I hear voices - everywhere
in libraries - books speak to me
tell me stories that are true - untrue
that make me believe - or not

when I walk past churches I hear
confessions - some true - some untrue
they make me laugh - or cry
I was Catholic once - I know

I hear diners reading menus to each other
when I walk past restaurants that are closed
for the night - and chefs coaxing
recipes from unused vegetables

I walk past a cemetery at night
and hear a litany of should haves
could haves - never agains
whispered - so as not to wake the dead

when I'm driving home after work I pass
the courthouse and hear pleas of innocence
accusations - sentencing - long after
everyone has gone home - or to jail

my wife won't speak to me anymore
she writes messages on scraps of paper
not because of voices I hear - everywhere
but because - I don't seem to hear hers

by Dr. Charles A Stone

Comments (1)

Yesterday, about two hours before I first read this poem, I was walking up a hill and there was a slight Autumnal chill in the air and I heard the local church bells ring for 7.30 a.m. It prompted me to think about times gone by and when other people had heard the same bell and felt the same chill in the air. I thought how it was just as real for them at that time as it was for me at that moment. I thought about the saying that 'Time was created so that everything doesn't happen at once.' It made me wonder if the place that these fleeting senses start and end is with the creator himself. I was shown this poem a few hours later for the first time and the same sentiment that Czeslaw had written about and described had risen again along the timeline. Rather than just being called a case of history repeating itself I prefer to think of the scenario as a genuine call to be still and ponder the depths of life and the hereafter.