I can’t sing the right words when I don’t have a voice;
When I can’t carry language to my ears — without my lyrics of choice.
And I try not to scream, but there are days the sky cracks,
Perhaps, it’s my skull?
Or perhaps, my heart’s too full?
Of holes and hollows;
As if wounds don’t heal, stuffed with bubble wrap.
We pollute the verdant sunlit caverns,
Where time doesn’t heal, and the buried, “Tell Tale Heart” thumps.
And scattered glass shards glisten, stump —
The most understanding of us, drawing first blood.
While some of us can speak with such precise tones,
Others are caged birds — we aren’t allowed to sing.
As the world rotates in circles, the earth *’ghirigori’ on her axis;
All we do is feel dizzy, get in a tizzy; languishing and lost.
We can’t find our rhythm,
Our hearts are stone shuttered.
We don’t know the solace of being alone;
Nor, the serenity of true intimacy.
We’re yearning for a void, lacking harmony,
Absorbing discordant minor chords,
Yearning for those that resonate as major lifts.
Oh, how high could we go, if our tones could be understood?
Smooth resilient sounds, as if music is particles of air —
Absorbed by everyone, comprehended and fairly judged.
A place where we’re not minimized nor micro managed.
Not trapped in the middle of a dull tasteless drama.
Perhaps, there’s flavor in life, if you can speak *’adante.’
And those around you listen close,
And comprehend more than a word;
While you do your share of intent hearing.
So that we all break those old domes, glass ceilings forlorn,
Seek beyond Rome, past basilicas and cathedrals;
To a time where all voices can sing a cappella.
Where we can relax and envision, think without sorrow,
Without pain, without suffering for freedom;
Where no place on earth can contain our tomorrows.
But, for now, come closer, hear a minuscule voice;
Hear your conscience, hear your heart;
And hear the heart-song, all tunes as one impart.
With best intentions —
I hope to find you in a world, where the mute are never silent.
And vital passages of notes, as words aren’t whispers,
But the *’Paradiso’ of the *’fantastico.’
Becomes fog wilting into afternoon delights; sky all lit up —
With murmurs embarking on the journey,
Of billions of *’fugues,’ for once telling the truth;
Every single frustration locked inside us.
Resounding what we need to impart, envisioning serenity —
A white tulip in fresh glory,
Beyond thick ice, shivering in the thaw,
So determined, the white bud pushes up swiftly in the muck.
Our souls rise higher, hearts expressing jubilation that —
Soothes and heals all, in the sweetness of *’soggezione,’
*Soggezione – Awe
*Paridiso – Heaven
*Fantastico – Fantastical
*Ghirigori – Spinning
*Adante – Very very good
*Fugue – a loss of awareness psychologically or in a musical composition, the place where a short melody or phrase is introduced by one part and taken up by other parts successively, and interwoven into each other.
Amanda M. Eifert is a writer from Alberta, Canada. She blogs at wordpress - Mandibelle16 and you can find some of her recent poetry in an upcoming NaPoWriMo Anthology for 2020. Loves writing, dogs, and her dear friends and family!