I remember standing at the end of the bed
Feeling safe and sound
Not a noise in the house
You pulled me in to your arms
We stood there still but strong
How did everything go so wrong

The gust of wind in my back
I hear cicadas again
And tamed horses roam
Oh mother, I am back home

My breath short
And the heat soaring
Alone, as you were
Forgotten like a cur

The blades of grass welcomed me
And the trees whispered nice words
And the walls blankly listened
And my song was sung

But Hungary, my sweet old home
No more is my song for you

My breath shorter
Interrupted and forced to
Become one with that gust of wind
I run like the hunted
And my hunter the trusted

Lies, deception, corruption
That is what you are
My dear, sweet Hungary

The blades of grass no longer welcome me
And the trees turn their heads as the autumn comes
And my breath long, wispy and furtive
My song a ballad of my sadness
But there is nobody to sing it
And without ears, these shadows cannot hear it

I'm untangled from you, Hungary
I despise you, blades of grass
I will ignore you, trees, like you have chosen for me
This is not my home
The soil from whence I came and clay from whence I was made
I hope it dries up, I hope the end finally comes for you
And maybe then, you will wish for a different path
You will wish you had heard my song

Water and wind build the air
up thick and the siren slices it
clean across the middle.

Across the suburbs and towns
people gather their books and
their computers and hunker down

in bathtubs and basements, tucked
into hallways with their feet splayed
amongst their families' shoes,

listening to dark skies and music
and other sounds, working by flashlight
while the fireflies drown.

my ears soak inside-out in a seltzer
filled glass on my bedroom nightstand
each evening so that the ringing will
hopefully dissolve and settle to the bottom

they dream of wingtips that the
maple can hear through the leaves
as they stir the breeze upon landing,
the patter of avian claws gripping
the bark in short scoots,

the stretch of a twig bending downward
with the slightest brush of a feather, the
splitting noises of a newborn’s egg,
and even the breath taken before
the whoosh of a dive—

they awaken this morning with
words and imagination bringing
forth a new voice,

one which reads aloud to them
about the simple sounds
that birds can make...



"a whoosh unheard"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

The shanties of the shore are the tide’s wives in clay,  
The uxorious sea fawns at the blushed lips of the beach,
A serenade from the sung-exhalations of all living things,
Though eternity is the stillness of silence repeating.

he runs and runs
away from invisible enemies,
settles for a wide street corner eventually
enters heavily gasping a small café.

the abdominals are ripped from all the coughing.
the swiftly waitress realizes that,
as he orders a cup of black coffee.
she asks him, if it was a fine sporting day,
with a wide, plainly sinister smirk.

confused as he was, he gives her an absent nod,
in hope to leave him alone and serve that **** coffee.
at least he found an excellent spot
covered on a stakeout for his own death.

the street on the left, called Void Street,
seems pretty occupied
but shows no sign of the ambitious hitmen.
on his right lies Paradise Avenue,
emptied and distilled of silence

still nervous he bites his fingers,
although no nails are attached to them anymore
so he ***** the angst dry
like a skint man does with the tip of his last wrinkled cigarette,
that he found in one of his forgotten jacket pockets

safe space now,
he reckons,
only to have his throat cut

They're just never-ending sounds.
Never-ending noises piercing through my ever-sensitive ears.
Each sound causing pain to travel through my clouded mind.
Shocking it.
Awakening it. 
Reminding me that I'm alive. 
That I'm a person. 
That I feel.
They're never-ending sounds. 
They're not stopping no matter how hard I try to shut the doors in my mind, blocking them.
They don't stop.
Every sound is heightened.
And my mind can't seem to comprehend reality anymore.
I can't seem to structure my thoughts in a linear motion anymore.
Every thump, every voice 
Seem to be piercing through the crevices of my mind 
Crippling it. 
Every door shutting,
One after the other, with every subsequent sound, and I feel lost.
I feel lost without my subconscious. 
I feel alone. 
And I just lay there.
Looking alive, healthy, "sleeping".
But little do they know, that with every crippling sound they make, I am rather vigorously digging at the skin under my fingernails, creasing my forehead, and screaming.
Internally.
Screaming at my subconscious to burst open the door.
To come out and balance my jungle of thoughts.
To keep them in order. 
and arrange them into their respective rooms, 
But I'm still screaming as I write this. 
Rather shakily.
Can't you tell? 
The screeching sounds of the outside world have become too loud for my subconscious mind…
So it barricaded itself
Wanted to disappear 
Leaving me all alone with my cryptic thoughts, 
Each one entangled with the excruciating sounds of reality.
© Hannah.