the things I did wrong
I can hear her thoughts
By looking in her eyes
I can hear her all the times she cried
I can hear the memories
As they echo off the wall
Falling from the pictures down the hall
I can hear regret
Building up in side of me
And I can hear all the things
I could not see
Those are the sounds of a woman leaving
Stronger then the wind in a willow tree
Those are the sounds of a heart breaking
You can't hear it
But the noise is killing me
I should of heard it coming
But I chose to pretend
I should of recognizes that sound
Way back then
But I just wouldn't listen didn't want to all those years
Now the truth is ringing clear
In my ears
Those are the sounds of a woman leaving
Stronger then the wind in willow tree
Those are the sounds of a heart breaking
You can't hear it
But the noise is killing me
Those are the sounds of a heart breaking
You can't hear it
But the noise is killing me
I can hear it
And the silent is killing me
song performed by by Alan Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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House Of Many Rooms
The sound of the clock ticking
How this old house creeps
Another storm tonight approaches
So restless I can't sleep
Dark filled big long rooms
Portrait of a lady in view
Corridor that never seems to end
From a distance I thought I seen you
House Of Many Rooms
The sound of heavy rain falling
Feelings sourround of another place
An oval mirror hangs on the wall
And there I thought I seen your face
The smell of wild flowers
A gentle breeze blows from outside
Heavy laced dark curtains
A vision of you before my eyes
House Of Many Rooms
poem by Suelynn Walters
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“Our Clock Of Midnight”(An Acrostic)
Our clock of midnight ticking around
Undiscovered love can hear the sound
Repressed desire lying underground
Certainly this rare love can never be found
Loneliness covers the dusk to adorn
Outcry from the dark quells the forlorn
Crying out for light in the name of the dark
Keeps the distance between fire and spark
Our clock of midnight still ticking around
For we are far away but we can be found
Miles apart yet our minds can be seen
In reality can we make a blue night green?
Don’t want this clock ever to stop ticking
Noiselessness into heart where it’s been sticking
Indissoluble feeling we can feel so deep
Glimmering hope in our souls we reap
Here we lay down in the midst of dream
The clock of our midnight is our time supreme.
poem by Munia Khan
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For A Friend Who Is Also Struggling Out There
it is still 3 o'clock in the afternoon. iT is raining heavily
outside as we still keep busy with our own business
inside this courtroom.
two lawyers arguing on a point. I am listening.
the accused sits there, his life is at stake.
the mother is tense. two mothers.
THE mother of the complainant
who cries that her daughter is a victim
of rape.The mother of the accused who rebuts
that his son is just framed-up by the real
culprits who are still-at-large.
the glass windows of the court
muted the sound of the heavy rain.
but the way the trees are swaying to and fro
like a pendulum of a grandfather's clock
very well tells that there is a bad weather
outside this courtroom.
a river of faces faces me. i look at the eyes
of the room, the windows cased in glass
as the rain is maimed wanting to get in
as though trying to say that it has also
something to say about the matters
discussed inside this closed room.
the world is always asking, what is the truth?
it reminds us, there is only one truth and the
rest are lies. I keep on trying to learn from it.
the argument has always been:
everyone is a victim, and no one wins this game
of a legal play. sometimes the guilty is set free
and the innocent is put to prison.
there will be cries of the wind. In a closed court
like this, one cannot really hear the sound of its cries.
I am trying to figure out. Each word. The words of the
wind and the muted sounds of the rain.
THE hammer shall fall and it shall fall heavily.
Can this poem help me? Are emotions aids?
Many mouths shall shape the words. Each lip makes
a reading of itself. There will be whispers and murmurs.
There will be calls and cries and hounding sounds.
I sleep at night soundly. My conscience shall be my pillow.
There will be dreams handed to me by the gods.
As i write this, think also of my own journey, my own sorrows.
In the battles outside and inside us, a closed room vis-a-vis
the outside cries of the wind and the rain, i want to simply tell you, , ,
keep moving on. We move on too, with our own busy lives.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Norm
The ticking of the clock on the wall
The sound of a car pulling up outside
A cushion on the sofa
The slamming of a car door
Stillness
Me typing on my keyboard
Thoughts in my head
The chance of a plane crashing in to my window
right now is
Very slim to none
The chances of anything out of the ordinary happening
right now
is very slim to none
I carry on waiting...
poem by Nathan Strange
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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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117
the sounds of my day
it is four o' clock in the morning
this computers hums the loudest
the dogs howl on the road seeing strangers pass that early
i can hear the winds of dawn break
the engine of the bus
on the highway going to faraway Zambezi
the first trip i suppose
the clock is ticking
the door is clicking
some footsteps
on the road going away from me
they are all
sounds of departure
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sounds that should not be missed
Sound of blossom of a flower,
I desire to hear,
the sound of nature.
