RoseAnn V. Shawiak
Tantalizing melodies flirting with my mind, surrounding it with
notes of rapture and soundless joy, Instrumental voices dancing swiftly, slowly, irrespectively.
Tiptoeing whispers sneaking throughout imagination, creating
chaotic prayerful waking.
Purposefully stepping out of tune, walking steadily, hurrying
faster and faster to catch up with many ideas spinning before
Clamoring for a voice, a rehearsal in words, taking off and
landing, filling creativeness with new memories.
Life-long listings being tapered down to nothing, finding no
more to say to company.
Wailing mournfully, repeating minor keys in voices of
Holding hands, walking away from memories bouncing out and
off walls of barriers in place for years.
Ages of talent sit reconciled to disuse, products of constant
abuse, hidden seductively inside, awaiting their time to shine
like the morning sun.
Clarinet-like, ebony sounding, gently placating sorrow bursting forth, easing pain through long saddened notes of songs.
Years ago sung in lullabyes by a Mom, young, sweet, loving and
Hearing them now with a different ear, songs of then were
filled with joy and happiness, but now those same songs bring
tears of joy I used to know.
Little hand being held - then, now an emptiness where nothing
can get through except those self-same songs through tears.
Mom's sometimes fill their children's minds full of wonder
and awe for a while before they have to abandon promises and
take care of another baby born into this world.
Gone forever it seems, loving glances, gentle hugs, the
attention of an only child by her mother.
Others have joined the family, expanding it beyond the seams
of a mother's expertise.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Tearful Songs by RoseAnn V. Shawiak )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
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