Best Stillest Poems
I'm thinking of Genesis where God recorded His work.
"and the evening and morning were the first, second, third... day"
on throughout the six days of Creation.
And He added each time "and it was good."
He spoke the world into being with His breath
the light, heaven and earth, plants, sun and moon,
creatures of the sea and sky, beasts of the earth,
in response to His words - "Let there be..."
"The stillest hour of the (sixth) night had come,
the hour before dawn, when the world seem(ed) to hold its breath."
The moment when God created man out of the dust of the ground.
He breathed into the nostrils of man - the breath of life.
Thus, man became a living soul made in the image of God..
And God said, "It is not good for man to be alone."
He took one rib from man and made him a mate
When Adam woke up he said, "she shall be called woman."
I pause almost daily to re-think this awesome thought:
We have the very breath of God for that is what life is,
life eternal, never to end, unlike the rest of creation -
There will be a new heaven and new earth, but man is eternal.
quote used with variation is by poet Kate Chopin (1899)
November 12, 2022
Language Stillest
I gazed
I saw
The little rose petal
Red, violet, blue, pink, white
Colours hazed
Flying by the lip of the bridge
Put my palm
to own it
Zoom! It shuns
just an inch away.
Follow it again
the millionth time
can’t hold it still.
The fragrance tells
The warmth! Belonging!
Warmth is
Language stillest
Unsopken but
Wholly apprehended
Sweet rose be mine,
I pray.
(c) Copyright. All Rights Reserved. Moonga Nsamu. 2003
I feel unease, when trees creek so
(The stillest slice of night cuts deep)
As wind chimes chatter to and fro
From dusk till dawn my nerves do seize
(Alone with only mirrored thoughts)
When trees creek so, I feel unease
Strange things I see, when darkness falls
(Reflecting all that softly weep)
Soft shadows dancing down the halls
Translucent specters watching me
(The stillest slice of night cuts deep)
When darkness falls, strange things I see
At night alone, my thoughts do stray
(Exposing fears that silence reaps)
Splintered memories, barbed and splayed
So many voices – most my own
(A splintered plank, now blindly walked)
My thoughts do stray, at night alone
The white coats come, when daylight breaks
(The stillest slice of night cuts deep)
The blue pill helps reduce the shakes
First eyes are checked, then straps undone
(Alone with only mirrored thoughts)
When daylight breaks, the white coats come
David Mohn
Poem 1 – Alone at Night - 28 Feb 2014 (Swap Quatrain)
Poem 2 – Gloamings’s Razor – 09 Aug 2014 (Triolet)
Craig Cornish Intermingle Contest
Placid pond, the stillest place on earth.
Don't hate the pond scum, appreciate it's worth.
If you want to be with me, then just be with me.
I am the pond scum, please hear me.
With a belly full of fire, how easily we conspire.
Don't mean to call you a liar but the pond scum sires.
Stay away, it's mud you seek not wine.
Wine has you flapping your gums about the plight of the water hole.
I'm the pond scum, chains run through and around me.
The muskrats they found me.
I am the pond scum, green in color.
Angered and abhorred, but I am your brother
.
I am the pond scum, I walk with breeze
I am the pond scum, purity through disease. I am the pond scum, true to form.
I am the pond scum, the silent storm.
Overgrown path, concealing overgrown frog prince.
The children use an awl to cup away the ice;the torpid muskrat freed, at the party he is me.
Modern Sophocles he sees, but at the party he is me.
You ask him can he hear it? There is a reeking spirit. It takes the small an makes it all complex; The overgrown path, concealing overgrown frog prince.
Journey with me, through all space and time; Return to self and you will find.
I am the pond scum, I walk with breeze.
I am the pond scum, purity through disease.
I am the pond scum, true to form.
I am the pond scum, the silent storm.
Well, she's all sweet and sexual, wants not just fun
but adventure too. Mind is full of passion fruit.
I have no doubt that I love her eyes.
They water and sparkle when starred at in wonder.
They beg to be seen and demand to be questioned
and her lips
are pert with cute expression
inviting a bite in the stillest gesture.
As your eyes slide hungrily, from her toes to her hair and
all over perfection, those blue oceans grow wide, noticed
and looked down, something like submission.
Seemingly has much time for anyone, is ripe
and for the taking,
but knowing she has someone, acts accordingly
and would hesitate permission.
