Audio Book Demo Adult Female Narration

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Audiobooks
12
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Description

This is an audiobook sample - the audiobook is from a book of poetry I narrated. The subject matter is historic and the voice tone is soothing, warm, wistful, and nostalgic.

Vocal Characteristics

Language

English

Voice Age

Middle Aged (35-54)

Accents

North American (General)

Transcript

Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
grandmother's old featherbed grandmother's old feather bed was two floors up in the dark, uninhabited part of a past life. Rust colored, puffed up. We'd race for her room, poke, opened the door and jump into nothing. That was something. Our laughter turned to hesitation alone. We were two floors up. We made ourselves afraid, reveling in the speed that we tore down the stairs to where soft voices speaking in polish sued us into sensibility. Poetry reading Milwaukee Winter 1969. During the Revolution. The big guns were there at a small church in Milwaukee, sweating, steaming in seven minutes. Stents till so late. I cannot remember coming home to or from a cause. A celebration of hot bodies, heavy clothes and poets For the Milwaukee 9, 10 or 11 past the basket. It must have been a celebration after all the church, the chance, the collapse, the crowd in the inner city violent, cramped together. We sat quietly in pews with Snyder Duncan and Creeley poems read in the heat became shafts of spoken light. six years later, soldiers bent and broken, flew home from war that long ago night, though, we walked out into the winter air where words lingered on our skins. At first together we were then we went our separate ways, heading home, tired and aching from the war we never fought buddha in the rain. The poem, You have to learn to soak up the day. A jaded western way of thinking, tries to find its way east, where a quiet buddha sits with his legs bent, looking up at the sky. He stretches his arms out. The rain touches his fingers, his fingers tremble at the touch. He raises his hand to his mouth, presses water against parched lips, feasting on the drops, blessings from the sky. There is no thunder or lightning, just a gentle rain that brings up the flavor of the earth and the smell of wet stone to his upturned nose. The rain soothes his weary shoulders, trickles down the folds of this robe, slides over his cross legs, soaks the moss covered ground below. His hands reach up for the sky again. Catch the rain. Go ahead, it's out there waiting for you.