Best Quieter Poems
The old stream doesn’t burble
like it used to in Spring’s past -
rambunctious in youth wild it ran
racing the sun and chasing the moon
splashing leaping and tumbling
over, down and around rocks in its shallow channel -
giving it rollicking laughter
The old stream doesn’t play with sunlight
like it used to in Summer’s past -
when unending yellow dahlia days gentled its flow
allowing for reflections and explorations around each bend
and for savoring saffron skies and plum-shaded shadows
that seemingly stretched on forever -
giving it invincibility
Autumn saw a change in the old stream
under a herald of goldenrod fireworks
waters waned becoming tired and tamed
its banks and shoaly bed littered with Fall’s golds and reds;
a once lilting voice grew quieter
as nocturnal rhythms trespassed towards winter’s solstice
and under the cover of darkness
a cool moon stole the stream’s slow dance with the sun -
giving it vulnerability
The old stream remembered not the goldenrod days
nor the purpose of its earthly path -
Winter charged in on his frosty horse robust with rime
and laid his icy hands upon the sleepy stream -
draining its dreams of a pulse beneath a frozen facade..
but from below the stilled surface a silver current flowed free
… giving the stream eternity.
Susan Ashley
April 12, 1019
~ First Place ~
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 23
Sponsor: Mark Toney
*Rime: frost formed on cold objects by the rapid freezing of water vapor in clouds or fog.*
hey ho
does an octopus know
how to juggle with eight cups and saucers
and the fish watching him
while the elephants swim
then he juggles with a turtle and tortoise
then ho hey
does the octopus say
I can do this all day round in circles
but an ache in my arm
in my arm, in my arm
and so on through all eight tentacles
so hey ho
let the octopus go
to bed nice and early with honey
to rest and recline
for a considerable time
so he doesn’t feel worn out and funny
ho hey
and a new octopus day
refreshed and all ready to juggle
so with cups and with saucers
a turtle and tortoise
but the elephant’s splash makes him struggle
hey hey
that’s not fair that’s not fair
so the octopus went somewhere quieter
where he practised a lot
and a lot more than not
and so now he’s a pro entertainer
At 3am you become your own philosopher, categorizing
the different genres of humans and wondering
if you fall even remotely close to anyone on the spectrum.
You debate with yourself the meaning of life, again,
and then regret everything you accomplished the previous day.
5am, that’s the breaking point.
The sun climbs out of bed, and chases away
the comforting lure of night and all dreams of slumber.
The damned birds start peeping and you curse and sigh,
watching the room change colours
until you must get up to join the others.
But 4am, it’s the gaping time of day
that even the insomniacs deny.
As if night took a deep breath and forgot to exhale,
the silence is quieter, the darkness more pure.
You hide under covers and stare into emptiness
trying to make something of black space
but your mind remains impossibly blank.
I stood on the step by the unopened door
Far from the meadows that precede the shore
Grasped tight the railing I longed to explore
Searching for truth in the lies
Looked at the mat as it welcomed me in
Wondering when all of this would begin
Washed up and worried and covered in sin
One that the world would despise
Juggled a dish after dropping the spoon
Spotlights were shining, they lit up the room
Still not enough for this unending doom
Praying the end would be near
Paced cross the stage as the audience stared
Thinking I saw one who looked like she cared
Checking my pockets for things that I shared
Knowing not what I might hear
Then like a siren but quieter still
Came forth a voice that presented a thrill
When on my spine formed the funniest chill
Just as she called out my name
Chris, was the echo, a melodic song
I have been waiting for you for so long
Something like this surely cannot be wrong
I don't care who is to blame
I took her hand and my heart skipped a beat
Who would have thought that an angel I'd meet
Me, oh so sour and her, oh so sweet
She must have come from above
Then I awoke with a yawn layered scream
Only a nightlight providing the gleam
All of this poem was merely a dream
Waking before I found love
"I love my teacher."
"I have a great teacher."
"My teacher is super."
"My teacher's so cool."
These words are music to a teacher's ears,
Exactly what parents and administrators want to hear.
Yet what do they mean? How are they earned?
Are they related to learning? Or are we unconcerned?
"My teacher gives us tons of extra recess every day."
"Mine lets us cheat on quizzes and not make us pay."
