a poem about ears

Who is listening to what another has to say?
One in a million is a good pair of ears
drinking slow sips in the pauses of the every day.
So full of our selfish-selves, mostly all that is displayed
is a vulture’s capture of a corpse, revived
for rapacious ears awaiting instant sound bites.
Easy to latch a beak around the meat
of what one wanted to say in the first place.

When I talk, it really is to a brick wall.
On the same deafness, peaceful or angry words will fall.
So I speak less and less,
until my muteness nods in agreement with itself
and I practice the art of hearing like a novice.

Reading is where it is at – finding voices that slip the barricade.
The years shrivel the will to hear the same, over
and over and over again; except
there's a song from the distant past
or the understanding voice of a big eared friend;
except the words that slip the chinks
I chisel with my quiet hammer,
to let you in.




ancient poem