Half Life

As I drift off to sleep I hear voices
like a radio playing, softly
in another room
just below
the threshold of understanding

In the morning
the voices are gone.
There is no radio
playing anywhere in the house
and so I go
about my day

Each night I listen
but I can never, quite hear
enough
to understand
and I cannot remember my dreams

 

This is written for the Sunday mini-prompt at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, where we have been asked to think and write about hearing voices.

 

Night in the Portrait Gallery of My Ancestors

The dead watch me
as I walk down the hall

I hear them whisper
among themselves
mournful, mindful
urgent or ironic
I cannot tell

when I turn
to look
mist gathers
behind my eyes
and they are still, silent,
poised within their frames

waiting…

 

This is a quadrille (poem composed of forty-four words) for dVerse Poets Pub.  De also asked us to include some form of the word “whisper” in our piece.