Do you hear what I hear?

I hear
a flutter of midnight ravens
and eyelids;
rain spits on the window
and moves on;
the end of the hallway
falls into darkness
with a dull thud;
the kitchen faucet leaks
above a tin sink;
some dream drips
into reality;
in an unseen room
the floor creaks
beneath the weight
of an empty home.

-----------------------

I read one of my sister's poems tonight and I thought it was amazing (go Madelene!) and I thought 'wow, she's becoming more prolific than me! I gotta catch up', so I wrote a poem. One thing I liked about her poem was that it took a concrete image and then made it more profound. We often call this "moving from the specific to the general". So mine sorta does something similar. However, her's teaches a lesson, whereas mine only portrays a feeling (much more my forte). I couldn't think of an adequate title, so instead I just took what had been the first line, cut it, and made it the title. I think it works. One question: I sorta feel like the last line would be stronger if it had the stress on the second syllable, like da DA, instead of the current da da DA (this should make you laugh). i.e. of emptiness, of vacancy, of ...
Any ideas or other suggestions?

Some Old High School Poems

Sometime I can best describe my mood by looking back at my old poetry and saying "Yes, this fits" or "this line fits if I apply it to a slightly different line of though than I originally intended". For me, my poetry is valuable because it helps me most of all. Here's a couple old poems from high-school that fit well.


The Pit
When I was five, or six,
my friend and I ventured into the backyard
beneath the care of a live oak tree

Shovels firm in hand
we delved into the dirt
and dug a pit deep into the ground
until we reached damp soil

He and I were friends
both five or six
both looking for something
new and strange, profound, or deep

Perhaps, back then, we wished
thinking we were trying
to reach another world

But as we were digging
I don’t believe we cared
for we were happy then
not torn between sides in our mind

Just looking ahead
or behind us to the pit
we never found answers

It filled
with water from the earth
and rain from the sky

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In such watery company
Warning sounds.
Clouds close in
To devour the sunlight whole.

What is it that falls
and makes rivers on roofs,
waterfalls by windows?

Something is caught
and burned in a flash.

Before my eyes,
I see mirrors,
shattering.

Is it dreams that fall and break?
Or do they melt
and meld with the earth?

In such watery company,
who can tell?

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Some days the difference comes by night
Some days the difference comes by night:
A subtle glow behind deep shades of blue.
Wish a star to bless you with its light.

Always, it has been, the end is right
Though most complain and wish it wasn’t true.
Some days the difference comes by night.

It may be dark, but you retain your sight;
With ease look up, and find yourself a view;
Wish a star to bless you with its light

Or take the moon and bathe yourself in white,
Else we should sleep and find we’ve missed our cue
Discovering difference came by night.

Thus wait and see, the darkest dawn is bright;
Lift yourself to dream what you can do;
Wish a star to bless you with its light.

In darkness you lose yourself in fright
That those who gain life’s happiness are few,
But know the difference comes at night
And wish upon a star for light.

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Portrait #1
A child in the cold
plays basketball
with a father
who isn’t there.

The wind skirts by him
like a stranger,
or his mother
who isn’t there

He stops to breathe the air:
cold, as is his stare
when he looks at you,
as you walk on by.

------------------------------------

Water Cycle
White pale feet
Resting on a board above water
Aqua
As calm as azure glass
But when I dive I feel it shatter.

I am now but a shadow
From beneath I can see
Light dripping down into hands
Into my eyes, they’re open.
Legs are kicking

I breathe in the air
Almost gasping… almost…
Gripping the solid dock
I pull myself up,
Clear water falls back into the shade

Dripping drops splash
On the tip of my spiked hair
I can see glowing orbs… they plunge
Breaking on the water below
Where my dark reflection lingers with me

Where am I?

Secret Gardens

Secret Gardens
I know the thin strip of spruce;
my friend buried the roots in the backyard,
his father kneeling nearby, watching the tilt;
the base must be straight, he said; the son
pushed the clay around the young trunk,
mixed the topsoil with mud and hands.
Soon an unfinished row became a green fence,
whose thin slits disclosed leftover grass and holes.

The weekend was a thinner curtain closing;
he came already a man, but would leave a child
again; with seeds spinning down like autumn leaves,
it felt like a graveyard on a sunny day,
perfect for a family picnic before moving on,
his house with one more vacant room, filled
with clothes once shed, wrinkled paper, and medals.
The man has shaken the dust of childhood.

I know the dirt is beneath his nails,
constantly digging through photo albums and letters
in his apartment a country away in the city.
I imagine he keeps the lawn low and the flowers open
to the sun, a secret garden I noticed once and again:
a glimpse out the window of my departing train
over an ivied wall, past the row of grown conifers
into the foreign land that, one day, we'll all call home.

--------------------------------------------

Yesterday I went over to a friends house to help plant some trees. He was home for just a week, back from college and then would be off again, so it impressed me that he was spending his time helping his dad in the backyard. It made me want to write a poem about it. Then another memory coincided this desire. Once on a train in Japan, the train had the ocean on one side and on the other, houses. For brief moments I could see into the backyards of some people and I remember seeing some people working in their backyard like it was a secret garden. Since that moment, I've wanted to write a poem about that as well - catching only glimpses into peoples lives, their secret gardens.

Pause for a moment, close your eyes and think about what this poem might be talking about (if it makes any sense at all).
Now you can keep reading.

I only wrote this poem last night, so it wouldn't surprise me if there were plenty more things I could do to improve it, but basically I wanted to paint a picture of my friend and his home, being caught in the memories, and then continuing to cultivate the memories even after going home. The first stanza sets the image and sets a tone of something lost or leftover, even while another thing is completed. The second stanza gives a bit of the broader picture of what surrounds the initial image. Finally, the third carries the metaphor into the future and how home sticks with us and helps us cultivate our own homes. Something like that at least. For me, at least, it carries that emotion. Hope you enjoy it!