Is There anybody there&;#063;

Is there anybody there?

"Is there anybody there?" cried the child of dreams.
"Is there anybody listening to me?"
In the darkness of the night,
in the brightness of the day,
in the moments of 'aloneness'
with no others there to play -
"Is there anybody there?" cried the child once again,
and then paused in hope for someone to reply&;#8230;

In the quiet of the moment,
in the quiet of the pause,
in between the child's questions,
in between the child's calls,
when a pin-drop would have echoed
(if a pin had hit the floor),
when the child had almost chosen
not to call out any more -

First a whisper, then a trickle,
like a shallow running stream,
was there anybody there, or was it just the child's dream?
Wide-eyed wonder, ears now straining,
sounding half like distant raining,
or a breeze that blows in corn-fields,
"Is there anybody there?!"

In a whisper, in a murmur,
in a softly spoken tone,
like a feather falling slowly,
like a honey-bee's quiet drone,
barely audible but plaintive
came a word, at first, then more&;#8230;
"Yes&;#8230;.
I hear you in the silence,"
and the child was in awe!

"Who is there, who is there?", cried the child of dreams.
Half in wonder, half in fear,
as the voice drew near -
nearer still and still much nearer,
growing far more clearer
than the murmur that had started,
sounding half like distant rain.

"I am here," called the voice,
"I am answering your call,
which was rather like a pebble
causing ripples in a pool.
Ripples spreading far and further -
first just one then many more.
And your calls were quite incessant,
washing up upon my shore."

"Will you tell me who you are?" asked the child of dreams.
"What I mean is, will you tell me what's your name?"
Half in wonder, half in fear,
(for the voice seemed very near),
both excited and quite frightened
that the voice would disappear,
asked again, the child of dreams,
"Will you tell me who you are?"
And a pin-drop could have echoed in the pause.

Like a rustling of leaves, that were scattered under trees,
by the turn of autumn's blowing,
and the summer season ending -
Like the snuffling of a mole,
as its whiskers feel the air,
barely heard, but if one's quiet,
then one knows that something's there -

"Well.." the voice again now whispered,
as if chuckling with a grin,
"That is quite a thing you ask me.
Let me see&;#8230; Where to begin?"
It was if the world stopped spinning.
As if waves paused from their lapping
on the pebbles, on the beaches -
not a grain of sand disturbed.

"Tell me, please!" cried the child, "I would really like to know!
What do other people call you,
that's if other people know?"
"Hush now, child," said the voice,
"Child of dreams, now hush,"
said the voice, like a mother, combing hair with a brush,
or the stroking of a cheek to a soft lullaby.
Firm but patient, kind and caring,
Even though the child was wearing -
"All these questions, Oh such questions.
Where shall I begin?"

So the child of dreams, settled down and was quiet.
Eagerly awaiting what the voice would tell.
Such a hush, such a silence,
such a long, long pause.
Then a whooshing as if water from cascading waterfalls.
"Well&;#8230;" the voice said again,
"I am not just called one name.
Although, perhaps, they all mean the same&;#8230;"

Now, the child of dreams was quite puzzled and surprised.
Many names for just one being?
Many names for just one voice?
Was it he, the child of dreams, who would have to make a choice?
And the voice, well it just chuckled,
as if laughing at a joke.
Knowing what the child was thinking, though the child never
spoke.

"Will you tell me of these names?" asked the child of dreams,
"And do you have a name that you prefer?
Mine was given me, you see,
by my father and my mother.
And the same is also true of my sister and my brother."
Then the voice gave out a chuckle,
"Yes I'm sometimes known by those -
sometimes father, sometimes mother.
Some say sister, some say brother.
Though you might not think them names,
And I guess you would be right.
But I'm often called those things, in the middle of the night.

Then some add the title, Holy.
Others adding, Earth or Sky.
Oh so many names and titles,"
Said the voice, with a sigh.
"Some refer to me as 'many'
and then others, simply one.
If you think this is confusing&;#8230;
Well I've hardly just begun!"

"But who are you, or what are you?" asked the child of dreams,
who was puzzled and confused by the reply.
"I can't see you. Why is that?
Are you frightened to appear?
Are you just imagination, or are you really here?"
Clearly, now, the child of dreams was perplexed, but still
persisted.
Many names and many titles, so the strange voice had insisted,
But just what or who the voice was, still remained a mystery
Like a riddle in a puzzle in a maze.

"I am here and everywhere, but some say I am no more.
People argue and debate - foolish people go to war.
That is tragic - oh such folly - yet some think it makes them
'holy'!
Then they blame, in my name, (if a name they give to me)
I will never understand such absurd stupidity."
And the voice, on saying that, seemed to be in grievous pain,
but that didn't stop the child from his questions, once again.

"Why do people fight about you? Don't they know this makes you
sad?
Is it just because they're foolish, or perhaps they just are
bad?"
And the voice just had to chuckle, "That is something I don't know
-
I have wondered, I have pondered,
I have watched all that man's squandered.
I have listened to man preaching and the many forms of teaching,
But what puzzles me the most -
Well, he simply doesn't learn!
And if man can't understand that all wars are insane,
how on earth can he learn that I have no single name?"

Then the child understood what the voice had said,
This was no imagination - not a voice in his head.
"Now I know who you are," smiled the child of dreams,
"And your name is quite safe with me."

In a whisper, in a murmur,
in a softly spoken tone,
like a feather falling slowly,
like a honey-bee's quiet drone,
Like a rustling of leaves, that were scattered under trees,
by the turn of autumn's blowing,
and the summer season ending -
Like the snuffling of a mole,
as its whiskers feel the air,
barely heard, but if one's quiet,
then one knows that something's there -
barely audible but plaintive
came the voice's final words,
"Child of dreams, I know you know me.."
and then nothing more was heard.

And a pin-drop would have echoed
(if a pin had hit the floor)
as the child of dreams,
and the voice were no more&;#8230;.

Copyright David Taub (UKpoet@aol.com), July 2001