"My teacher accepts papers copied from the Internet."
"Mine goes to casinos at nights and places big-money bets!"
Back in the day, teachers were strict.
We got away with nothing; they knew all our tricks.
And the classroom was quieter than a night in Grant's tomb;
They really knew how to keep order in a room.
The homework was ample, not one or two samples,
And the next day we had to solve all her examples.
Her quizzes and tests required voluminous reading,
And woe to the poor student whom she caught cheating!
We truly hated our teachers; we hated their guts.
We threw darts at their pictures and that kind of stuff.
Yet later in life we could hold an intelligent conversation.
And write a clear report, full of fact-based innovation.
We could dissect a frog; comprehend the periodic table;
Parse a sentence, and make a speech about Hamlet or Cain and Abel.
So next time your kid tells you, "My teacher's so cool."
Ask next what he or she's learning in school!
Lonely is the life of a writer- for we seek solitary places,
off the beaten path. Sometimes, I wrap myself in loneliness.
Not to say, I am forlorn or forsaken but I am a writer of sadness,
entwined completely in my words and poems. I like a lonely road.
Lost in thoughts, I meander a cemetery at times. It may seem gloomy,
in reality, it is full of peace and tranquility, could I ever find a quieter place.
Nothing is more secluded. I go hiking and love to listen to birds sing.
Ever feel alone, although in a crowd of people, I have many times.
Solitary does not mean lonesome or friendless or abandoned.
Sweet is the life of a writer- for we seek out aloneness.
_______________________________________
July 22, 2016
Poetry/Acrostic/Loneliness
Copyright Protected, ID 16-810-877-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Loneliness
sponsor, Nayda Ivette Negron
Third Place
I watched it emerge
from out of the fog, monumental
in size, a sheer cliff face of steel
moving pass me, almost
quieter than my breath
but for a whispered wake
running from its bow.
Something this big
should have made
more noise.
A black hull bore scars
of scrapings and rust bleeding out
of fissures along its length.
The fog seemed to oil its way,
its shape looming large
then slowly growing smaller
as it slid down river until
it dimmed and disappeared.
In that moment its passage
was a mystery, a brief apparition
of something beyond the dimension
of ordinary things. The quiet
of its passing, the dark bulk
and beauty of its presence
was magnificent
and overpowering.
It was like a shadow cast
by a mythical beast
coalescing out of history,
infiltrating the mind then
dissolving once more
into a place somewhere
hidden in its magical past,
suddenly brought back
to this world
with its registered port
written in rusty lettering
on its stern - MONROVIA
The little imp bawled lustily
as it lay in its perambulator
there by the water fountain
in a secluded garden
right in the middle of a concrete jungle,
disturbing my elevated thoughts
that churned and churned inside my mind
on how to kill those pesky flies
that infested my rundown abode.
It was no use for me
to kick any brilliant idea around,
so long as that pesky brat
disturbed the silence all around.
Why even the doves stopped cooing
and other birds stopped chirping,
whilst most decided that 'twas best
to search for a quieter place.
So I walked up to his comely nurse
sitting contentedly on a bench
and scratching my unshaven face
I quite politely asked
why the little cherub cry so much!
She looked me up and down
and down and up, no doubt
disgusted by what she discerned.
"Maybe he's seeing a devil,"
she replied, cooing at the cherub
that made its bright new pram
quiver with yelping wails.
"Or maybe he's thirsty,"
scathingly I replied.
Cherub my foot, I thought.
And sighing I slowly repaired
back to my solitary bench
and thought and thought on
how I could kill those parasites
that bothered me as much
as that little cherub in the pram.
An empty heart cries out through a long night
the only sound heard is the tears that fall
where pain rises to a terrible height
and no one answers the lonely heart's call
black is quieter when inhaled alone
and the blank space of confusion intrudes
when a heart's pain, struggles with the unknown
tortured shadowed realms turn to darker moods
How long will eyes stare into a black void?
How tight will eyelids close, to find lost gleams?
when the soul is barren and found devoid
and pain-filled thresholds turn nightmarish dreams
How long is time that will never relent?
How deep is the pain when the heart is spent?
I drank myself numb
to hide the pain—
the things I saw,
the voices I heard
when the world went quiet.
The bottle never judged me.
