The Dead Poet’s Voice, by Heather Boob

Your voice let loose,
and then came
bellowing
through mine
the words
formulating from your
heart
constructed through your
pen
making their way onto my
page
a Paramount to my earthly time

I read them aloud
over and over again.
How many times did you?
And did you ever receive the answers
to all of the questions?
Or, did you settle into the
not Knowing?

You have sung the songs of nature
bringing to life its mystery
with word
your hymnals of prayer
creating a joyful noise
in the mourning heart
offering solace to a busy mind
bringing peace to
Rest-lessness

Tell me
I want to know
Did you ever go back and
read aloud your heart
on the page?
And did the words offer you
the same comfort?
And were you ever able to embrace
the Unknown?

And now that you’re gone --
did you receive all of
the answers to the questions
on your journey through
to death?
And were your words
There
to welcome you
Home?

2 Sound Memories, by Mary Jane Richmond

The sound of the bell my mother used to call us in a bit past dusk. It called us out from under the streetlight’s draw to moths and other delicious delights for swooping bats. It pulled us up from the curb where we let the darkness blanket us, forgetting that we belonged anywhere but in that moment — part of the wind and sky. The bell draws me from a dream where I’ve gone so far from home that I don’t remember who I am.

I hear the bell and I’m on my feet. A sleepwalker first, then runner, speeding toward the familiar sound as the dark, so friendly a moment before, threatens to catch me, to overtake me, to keep me. 

The bell calls me home — back to my mother and brothers and sisters. Back to the other dream of myself.


===


The sound of my horse neighing joyfully from the barn. He reminds me that I am needed. He reminds me that I care for him. He reminds me that there is always a safe place to cry on his shoulder with my arms wrapped tightly around his thick crested neck.

His call reminds me of long summer days lying together under trees in the pasture. My head on his round belly as wind rushes in and out of him causing my head to rise and fall in a comforting rock that only a horse can provide. His neighs call me to bareback rides through fields and streams. Alone and in charge —I’m so small on my broad strong pony. He lets me guide him until he doesn’t want to. He goes where he desires until he decides it’s time to stop, abruptly throwing me out onto his neck, and head-first to the ground. All for his delight in trying a bright green patch of new spring grass.

I call back to him. I neigh, “I’m coming. I’m on my way. I haven’t forgotten you my friend.” I neigh like someone whose best friend is a stubborn black and white pony.

Sound Poems, by Rob Sullivan

morning puja
chai tea at three
monks in monastery
droning sound
swirling around
brass bowl
into silence and stillness



hare, hare
hare krishna
sing the names
sing the names of the lord
sing the names of the lord and be free



gregorian chants
words of matthew, mark,
luke and john
(not for pope gregory the first)
but for your ears
your heart
your soul



paul winter consorted
with the hoi polloi
each winter solstice
within st. john the divine
like clockwork
clock with huge hands
hearts— ever open



covenant love bible church
( love, brother, love)
sinners— all fall short
saints— redeemed through lamb's blood
scott ross, ronnie spector, larry norman
same sunday service in '72
too cool for school
just right for church



sound the alarm
drop everything
run
run
run as though
your life
depended on it



listen to the sunrise
passed the mundane
day to day
listen to the sound
a day makes
warming night's  cold feet



if you sound willing
a posse will appear
ready to marshal forces

if you appear ready
cookie will rustle
up some coffee and grub

if you act your part
from the start
look real smart
be quick, then depart

this earthly plane.
your song'll be sung
on boot hill— all the same



sound of one hand
clapping
seemed less than
what we hoped for
on our world tour:
temples, ashrams,
synagogues, churches,
katmandu to timbuktu

2 Sound Pieces, by Jim Mazza

A List of Favorite Sounds


    •    An E-flat-seventh chord
    •    Church bells at noon along the seashore
    •    Waves lapping at the dock
    •    A songbird at sunrise in January
    •    Singing all the songs of Bye, Bye Birdie — straight through
    •    My father's voice, saying farewell: "Take 'er easy, Jim"
    •    Fred Astaire's tap shoes in a syncopated rhythm
    •    The late-summer evening song of crickets and cicadas
    •    The gurgle of the creek outside our bedroom window
    •    Leon Redbone in a near-final concert, singing, When I Take My Sugar to Tea!
    •    The roar of jet engines just before takeoff




Oh, To Be a Dancer!

