When the Phone Rings - a poem

When the Phone Rings

Tony E Hansen

22 Nov 2016

Ever get that awkward feeling of anticipation,

That feeling of sudden wonder,

something’s amiss here.

Suddenly, the phone rings.

It’s an odd ring, weird, scary even 

with bell tower chimes in the distance.

A familiar voice is on the other end.

They say don’t get alarmed but the prospects are not good.

how does one reconcile that?

For whatever that prospect is, 

the alarm was long wasted. 

Now, the pondering of the things left to say, 

the words forgotten, 

forgiveness yet to give,

a next project on the list, 

wild vision of worlds yet to live.

Like suddenly someone tossed a rock through the bedroom window

Shattering the peaceful pane into a gruesome mess of cutting shards

And now who gets to deal with this and why me.

As the call completes, the task is to collect oneself

Sweep up the shards knowing

A real task is on the horizon.

Trying to understand what is happening

Trying to determine where to be and when to be there

Are supplies needed? 

a backpack, a pillow, a toothbrush, faded picture, 

What to do with the broken glass?

Don’t forget the pot on the stove.

Do I call someone else and invite them to the prospect?

When the phone rings,

Another familiar voice arrives;

With a quiver, we invite them into the prospect.

There are pauses as words are framed.

The question is beckoned, “Are you ok?”

With hesitation to counter, 

Niagara Falls does not have enough water to describe the number of tears that flow. 

Through the flood of emotions and floating courage, 

the prospect is shared.

This voice was reassuring and consoling.

T’was Time to pick up the pieces.

After the heart-felt conversation, a return to life considering.

Time to plan moves and needs.

the plan is flexible and aided by thoughts of goodwill from many

A thought arises, “we can make it,”

even beyond the horizon.

When the phone rings,

Another voice, similar to the first, is heard. 

The conversation is concerning and intense again.

A big shudder as a layer of hope is ripped away.

Despite setbacks, 

and with plans in motion, 

space for developments is found

shaping them in the corner of the room

sculpting with a great mound of clay.

When the phone rings, 

Another friendly voice to help with the molding.

There were laughs from many days gone past.

A mutual encounter is booked and 

The shape form is continued

Not really knowing what the outcome is going to be,

moving the clay around with curves and edges.

A leathered book was placed next to the clay

one full of wisdom and sayings for people walking and wondering.

Curious what purpose brought this here.

Open to a page, read of gardens and boats. 

When the phone rings,

Palpitating, sweating and dreary to answer.

It rings louder, yelling to be understood.

Unsteady and decidedly, another voice is played.

Another layer of hope is torn. 

The results came back and they found more.

They will try this and that, 

but success is not an option.

The prospect is nearer.

Damn it, why did I answer?

Back to the plan and the clay is forming.

There is room here for some plants. 

Potted chrysanthemum should do fine 

For texture, color, and ease,

to complement the changing mold.

Our mold has got smaller somehow.

The edges look familiar;

the shape is beginning to show.

Inscriptions on the form appear.

Echoes of distances surround.

The phone rings,

Trembling and shaking, 

the friendly voice returns to relieve.

The prospect is not today, not yet,

And so let’s propose another social 

To regale of those memories and plays

With sips of love, dance and bonding of joyful tables.

The mold is recognizable and forming before the eyes;

can almost hear the circles and piece come into harmony;

can almost pick up the sculpture.

Yet, the potted bloom is becoming tired.

Page of book turned to exile and return. 

When the phone rings,

Questioning, timing, fearing, exhausting.

It summons and trumpets loudly- almost cynical. 

The solemn voice, the prospect is near.

Hope is but a dash. 

Nothing more will be done.

The mold is cast and real.

I can pick it up, cradle it, hold it close

Splendid plan in display

Flower in slow decay.

Book is pulled to remaining verses 

Many stars, a dragon, horsemen, scores of people.

Then it rings.