A powerful pull, does this combination,
arc both ways, fuelling the predicament.
All this without a kiss, and I wonder what I miss
What wonders of her bliss, I vain to dismiss?
Whilst my mind is focused on not one nor any,
of her particular things I can delete from memory.
I am not sad nor happy, I swim in foreplay
but I will always be hungry for more if she sends me.
Grandpas ghost sits at the dusty chair.
He gazes out the stain glass window.
Smoke rolls from his wooden pipe and collects in the sun beams.
He is drawn to a divine moment of a hummingbird as still as rested bones buried in waters beyond the horizon.
He is perched like an owl stitched to a high branch.
His wide eyes see such a tranquility of stillness.
The owls nest is where he dreams of such a scene.
Grandmother sits with closed eyes, the firelight outlining her face.
Her wine glass; slanted towards the floor, is held like a feather in her old hands.
Her heart catches the simple things, the constant motion of humans, bound to the anatomy of the earth.
The quakes and the structure of the water.
She places her fragile body in the calmest of winds and the stillest of seas.
Oh, how the kids with the cocaine veins pumping adrenaline to experience the purity of their own.
Their speediness towards the setting sun is endless and never tiring.
Oh, the kids with heroin hearts, shot up with crystallized eyes only slow and trapped in time towards clarity.
Then there are the ones born from the rising moon, they set clocks in their hearts that tick until the contrast has gone.
Only memories give life to such a dying breed, held true to time and space.
Only emotions give electricity to the numb held true to belief
God to me is everything
In as much as is nothing
You will feel love everywhere
If you look it is nowhere
God to me is thunder
Sent with lightening, with rain
However, you will find in silence
The calm of the stillest day
God to me is the ocean
Crashing against the rocks
Still there when now lifeless
When tides are finally stopped
God to me is anger
Fists clenched as teeth grind
Delicate is the small flower
In those same fists sit
God to me is knowing
All knowledge to impart
When questions stay unanswered
A similar calm is felt
God to me is everything
Though not in written word
God to me is always
Unfinished. Never ending. Incomplete.
The stillest slice of night cuts deep
Alone with only mirrored thoughts
Reflecting all that softly weep
The stillest slice of night cuts deep
A splintered plank, now blindly walked
The stillest slice of night cuts deep
Alone with only mirrored thoughts
-09 Aug 2014-
Standing in the tallest grass
With whispers, phantoms in the wind
I held aloft my one true love's last wish:
That I come find her by the waves
It was all that I had
By which I might remember her
It was all that she left behind
One wish that I should follow her
---
It lay atop her green-grey tomb
A flower's sempiternal bloom
A bud that never faded
As it weathered rain for near a year
And the earth lay softly mourning tears
Shed for the undiscovered years
But last, the sun shone still
And shaded next the gravestone
One last memory
A flower's sempiternal bloom
It lay atop her green-grey tomb
And soon
Fates wanderings had led me back
To where lay all that I had lacked
The deadness, stillness, silence
Yet one life amidst it all
And that,
Beside the silent, sounding sea
Sepulchral questions spoke to me
But phantoms in the wind
My love's voice calling
Softly
Softly
Amid the sea-foam and the spray
Atop the tomb
The stillest pool that shone like silver 'gainst the sun
Beneath the flower
Before my eyes
Outlasting to all time the tide
A sigh for me across the wind
"Come find me, love, inside the sea"
And as I looked, I saw my love
And stared until the stars above
Looked down in pity
Far enough away that they could see me
As my lips reached down
My arms strove down
My life
Without a sound
Slipped silently into the pool
And as each memory
Unraveled
There
Before me
All that I could see
Was she
Repeating
Softly?
Softly
"Come find me, love, inside the sea"
"Come find me, love"
"Find me"
I believe in the whisper of wings
unseen but felt,
like a soft breeze brushing past
on the stillest of days.
I believe in the sudden glow
of warmth within
when shadows press too close,
when the world seems
too heavy to bear.
Not in halos or robes,
not in golden trumpets,
but in the gentle nudge
toward the right path—
a stranger’s kind word,
the resilience of a child’s laughter,
the steadfast light
of the moon watching over us all.
I believe in moments that shimmer
like dewdrops caught in dawn,
where grace lingers quietly,
unassuming, unnoticed by many,
but undeniable once found.