I should have been a dancer.  Sure, I sing a little and play the piano with some flare, but buried in this short, roundish physique is the soul of Astaire, Kelly, the Nicholas Brothers, Sammy Davis Jr., and Gregory Hines.

Graceful movements, the staccato of taps against a wooden floor, the swoosh-swoosh-swoosh of a sand dance: these images and sounds call to me, fill my thoughts, my ears.

Some people hear voices in their heads.  I hear a time-step.

My Aunt Rosie had been an Arthur Murray dancer — and she taught me, as a young child, several basic steps: a foxtrot, a waltz, the Charleston, and the Jitterbug.  I loved the feeling of my body freely moving along the floor, the sound of my shoes as they took each new step.

But dancing, in the eyes of my father, was not something boys were to do. (Traditional and outdated views of masculinity often pervaded his opinions.) Football, soccer, golf: these things were okay. There were no dance lessons for me.

Not until college — when I took a jazz-dance class in an old, dusty, downtown theatre — did I have the chance to start again.  I attended classes from time to time in my early twenties and even a tap class later on, but somehow the rest of life took over — school, work, relationships — so I never really pursued this great love.

Yet, I still have a dancer inside of me. I cannot walk down the street or up a set of stairs without hearing —and feeling — what my feet might be doing . . . if they only had the chance.

More than once I've caught myself strolling down a sidewalk and adding in a rough cadence between my steps.  Usually, this is just in my head but sometimes I find myself literally dancing down the street.  Inevitably, someone coming from the other direction is startled by this seemingly crazy behavior — and yet it always results in a big smile.

Having recovered from three hip-replacement surgeries and one seriously-broken leg over the last 25 years, it may seem odd that I should have dancing constantly in my head.  But I simply cannot escape it — the sound, the rhythm, the joy of a swaying body and the tap-tap-tapping of my feet.

What To Do on a Bummed Out Sort of Day, by Susan Lesser

Susan Lesser had to miss the writing circle today (Thursday, January 24). She wrote from home, instead. This is what she came up with. Chances are you will find items on this list that relate to YOU, too!



1. Get up!! Just try it.

2. Breathe, however you can. Even a yawn might count at this point.

3. Get up now, if you haven’t already done it.

4. Wash your face anyway.

5. Brush your teeth anyway.

6. Don”t get dressed yet unless you are planning to put on that new blue cashmere sweater that you have been waiting, waiting, waiting for a chance to wear. But if you have anything you can’t wait to wear, you are not having a genuine, certified Bummed Out Day, so think it over.

7. Make some coffee, or some tea, or some cocoa. Drink it sitting down somewhere comfy, maybe with pillows. Don’t do anything else, just sit there and and sip.

8. Maybe you’d like a shower now, maybe not. Honestly, it’s up to you.

9. Get dressed anyway.

10. Be thankful — for something, anything at all. Maybe because you found some clean underwear even though you didn’t do the laundry yesterday. “Even though” is a good place to start with thankfulness. It seems something is likely to come to mind no matter what. For example — even though the weather is crappy and gray and drizzly and way too cold, we have not had an earthquake this morning. Even though the rosemary plant you were trying to over-winter is decidedly dead, the valiant hibiscus is moderately cheerful and has set a few new buds.

11. Breathe, maybe ten deep breaths, if that’s not too many.

12. Skip the temptation to beat yourself up for not doing that laundry yesterday, not writing those emails, failing to stick to that diet, not going to the health club like you really did mean to before you started poking aimlessly around Facebook for most of the afternoon.

13. Look out the window. See the birds at the feeder, jostling back and forth, perching on the overgrown bush in back, the chickadees, the jays, the raucous crows, and always the cardinals. The red of the cardinals is the richest red of winter, except maybe for the two scarlet amaryllis now blooming in the dining room.

14. Take a break from yourself. Of course you are not the perfect you that you invented some long time ago and continue to shine and polish and make impossible promises to. Remind yourself that’s OK. Forgive yourself for pretending you should take to the dance floor with Perfection as your only partner, Perfection who knows all the dance steps—the Tango, the Samba, the Merengue and the Texas 2-Step. So what if you only know how to slow dance to long-forgotten Ray Coniff tunes and how to do the Bunny Hop. Dance the dance you love.

15. Breathe. Maybe you’d like to sit cross-legged on the floor with your eyes closed. Or not. Just breathe.

16. Do something brave, like trying on the pajamas you bought in Philly more than two weeks ago — in a size Medium. They have been languishing in the bottom of the closet ever since because you can’t stick to any diet, and haven’t lost a single pound, and you will be embarrassed all by yourself if they are too, too, small. Hey! One set is just a wee bit too small, one is a wee bit too big, and one is just perfect. OK!