It just blurred the edges.
Made the flashes softer,
the guilt quieter,
the ghosts… not gone,
but easier to sit with.
But your past always catches up.
You can’t outdrink memory forever.
Steel on my wrists.
Bars I fell behind.
Not a hero.
Just a man
running from himself
with nowhere left to go.
Addiction turned to darkness—
the kind that sits in your chest
and convinces you
you’re too broken to come back.
Broken without all the pieces.
Some are buried.
Some I gave away.
Some I watched die with men braver than me.
The weight of guilt
crushing down like armor I can’t take off.
I carry their names like shrapnel.
I wear their memory like scars.
An empty life
without my brothers.
Most days I fake the smile.
Some days I can’t.
And if you ever see me cry
when I look at the flag—
don’t ask why.
Just know
I remember what it cost.
I live in hell most nights,
so others can have dreams.
Let ‘em sleep, let ‘em laugh—
I’ll carry the screams.
The memories turned to nightmares
that now invade the day.
I close my eyes
and still see it all.
I have no peace…
Just the peace I protected.
And that’s what I gave—
Even if it cost me everything.
On my face, you’d never know…
but the devil invites me home at every turn.
The quiet never comes…
but neither does surrender.
you used to whisper to me
in stoop slang and bachata basslines,
kiss my cheek with corner store breath -
hot beef patties, papitas, a dollar Arizona.
you’d walk me past block parties
where the speakers cracked from joy,
and the aunties sang louder than the music.
your hands were rough -
but they knew my curves,
my story,
my roots.
but now,
your voice got quieter.
real estate signs stutter
where murals used to speak.
you wear button-ups now — ironed crisp,
smell like rosemary and rent hikes.
your laugh don’t echo
off bricks no more.
it gets lost
somewhere between the wine bar
and that dog park
you said wasn’t for us,
but now you walk through like you forgot.
when did you stop calling me “mami”?
start saying “ma’am”?
when did you trade timbs for toms,
cafecito for cold brew,
“you good?”
for
“you’re trespassing”?
i loved you when you were loud,
when you cursed and prayed in the same breath,
when your shoes had scuffs
and your hair still smelled like shea butter and sweat.
now you slicked it back — forgetful.
i see you in Whole Foods windows
with your new girls —
their yoga mats, their green juices,
their way of looking at me
like i don’t belong
in the place that built me.
you changed, Harlem,
and not in the way lovers grow —
but in the way dreams get flipped for profit.
still,
i walk your blocks like a jilted bride,
tracing memories
where laundromats used to hum
and grandma's gospel broke morning silence.
you once held me
like a secret.
now
you just walk by.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the bridge isn't stone.
not iron latticework humming with trains.
not even that splintered wood plank
across the creek just beyond my childhood home.
It's quieter~
a slant of afternoon sun catching dust motes
in the attic of my mind.
I climb the stairs~
why did I say that?
why didn't I go?
if only...
each step groans with the weight of *what if*~
the handrail feels slick with polished regret.
halfway across, I pause.
below, the river churns with versions of myself:
the one who stayed,
the one who left too soon,
the one clutching certainty like a fraying rope.
the far shore gleams clear, impossibly calm.
I know what waits there~
wisdom, smooth as river stone.
but the bridge only goes one way.
I can't carry today's shoes back to yesterday's mud.
can't shout warnings through the thickening fog
of memory.
so I stand, breathing the damp air
of almost-understanding.
I watch the current swirl the past into patterns
that almost make sense.
Almost.
the bridge remains aching and empty
leading only to the place where I finally see
the shape of the hole my choices left behind.
“Can you smell something burning,” Dad frowned and I said “Yeah.”
It had the smell of cooking meat, as well as burning hair,
Dad stopped the truck, lifted the bonnet… “Blimey look at that!”
Something was mangled by the fan, looking like Mum’s cat.
“Strike me pink” Dad shook his head, “Mum’s cat’s been on the motor.
It’s been killed by the fan”; and we knew that Mum did dote her.
Dad looked at me with steely eyes, “Get the spade and dig a hole,
I’ll tell you now and only once… don’t tell a living soul”…
… I was halfway through my tea, staying quieter than a mouse.
Mum asked “Has anyone seen Tiddles? She’s not around the house.”