Perhaps angels are not
what stories say—
not celestial beings
descending in splendor,
but the hidden threads
weaving miracles into the mundane.
So yes,
I believe in angels—
not because I’ve seen them,
but because I’ve felt them.
The warmth of the sunrise cast upon the emptiest park.
The treeline afar resembling a foreign far eastern palace.
The wind blowing the leaves and swings out of their stillest place.
Now burst forth your long-suffocated song,
You gagged lips with mute anthems sweet!
Speak of your celestial lays with angels high
In stillest skies above men's unmusical beat.
Say which den under heaven's serenest wings
Writhes most chargrined by tart mortal things.
Divulge rare trills piped by such celestial sum,
More dulcet tunes that finessed pickers strum.
Kindly whisper into this pen's Muse-eluded ear
The unheard-of strains that superior lyres pelt.
In gentler tones alien to poor harps herebelow,
Play fine ditties that earth's senses haven't felt.
Anon spill in over-millioned soothing tongues
Ethereal lines to sate this poet's aching pangs;
And in earnest buzz your time-perfected chant
To shame the best of man's cacophonous rant.
Your most inharmonic line in lame pitch sung,
Beats all tuneful vibes powered by carnal lung.
With my mouth
Gone quiet
So to the light
With a click
I lay my head down
Waiting for the quietest hour
I close my eyes
And see again
The day’s events
From woe to go
And back again
I question my responses
Acknowledge new guilt’s
And pay homage to old
Finally
My mind is done with this day
As I wait for the quietest hour
It now has
The space it needs
To flourish and meander
Toward that
Stillest hour
The sharp knife of simplicity
cut a transverse incision through my scalp.
The hands of hope gutted out my psyche,
deconstructed my mind,
and organized it into a coherent tumor
that fills the gap once deep in my brain.
Taught to have nothing thoughts and empty prayers,
which was once so overcomplicated
to witness from my old distant eyes.
When I would stare at paper
to see a blank page ready to be congested
and crowded with the temporary potential that lives everywhere.
Waiting for all the possibilities to be printed out before me,
but none of them ever came.
I tried to interpret particles as strings
and claimed motion behind the stillest of objects.
But all of my theories slipped into the dust of insecurity
and washed away into the pool of vanity.
But no longer am I maneuvering through seldom places.
No longer do I act stiff and unwieldy as a newborn child.
No longer do I try to find fractions of life to store in time capsules.
No longer am I planting the grave in which I will be buried.
And no longer am I treading in water,
wishing for the security of seabed to appear at my feet.
Now I am one with the roads that take me to the destinations I crave to go.
I am one with the ambition a wave possesses when it’s pushed to shore;
that single endpoint. That deadline that will never be met.
The range of probabilities never to be considered.
Those stars that are never to be discovered.
The boats that have capsized before ever meeting land.
It all fades away before me.
Shedding off these unneeded layers that once consumed my life.
Unraveling and revealing to me the fundamental nature of humanity.
Compressing into a hot light of quiet clarity.
Compact and intact with the buoyant atmosphere around me.
Once so full of dread and mistrust, I could barely breathe.
Constantly and comfortably,
I am consistently confident
that the present day will continue
to bring coherence, certainty, and calmness
to the storms that will carry onward
when I am no longer clinging onto the consequences and complexities of the future.
**There is tropical warmth and listless life**
In the city this morning of July 9th 2020
The poet finding her hidden voice,
searching for the correct words,
Just to coincide with the invisible
birds with the sweetest tunes,
on church street and Tennis Court
The stillest trees with the airborne disease
Presses on despite its odds choice
Yet, they say my poems isn’t up to parody
A poet must stay in her lane,
A painter must control each and every stroke,
An essential worker must embrace the moments
Of respect, because it’s not going to last another month.
As well as the stillest trees,
with the airborne disease
should press on despite its odd choice?
I think the citizens of this country
should stop focusing
On what Mr. Trump says or do.
They should reminisce on why
They elected him in the first place
"My mixing bowl did not get on top the tallest shelves
By itself:"
Someone place it there, and somebody have to take it down
There is tropical warmth and listless life
Around most country today,
And yes, there is going to be more missing children,
As we move forward dealing, with these crisis
one after another, and another
Pandemic, politic and riots:
as from past experience when we don’t paid the Pied Pipers
Our livelihood and our children will vanish: