H'work w/e 26.11.12 - Listen to the sounds of silence
Posted: Tue Nov 13, 2012 6:08 pm
LISTEN TO THE SOUNDS OF SILENCE
Vision not what it once was, picture edges all were dimmed
and he saw life through a tunnel moving fast.
By the time he’d heard the question, formed the answer, went to speak
they’d moved on, the opportunity had passed.
There was so much noise around him he heard an incessant roar
interspersed with high pitched crackles and some squeaks,
which made folks look at him with raised eyebrows so it seemed
as if spending time in company of freaks.
Every day became a nightmare; there were laughs at his expense
though the funniness he really couldn't see
His Grandkids poked fun at him – it was harmless that he knew
but it rankled just the same, and by degree
he drew inwards to a shell of his own making and none knew
that inside this old man wanted so to speak
but the world was too impatient – they’d no time to wait a while
he heard muttered sotto voce- ‘ain’t got all week.’
And he wondered what am I here for? And at times Who am I?
for it was rare these days to hear folks speak his name.
His telephone now seldom rang; he couldn’t hear the call,
‘twas long years of factory work that was to blame.
He’d slaved at boilermaking with its loud machinery
before they’d heard of workplace health and safety
and during war time Quartermaster Gunner was his rank,
those shell bursts bloody loud I tell you matey.
He’d seemed to have no difficulties hearing things back then
no doubt his hearing problem was related
to aging. Yes just getting old was really such a pain
and in more ways than one. He had debated
quite often with his inner self the pro’s and cons of life
and wondered how much longer he would stay
trapped on this mortal coil, shut in a world he cared not for
recalling yesterdays but grasping not today.
Maureen Clifford © 11/12
Have replaced the original last verse as per Neville's suggestion
This was the original
Still soon enough no doubt he’d leave, enter the realms of silence
spending every day reclining on a cloud.
Where everything was beautiful and pristine and bright white
with no iPods, ringing phones or music loud.
He’d spend his days just listening to the sweet celestial harps
played by angels and the tunes were those he knew
No heavy metal music here, no punk or reggae rock.
Do I come here often? crossed his mind and Who the hell are you?
Vision not what it once was, picture edges all were dimmed
and he saw life through a tunnel moving fast.
By the time he’d heard the question, formed the answer, went to speak
they’d moved on, the opportunity had passed.
There was so much noise around him he heard an incessant roar
interspersed with high pitched crackles and some squeaks,
which made folks look at him with raised eyebrows so it seemed
as if spending time in company of freaks.
Every day became a nightmare; there were laughs at his expense
though the funniness he really couldn't see
His Grandkids poked fun at him – it was harmless that he knew
but it rankled just the same, and by degree
he drew inwards to a shell of his own making and none knew
that inside this old man wanted so to speak
but the world was too impatient – they’d no time to wait a while
he heard muttered sotto voce- ‘ain’t got all week.’
And he wondered what am I here for? And at times Who am I?
for it was rare these days to hear folks speak his name.
His telephone now seldom rang; he couldn’t hear the call,
‘twas long years of factory work that was to blame.
He’d slaved at boilermaking with its loud machinery
before they’d heard of workplace health and safety
and during war time Quartermaster Gunner was his rank,
those shell bursts bloody loud I tell you matey.
He’d seemed to have no difficulties hearing things back then
no doubt his hearing problem was related
to aging. Yes just getting old was really such a pain
and in more ways than one. He had debated
quite often with his inner self the pro’s and cons of life
and wondered how much longer he would stay
trapped on this mortal coil, shut in a world he cared not for
recalling yesterdays but grasping not today.
Maureen Clifford © 11/12
Have replaced the original last verse as per Neville's suggestion
This was the original
Still soon enough no doubt he’d leave, enter the realms of silence
spending every day reclining on a cloud.
Where everything was beautiful and pristine and bright white
with no iPods, ringing phones or music loud.
He’d spend his days just listening to the sweet celestial harps
played by angels and the tunes were those he knew
No heavy metal music here, no punk or reggae rock.
Do I come here often? crossed his mind and Who the hell are you?
but this is a workshop.
" these days, the folks here rarely speak his name." It can be done. 