17. Forgive yourself for pajama cowardice.

18. Listen. Listen to the rat-a-tat-tat of the melting snow as it thrums on the roof outside the window. To the breath of the necessary furnace whispering heat into the room. To the little cat, Eloise, as she runs back and forth through the hall and into the bedroom in frenzied glee. To the silence of the pen on paper except for the staccato beat that comes with the dot of an “i” or the period at the finish of a sentence. To the clock from Provence that calls out the hour with a satisfying baritone ring and then repeats its message thirty seconds later with a second tally of the hours, just in case you still need to know.

19. Breathe, maybe light a candle, maybe not. It is folly to make rules if they are not necessary.

20. Be thankful, just because.

Writers Respond to the Inquiry Cards

Many years ago I bought a deck of cards called “Inquiry Cards,” created by Sylvia Nibley. Since then, from time to time, I’ve put the cards out on a table for writers to choose a question and write a response. That’s what happened this past week, in three different writing circles; done as a 5-minute warm-up at the start of each session. Here are responses from some of the writers. Perhaps you will want to ask yourself one or more of these same questions (or come up with your own) and see what thoughts rise to the surface.


What Can I Let Go Of?
— Blue Waters

Truth be told, I could walk away from every possession I have. Wave good-bye and start down a new path without much ado. But meanwhile, I still enjoy a lot of kooky collections. Like 11 wrist watches; my lava lamp plus 6 Himalayan salt lamps; my 1,000+ CDs, neatly organized into 10 large leather cases; 15 gorgeous designer empty shoe boxes just waiting to hold some special collection in a very neat fashion; and how can I not mention my 4 gargoyles sitting atop my bookshelves? There is still time to enjoy these treasures, so I salute them all daily and have a good laugh.

What Am I Hungry For?
— Edna Brown

Long dinner parties, ending in long musical jams with loving friends. Long talks, late into the night, without concern for the morning. Long hugs, soothing touches, from friends and family. Long nights, warm spoons, the two of us, in a cold room. Long walks, through the woods, with no worries about the time or ticks, with no destination. Long days, with no commitments, reading and napping on my favorite couch with my favorite blanket, coffee, books. Long weeks or months, spent on a beach, any beach, until I can take not one more bite of the delicious sun, sand, waves, and warm waters.

Where Is Movement Needed?
 — Heather Boob

In between the locked deadbolt
dust and rust have set.
A key has not entered this passage
in years.
Was it lost?
What has been left behind forgotten?
Hire a lock-pick!
Drill a hole!
Get inside!
Behind the door,
once opened,
treasure awaits you.

What Am I Ready For?
— Jamie Swinnerton

Something new, something so different, I am ready for a break, I am ready for security. I am ready to get in my car and go, just go. Buy a tent, be a nomad, toss my phone. Go. I am ready for peace, strong, energizing peace that comes with the confidence that I'm doing the right thing. I am ready to be selfish, to put myself first, to say "No, I won't do that for you.” And then not do it. I am ready to admit hard truths, but to the right people, at the right time, in the way that I want to. I am ready to admit that I'm not certain what I'm ready for.

What Am I Curious About?
— Jim Mazza

Early last year, when my brain had become too full, my mind too tired, and my patience too thin, I made a somewhat unexpected decision — to retire from my 60+ hour-per-week job and live a more gentle life. Now, some six months into my new "lifestyle," I am curious as to why I feel the need to fill up my days with endless activities, appointments, and to-do lists. Why can't I quietly enjoy my new-found time? What change must occur for me to go from always doing to simply being?

What Am I Deeply Grateful For?
— Marian Rogers

The moment
This morning
Quiet light
A trace of snow
No alarm
The dog flipping on his back
Stretching long against my body
His hind feet now by my face
Releasing a secret 
The dusk, dirt, and sweetness
Of outdoors

What Am I Learning?
— Nancy Osborn

That my writing is the shortcut to my unspoken dreams; that being curious keeps me going even though I know I'll never find all the answers I seek; that I need to let words tumble in my brain a bit before allowing them to spill onto paper; that I prefer unlined pages for my travel reflections — somehow that suits the unknowingness of being in an unfamiliar place; that I should allow the waves of life to follow their own tides; that I will probably never know the conclusion to the story of my life that I tell myself; that sometimes things just don't make sense; that being silent and just listening is sometimes the only solution; that sooner or later I will probably forget most of my memories, and perhaps I won't mind.