Sound of rain's glassy water drop,
over a roof's top,
the sound of joy.
Sound of beat of our heart,
through our ears caught,
the sound of wonder.
Sound of delicious supper in boil,
after a great day's toil,
the sound of hunger.
Sound of a mother's loving ballad,
hearing the cry of her toddler,
the sound of love! ! !
poem by Shyam Balaji
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The Sound Of Your Cry
(words & music by giant - baum - kaye)
The clock by the bed is ticking too loud in the quiet night
I lie in the darkness thinking I must go before its light
Before you open up your eyes and you beg me to stay
Ill leave cause I cant stand to see you hurt this way
Sleep my love as I kiss you goodbye
Then I wont hear the sound of your cry
Though I knew the time was coming and our love would end somehow
I just couldnt bear to tell you exactly just when or how
I know we cant go on, that it was wrong to start
But if you wake up crying now, you know youll break my heart
Sleep my love as I kiss you goodbye
Then I wont hear the sound of your cry
Sleep my love as I kiss you goodbye
Then I wont hear the sound of your cry
Ohhhh, sleep my love as I kiss you, kiss you, kiss you goodbye
Then I wont hear the sound of your cry
Ohhhh, sleep my love as I kiss you
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Old Woman of the Roads
O, to have a little house!
To own the hearth and stool and all!
The heaped up sods against the fire,
The pile of turf against the wall!
To have a clock with weights and chains
And pendulum swinging up and down!
A dresser filled with shining delph,
Speckled and white and blue and brown!
I could be busy all the day
Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor,
And fixing on their shelf again
My white and blue and speckled store!
I could be quiet there at night
Beside the fire and by myself,
Sure of a bed and loth to leave
The ticking clock and the shining delph!
Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,
And roads where there's never a house nor bush,
And tired I am of bog and road,
And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!
And I am praying to God on high,
And I am praying Him night and day,
For a little house - a house of my own
Out of the wind's and the rain's way.
poem by Padraic Colum
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An Old Woman of the Roads
O, to have a little house!
To own the hearth and stool and all!
The heaped up sods against the fire,
The pile of turf against the wall!
To have a clock with weights and chains
And pendulum swinging up and down!
A dresser filled with shining delph,
Speckled and white and blue and brown!
I could be busy all the day
Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor,
And fixing on their shelf again
My white and blue and speckled store!
I could be quiet there at night
Beside the fire and by myself,
Sure of a bed and loth to leave
The ticking clock and the shining delph!
Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,
And roads where there's never a house nor bush,
And tired I am of bog and road,
And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!
And I am praying to God on high,
And I am praying Him night and day,
For a little house - a house of my own
Out of the wind's and the rain's way.
poem by Padraic Colum
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A Terrible Night
In the sweetest moment
of the night,
when sleep and dreams would
relieve and encompass
conscious thoughts.
I heard a sound.
I was awaken by the sound.
The sound came from the
door and it was lighter than
the tick of the clock.
I rested on the wall.
Hugged myself with a
preambulating heart
that has refuse comfort
because of the quiet sound.
The sound came again.
This time it was rapid.
Sinking me deep in fear,
enveloping me with goose pimple.
Suddenly, the sound stopped.
I stared at the door,
awaiting my fate.
For the night is still young and
deep within i long for dawn.
I waited.
There was nothing. Every
thing was quiet, too quiet.
Except sound from my beating
heart and tickling clock.
My eyes were wide open.
I focused on the door while
my thoughts move to and fro
my past and present deeds.
Oh Lord i cry, forgive me.
Time passed by.
The cock crow, immediately
i had a staggering courage.
I walked slowly to the door,
with immerse fear, i opened it.
With great sigh, i was relieved
though i had lost my sleep.
All this while, i have been
denied a good night by my
neighbour's dog, who was
found sleeping close to my door.
poem by Enebeli Ifyprada
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The Sounds Of My Day
it is four o' clock in the morning
this computers hums the loudest
the dogs howl on the road seeing strangers pass that early
i can hear the winds of dawnbreak
the engine of the bus
on the highway going to faraway zamboanga
the first trip i suppose
the clock is ticking
the door is clicking
some footsteps
on the road going away from me
they are all
sounds of departure
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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the sounds of Sunday
i hear the sound of the cold wind from the sea
i hear the waking call of the roosters
the scratching feet of the dog on some disturbing flea
and i hear her steps towards the door as she opens it
she goes to church
and i hear her gently closing the door and the gate too
closing in on me
i am alone now with all the other sounds of the house
this sound of the growing silence
some voices
rushing to fill my mind
some poems
for the day
it is this silence that feeds me
the trickles of my soul
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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