Hi everyone,
Here’s my Word of the Month poem for August.
The Voice Clock
When he was little,
his voice squealed,
piped high soprano notes
that accompanied his play,
the excitement of each day.
But came a time
when the high notes cracked,
like shards of youth, into deeper timbre,
croaked at girls, who were curious
more than attracted.
Awkwardness ended
at the threshold of manhood.
His voice grew strong, firm,
confident beyond his years,
but people listened.
He grew into his voice,
learned about life,
became a lover, father,
wage earner, leader,
spoke with manly assurance.
The clock kept ticking.
The once deep thunder
of his testosterone-laced voice
lost its verve, began, at times,
to quiver and break with uncertainty.
He still yearned to speak but feared
his outdated wisdom and the sounds
of his soprano voice.
He sat in blankets, folded in thought,
and watched children play.
(c) 2018 David L. Harrison, all rights reserved
Love this poem, David!
Thank you, Su. It turned out sadder than I’d intended.
I read it as more “reflective” instead of sad.
In the photo, you are not remotely folded in a blanket. my wizard!
(:> Thank you, dear Jeanne. Glad my invisible blanket doesn’t show!
This speaks to man or woman. A women who always sang with a beautiful voice, now her voice quivered and was dry. Well done, but to me sad, as I sometimes wish to be more youthful.
I know what you mean about singing, Mary Nida. In my youth I was something of a singer and once sang a solo in my church, Battle Hymn of the Republic. Now I stand silently and refuse to croak along with any song.
Beautiful poem, David. Brought to mind, “All the world’s a stage ……”
Thank you, Bryn. I appreciate it. I enjoy the Bard’s company.
Beautiful.
Thank you, Helen.