Where Is Movement Needed?
— Patti Witten

This question may be approached from points of the compass, the cardinal directions and their intervals — north-by-northwest, or just southeast. A southern approach is the sunniest but also may be humid and damp. This is because the earth tilts on its axis, although if the earth could speak for itself it might say “I am not tilted.” Who gets to decide these things? Nevertheless a northern approach is cold and stoic. It is patient and hoary and covered in fur that still smells like a slaughtered beast. That is, it all depends on where one is standing when asked the question.

What Needs To Change?
— Peggy Stevens

Everything — everything needs to change. It’s the 10+ year itch. Lying in bed, looking around, I have fallen out of love with my surroundings. At work, receiving my W-2 electronically, realizing this is the year to find a new job, to give up on the mindless, easiness of what I do. Pump up the blood again — work a little harder, feel good about it. Nothing happens without a little discomfort and that's okay. Let's see where this all goes. Pick one thing, anything, and change it, even if it's only an inch or a foot or yard.

What If I Weren't Afraid?
— Phoebe Jenson

If I weren’t afraid, I would not think that I would die soon or be an invalid. I would go wherever I wanted whenever I wanted, and it would never cross my mind that something bad could happen. I would tell bullies and people that annoyed me how I felt, but that could hurt their feelings. Fear has a function, to help me remember not to electrocute myself or drive fast in the snow.

What Am I In The Middle Of?
 — Rob Sullivan

some might say life
though I don’t intend
to live until 132
no, my wish is
to live until 89
yes, that’s my limit.

I would like to dance and sing
until the day I die
and go with a smile on my face
all debts paid
all encouragements given
all the better
for the living
of this life.

What Am I Learning?
— Saskya van Nouhuys

I am learning how to cook nice things in the Instant Pot pressure cooker. I am learning about my family. I found out that my brothers, both of them, who used to seem disconnected and passive, aren’t. I am learning to write, always. I am learning how to teach in an interactive “active learning” classroom — (it is exhausting). I am learning about jellyfish behavior.

What Do I Really Want?
— Susan Lesser

1. Predictably, health and happiness for all my nearest and dearest, and your nearest and dearest too, just because. I’m also including myself.

2. A cat or maybe two cats. Since Cleo died, nothing ever moves when I walk into the house after a trip to Wegmans to buy a few bagels for breakfast and a wee bit of brie for a before-dinner treat. The house plants never wave to me. The morning paper is sulking in the recycling bin, however it lacks the stamina to grumble out loud. I suppose the fridge does its best to purr, but I’m never fooled. Here’s the big problem —  nobody ever jumps on my lap the minute I sit down on the sofa and says with her gaze that she missed me — before she falls asleep, that is.

3. Changes, but not too much and not too many, maybe something I never thought of before, like a trip to Sicily, but now I’ve gone and thought of that, so it doesn’t count.

4. To write more. My husband says I’m easier to get along with when I have been writing. He could be right.

5. Now I need to throw in world peace. And the end of cruel officials holding positions of power. And for children to be reunited with their parents. And for the environment to be saved. And for the good guys to win. I know who they are.

6. I’m looking forward to some chocolate now.

What Is The Brave Action?
— Yvonne Fisher

I know what it is, the brave action. First, it is to show up, just to show up. To go on, just to go on, despite everything, despite all the bad stuff, the horrors, the despair, the dark days, the decline, the fear. Despite the fear: show up, go on, keep going, be present, attend to things, be attentive, take a risk, be helpful, spread love and kindness in all directions, show up, show up and then take a breath. Remember to breathe. Show up and breathe.

What Makes Me Smile?
— Zee Zahava

I’m thinking about the games we used to play, so long ago. My mother was a whiz at Nok-Hockey. Dad learned a few tricks with the yo-yo. My sister and I spent hours with our Slinky toy, with Mr. Potato Head, and with Etch-A-Sketch. I practiced twirling my hula hoop around my waist but I never learned any fancy moves or hula tricks. We played cards with Grandma — Go Fish, Old Maid, Rummy. When our cousins came over we played Shoots and Ladders or Candy Land; sometimes we played a card game called War. On Sunday nights it was Chinese checkers, those pretty marbles jumping out of the indentations on the tin board. And then it was time to watch “Bonanza.” Remembering these things makes me smile.