If the word 'poetic' had a sound, it would be…

Moments in life that capture the essence of our human journey

Photo by June Hanabi on Unsplash

If the word 'poetic' had a sound, it would be…

The crack of a fresh notebook’s spine, full of possibility, enchanting you with what it will pull out of your depths to fill the pages.

The sound of a splash that follows a naked body diving in at night.

The imperceptible rustling as the hairs on your arm rise in unison as if they are the army of your soul shouting, “Yes, this song! This song is me, and I am it. The sounds of these vibrations are one with me, to which I must respond viscerally”.

The slow breaking of a heart realising that a dream isn’t going to be possible, and how through this new crack it is visible that this loss requires grieving of what isn’t to be.

The creaking of a tin roof as the morning sun warms it, changing its shape as if it is getting ready for the day with a morning stretch.

The wheezing sound of your panicked breathing following a stranger’s voice through the phone, saying they are handing it to your Mum, who only tells you to meet her at the hospital before hanging up.

The burst of the gumnut following the bushfire that is required for the melting of its resin to release the seeds into the nutrient-rich ash left that it will flourish in.

Photo by Landon Parenteau on Unsplash

The soft creaking, almost like leather, skin on skin makes as hands held tighten in grasp as you sit in the doctor’s office receiving the diagnosis as a united front.

The soft thud of footsteps from the animals as they ventured into empty, once-busiest public spaces as we sat at home in lockdown.

The animalistic cry you heard yourself make but couldn’t identify with as you pulled on the hospital bedrail in the agony of drug-free labour.

The crunching of dirt as the gravitational pull of the full moon encourages more water, signalling to the seeded crops that it is time to flourish.

The quickened beat of a heart, when eyes meet and are again returned; to which a heart pours into that moment all hopes and dreams unchecked with the other person.

The smash of a nut under the wheel of a car, carefully placed by the onlooking crow for this very purpose.

The scratching of a pen in your notebook, attempting to capture a world of feelings in the simplest of characters, and how that seems not even worth trying to do, yet it somehow works, and you marvel at that.

The clink of the coins as they are thrown into the busker’s case, in awe of their vulnerability and wonder at how it feels to be so brave in bearing.

Photo by antonio molinari on Unsplash

The squeal of delight as an old friend runs at you, arms flung open, and you feel a deep love for them and life in that nostalgic youthfulness that springs up in you, only to have it dampened by reminding you of everything that was once in front of you, which now partially is behind.

The muffled proud sob as your throat catches it, as you marvel at your children doing something out there, independently, leaving you aware that a piece of your heart is out there and how vulnerable you also feel.

The throaty exhaust of the postman signalling he has taken off from the letterbox, stirring wonder as to what could be left that was once a moment when someone thought of you.

The drip as tears hit the page of your notebook as you write remembering who you were before and who you are now, loving all you cannot be as you wrap your arms around embracing all you are.

The scuttle of thousands of Soldier Crabs on the beach in front of wondrous children drinking it in, marvelling at the ways of the world.

That sound you don’t have a word for when you look up at night and can see the cluster of the Milky Way filling you with an expanding as far in as that galaxy is outward, flushing you with a knowing that you are in the right place for you, casting aside all doubt and replacing it with the biggest grin that gifts you a pure moment in which you can finally put a finger on what loving yourself might feel like.

Photo by Trevor McKinnon on Unsplash

Tell me your version; if the word ‘poetic’ had a sound, what would it be?

My all, Ta \(^u^)/

P.S.

This is a poetic piece; some of the experiences are my own, but not all of them are things I have experienced.

When I got that call about meeting my Mum at the hospital, she had been bitten on the leg by a dog. She was out on a walk and the dog’s owner had called my number for her as the ambulance came to get her. She was in shock and hadn’t thought to tell me anymore. It is hard to describe in words how I felt in those moments of not knowing until I met her at the hospital; possibly, it was like being inconsolable, scattered and fearful.

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