-- Listening --

John Herlihy

As the sun rises and the clouds gather,

As the ocean surges and foams into lather,

As spring buds yawn and stretch their petals,

As hairy leaves brush the air as stinging nettles,

As legs of centipedes roam in depths of caves,

As river wavelets mount into crests of waves.

When my parents spoke, I always listened,

When my teachers spoke, I always listened,

When my friends spoke, I always listened,

When my enemies spoke, I always listened,

When thunder rumbled, I listened soft,

When the river whispered, I listened hard.

I listened to the sound of creaking wood.

I listened to the ways I need to be good.

I listened to the livestock at night in the barn.

I listened to the stars to come to no harm.

I listened to the quiet of my voice and its hum.

I listened to the beat of my heart and its drum.

Even if they listen, they have nothing to hear.

Even if they listen, they hold nothing as dear.

Even if they listen, they just go about their way.

Even if they listen, they have nothing much to say.

Even if they listen, they would be better off deaf.

They may listen and listen, still with nothing left.

The signs of hope and paths of discovery, I listened.

Secrets of the night sky, moon, and stars, I listened.

Both bird song and grinding of the cicada I listened.

The whirring of wings and voice of the wind I listened.

When I saw lightning, I listened for its coming thunder.

When I beheld a springtime rainbow, I heard its wonder.

Most people never listen, but I always did listen.

My brothers never listened, but I always did listen.

Some people listen but never hear, I tried to hear.

Other people listen but have no fear as I did fear.

No one ever really listened, but I always did listen.

Even when listening, they don’t know how to listen.

Thru all the noise, the voices, the confusion, I listened.

Thru all the quiet, the solitude, the silence, I listened.

Thru all the arguments, the cries and whispers, I listened.

Thru all the love-making, the anger, the betrayal I listened.

Is that a scratching I hear, words leaking from a poet’s quill?

In listening, I hope to hear, and in hearing, my spirit to fulfill.

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(c) John Herlihy 17 May 2019