All Mum got was puzzled looks, and the shaking of each head…
Dad glared to remind me, ‘don’t tell a soul the cat is dead.’
Mum loved her cat so much; she’d have Tiddles on her lap
out on the porch at evening time. Contented she would nap.
I hated seeing Mum distressed, but Dad just acted bored,
when Mum said, “I’ll write a note, with an offer of reward.”
‘Ten pounds for her return’; I thought that Mum would smell a rat,
when Dad said “Make it twenty, if you really love your cat.”
The Ad’s printed in the paper, in the column ‘lost and found.’
Dad said to me “I’m feeling guilty now, with Tiddles underground.”
Dad let me drive the tractor while he spread the ragwort spray,
and then blackberries copped a dose before they shoot away,
he emptied out the tank and we went home to wash the gear.
The Evans’ car’s parked in our drive… “What are they doing here?”
Laughter’s in the kitchen; a joyous Mother’s voice did say
“Young Misty here found Tiddles; she was hiding in their hay,
no wonder she would not come home.” I watched Dad’s eyes and jaw.
… Twenty quid, the cat is back… a box of kittens on the floor.
Quieter than usual I stand alone in my verandah
looking over a lamp-lit street-bench.
Across the ocean a plane lands down onto the runway
where my wind- swept words would not be heard
and my mascara stained cheeks will not be seen.
Lost I whisper: "Farewell my little child Farewell
Embark on your journey...
Go chase the stars Live life Count a thousand ways to smile
Spread those wings Fly free Build up your destiny
Go girl Explore the world Ride on its golden wheel
It takes you places magical places wherever you want to be
Do all the things you aim to do Believe in all that makes you you
Walk Run Run through lavender fields Don't turn your back on the foreign breeze
Its sweet Its soft Like I described it A million nights into your sleep.
Oh my one my only child a maltese beauty
with noicettes eyes with sweetest charms and hazel hair
When was it that you turned into a lady of a kindred soul and a smile so fair
Oh my one my only child with a determined mind and a spirit sublime
In my absence Do not fear In lonely silence seek me and I'll be there
Shawling your solitude with sudden care Humming a lullaby on our old rocking chair
Covering cold nights with blankets of love Whispering stories about God above.
Oh my one my only child I know there's cursed distance that will keep us apart
but distance is only a grain compared to my heart
Its the heart of a mother that beats to your own And wherever you are
It keeps on protecting you It keeps being your home.
My child My one only child ..."
Ps : My daughter Christina is still very young, but a mother sees not only the past and the present when She thinks of her child, the future is a vision She thinks of from day one with soul, heart, and mind.
Do not confuse
my compliance
with agreement.
My quiet is not
for your appeasement.
I’m trying to survive,
while knowing
my suffering
makes you feel alive.
I’ll never understand,
how pushing me down,
causes you to thrive.
Is there
a special taste
in my fear?
A satiation
of your thirst
that is quenched
by a tear?
How do you
see yourself
when you
look in a mirror?
Would you
cease to exist
if I wasn’t here?
I am
sucked up
by your need.
Your “Love me
love me” creed!
Your soul hole
is to big to feed.
You’re a human parasite,
or a deep rooted weed.
How much more,
will you cause me to bleed?
I am child
You hold
all the power.
An imposing figure
like a clock tower.
I am held
in your tick talk grip,
hour after hour.
As I grow quieter,
you become
louder and louder.
Now I make
my great escape.
My own new world
a different landscape.
The old me
hung out to dry,
like a freshly
cleaned sheet draped
I become,
my own Super Hero,
with a brand new cape.
Without you,
my strength grew.
I did not allow you,
to determine who
I should be,
or what I am supposed to do.
That part of my life
is finally through.
All the lies you
forced fed me,
none of them were real.
I didn’t know then
how I should feel.
You somehow
convinced me
you were a big deal.
Now you hold no sway
and little appeal.
I got off of
your mind controlled
hamster wheel!
My life’s now my own,
I stopped the steal.
I am reading Edith Egler’s book “The Gift”
It caused me to contemplate abuse at the
hands of my father. I wrote another piece
titled Eddy in which I tried to understand what
shaped who he became. I am not angry with
him anymore. He passed away over 20 years
ago. I must admit it was an important part of
my family healing.