In 2012 I lost the hearing in my left ear.  I woke up that morning in September and couldn’t hear from that side.  I’m a listener more than a talker, and it has been a continual adjustment and a real loss.  Vertigo accompanied the loss during the first couple of months as my brain made the adjustment to a different stability and  I would find myself holding on to furniture and walls as I moved from room to room. Voices and noises bounce around rooms, making crowded places disorienting. So now, when I listen, I must look at people and watch them speak, giving them my complete attention.

The world spins while I am deaf
Silenced by the inner ear,
To learn to listen with the heart.

Am I also blind?
Or is this focused learning
balanced by an unseen hand?

To discern an unseen mask
hidden in the spoken word,
unheard meaning deep inside the words.

Communion

I am very aware of his hand in mine as we walk along. I wonder if he is aware, as I am. I know that he won’t hold it much longer because he is four, and four turns into five. And when he is five he may take my hand, but it will be to tug me along or to pull me forward faster…helping me to get to his goal quicker. Yet, he is four and we walk the block hand in hand. And I savor each step before he releases my hand…savor it as the finest of wines and the best of bread.

Even a poem has a pause.
A place to taste a word or phrase,
a pull-off to take in a view,
or grow accustom to a thought.

It is the comma,
the period,
the exclamation point,
…the requisite punctuation.

We pause at important places,
the emphasis essential,
or lost
because arrival was too important.

the silence is not empty
   just foreign
      for someone practiced in performing…
         in a  frantic self where
the words,
   a flood held back.

the dam breaks
   so grateful for an ear
      they tumble out
         and strike a Rock,
to settle in the pond
   to wait.

 

Another poem from my daughter-in-law, Kelly Herbert

Grandfather Oak
by Kelly Herbert

An oak tree in autumn,
Has the nostalgic power
Not unlike the timeless smell of grandpa’s aftershave.
Its reassuring stance fills the eye,
Warm and familiar.
They will linger through the winter,
Those golden leaves,
Holding on to the memory of a life well lived.
Curling slightly,
Leathery,
Crisp.
Unlike a maple leaf,
They do not call out to grab your eye;
Their color,
Consistent and friendly,
Is indifferent to the flamboyance of fall.