Poem -
Whispers
From my Raven Collection
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There are voices in her closetĀ
not the one that you will presumeĀ
but the closet of her mind
one could say,Ā whispers very slightĀ
hard to hear if one has chosen to wear deaf earsĀ
nevertheless a voiceĀ
can certainly be heard
sometimes she just ignores themĀ
imagination is everything when you wish to be ignorant?
alas, the voices are there and until something changesĀ
something magnificentĀ
something that will quiet her closetĀ
she will remain ignorant and the voices will become ever louder, until such a timeĀ
she dares to open them to listen.Ā
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Comments
I suppose Imagination is a two slog candidate? Yes, one can perceive what they choose, which I understand to be a young person thing (to see what one wishes to see). But it's also potential. Don't I remember John being your favourite Beatle? I'm going John on this one, Harrison. Imagination rules! Plus, if you don't believe people will do the right thing, they'll never live up to the expectation. The cost of our naively.Ā
What a poetic review, maybe you are part of this dear Rory, after all aren't we all? Having to justify why we like ones poems, or ones art or ones thoughts? Or ones words, sometimes it's not enough for the other, for many reasons they just cannot accept that something they write can be liked by others? and in the end we are simply guilty for being kind?Ā
A lovely review, sometimes we are all guilty of not listening, that's a world truth. Thank you Sir. š¹Ā
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I'm sorry, what did you say?Ā
š¤£ š¹Ā
This kind of strikes me as a poem about gut feelings, perceptions and truths we are not ready to face... the ghosts of ourselves who come to haunt us when we are not ready to be haunted. Great poetry Shirley... even if I didn't hear correctly š x
š¤£ hey we are all guilty of not listening when it suits us, even when we know we should, thank you my dear Marion. š
Right, such whispers only end when you stare beastie in the eyes,Ā in the outside world I may not always hear very well, but I have learned to talk back to the whispers, mine did mire me deeper in shit for a long, long time. So, aye, ever leave the closet door open (the cat can get out, as well, ours likes to sleep on our pulliesš») Love this poem...Ā
Thank you so much dear John, sometimes we are our own worst enemies, and we choose to ignore that in which is Infront of us but nevertheless the doors or the flood gates open in the end. Thank you once again for such a lovely review dear poet. š¹Ā
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