Photo by Richard on Adobe Stock
If These Walls Could Talk
If only these walls could talk
we wonder
What might goad their reluctant tongues?
Wondered more often
by those who would be betrayed or wounded by the
small talk or gloating of these walls
by those who would be healed or comforted by thetruth they could tell
by those delighted by wit or disgusted by cruelty;
tickled by joy
taunted by hubris
tainted or even teased by innuendo
But should you stop and listen
listen with senses of heart and memory
these walls and floors and stuff of space
regale or incite, binding with the spell of a living past,
tales eloquently or quaintly or heartbreakingly
certainly breathlessly
recounted
The smell of old wood declaring stability
lingering paint and oil and sawdust odor
of studios or workshops
old-paper mustiness of a library or schoolroom
dirty diaper and powder aroma
swearing that we can taste pies or bread or soup
the waft of long-gone beloved or bedeviled pets
in carpet or floorboards
Stains on the bedstead and floorboards from alcohol splashed
over a child’s feverish body
rectangles of darker or lighter wallpaper or paint
concealed for years behind a picture or map
The rounded edge of stair or steps from countless treads
sagging shelves that bore the weight of imagination
ruts of rocking chairs and dimples of piano legs
Scratch marks, hopefully, of those afore-remembered pets
staircase railings polished smooth with the friction and oils of
holding tight so as not to fall
discerned by feet that retrace and hands that curiously caress this space
Wondering all the while what the walls would say
if they could talk
Images of Night
A watercolor sky adorns the western wall
‘till Dusk turns down the lamp
and empty darkness fills the room.
A window on the eastern wall
looks out upon a rising moon
whose beams throw shadows on the floor
And through the windows fireflies flit
To hover just above our reach
in patterns fashioned of epic lore.
But sleep soon robs the night of life
and a lingering lazy doze
conceals a glimpse of Dawn, shyly
peering through the eastern window now.
Eventually, Day wanders in for breakfast
and stays for lunch and supper
then sets in a favorite chair to paint
a watercolor sky on the western wall.
Overheard on a Train
Layered within the rhythmic thrum,
random bumps and grinds,
snatches of conversations,
a soft, warm voice of middle age glides into my consciousness,
rendered in that moment
as words in English
tinted
with what my mostly distracted brain
accepts as a French accent.
“Should I say Goodnight? ... or should I say...”
my mind’s eye conjures a listening stare [tellingly expressionless]
a smile [tentative, hopeful]
“OK... until then...”
a laugh [almost embarrassed, but more delighted than embarrassed]
another laugh [almost the same, but now much more a sigh]
“OK...” [silence, promising a next....]