Listen to poem:
Dear Poetry
Written: September 3rd, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Silent One
"Quote: Your eyelashes will write on my heart the poem that could never come from the pen of a poet."
Dear Poetry,
you are the shape beneath my breath,
the quiet grip that keeps my ground,
the sure thread that turns a word to singing—
giving the ache a name, the blame a grace.
You are the serene, silent zephyr,
the soothing symphony I seldom sense,
during drawn-out days of dimness,
transform tumult into tranquility.
You uphold low as a hollow holds heavy rain,
a steady, soothing stream, not a surge;
constant, circular cadence, obvious rhythm,
the final fervent flutter I find.
You found me while dialog had gone dark,
Quiet sank ominously in my chest,
I learned to twist chaos with my tongue,
To label the taboo, put the lost.
You are the pulse beneath the pulse,
the hush that hums when every room is still,
the silver syllable, the secret suture,
the little light that language cannot kill.
You play my fractures
rhyme with ruin, bone breath,
grab the fragments I can't carry
create individual windows.
Your sadness soars without denying harm;
joy turns a bell, then a breath, then a bloom,
You let the dead speak softly through the living,
and feed the voiceless somewhere to belong.
Dear Poetry,
You're beyond scribbled words,
you are a soft breeze amid the crowd
the pain behind the rhyme
the odd, bright pause
where the spirit finds its own voice,
If I ever stop speaking,
let the final sentence be my sunshine—
for I was here,
I felt,
I faltered,
I loved—
and poetry
made the silence sing.
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