Long Quieter Poems
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An ode to Greta Thunberg
Where’s Greta Thunberg?
I’ve missed her daily rant
I guess she’s back in Sweden
outside a nuclear plant
Or is she content and satisfied
the CO levels are down
Or is she modelling in Vogue
her drabbest dressing gown?
Where is Greta Thunberg?
the world's a quieter place
Two more years of shut down
and we’ll never see her face
Sweden is lucky to have her,
a visionary sure as hell
In ten years, they’ll say her name
and it won’t ring a bell
Please stay in isolation
with whoever writes your view
And takes all your money,
you’ve made a million or two
The world's a better place now,
your work is surely done
Let’s finish the kid's protests
and let them have some fun.
My New Years resolutions were never anything to write home about
they usually involved losing weight, giving up smoking…you know…the traditional route
But I have never smoked and on most days I am happy with my weight
so a new list of resolutions it behooves me to create:
I resolve to tread a little softer, to walk barefoot on the Earth
to remind myself every animal,
every little thing that grows
every creation has its worth.
I resolve to walk a little slower…no matter how fast time moves around me
to find the joy and beauty and the wonder in all things that surround me.
I resolve to watch a few more sunsets, more waterfalls…
to watch a few more rivers flow
and to be a little kinder to those I do not know.
I resolve to be a little quieter…to while more time away
to listen to the birds, the trees, the wind…
and to what other people have to say.
I resolve to sing
to dance
to smile
to laugh a little more
to be a better person this year than I was the year before…
Hey, who knows if I can fulfill these resolutions…
these new guidelines I’m invoking
I’ll have more time to gain some weight…
perhaps I’ll take up smoking.
Paranoia, hysteria
the chatter off lips fills me up with ridicule
curses off demon breath blown on me like a baptism by virgin blood
but i
etch triple sevens off sixes
hit the jackpot off my last nickel and laugh
cause happiness is made not given and i profit off the pain
why would i dance with the devil when i can dance through the rain
Sundays i go to temples built with skulls that gossip through their souls from hell
and the preacher wont let me off this noose
sit and stare at devils in slain angel skin on pulpits
i have to go to lonely hills to praise God
and i can't find God, God finds me
and even there the devils dressed in a hoody in a mini van with tinted windows and camera lenses
i took love there once and she got goosebumps off the lucy in the air
so we dashed off to a rendezvous and made love
love transcended us to a place where time doesn't exist and they don't either
we played Bon Iver
talked of times when times were quieter
sometimes with a bud and a lighter
old fashion mimosa and i recite her
a poem
on the rooftop over the city we use call home
This is not my body.
Not the one that used to tell everything
to anyone—
I mean everything,
like I thought it might get me somewhere
closer to known.
I sat in a circle today,
some kind of writing thing—
you know the type.
Lots of deep breathing
and soft lighting.
Someone cried reading what they wrote
in the first eight minutes
and I—
well, I flinched.
Not because it wasn’t honest,
but because it was.
Too honest, maybe.
Or just familiar.
I used to be like that—
all exposure and no shape.
Just bleeding out
in lowercase.
And I caught myself thinking,
don’t do it—
as if I could save her
from what happens
when the adrenaline wears off
and all you’re left with
is the echo of your revelation.
But maybe she won’t feel that.
Maybe she’ll never know
what I mean.
And maybe I’m not better now—
just quieter.
Anyway.
This is not my body.
Not anymore.
But I still feel it sometimes,
rattling the old pipes.
Dragonfly lands atop the stick that stands in gently flowing stream.
Bubble trains and dried leaf boats blow
and briefly strand before they slip between the stepping stones
then skip beyond, where quieter waters flow.
Speckled trout, dappled thrice, with sunshine spots,
just seen through mirror shimmered waters
swim between the Crowfoot’s tangled shocks
waving to and fro to follow as the current’s go,
white-adorned with flower pearls
set bright in green and flowing locks.
Somewhere far, wood pigeon’s throaty coo,
three longer, one double follow through,
floats high along soft summer’s breeze,
while flagging briefly, one by one, willow’s silver bellied leaves
turn and turn to signal with the sun that all is as it should be.
All is peace, and all is lazy summer’s eaze.
It doesn’t happen all at once.
There isn’t a moment
where the sky splits open
and hands you clarity
like forgiveness.
It’s quieter than that.
It starts in the small pauses between your thoughts—
where something
you’ve been avoiding
finally looks back at you.
And doesn’t blink.
You try to rename it.
Call it stress.
Call it timing.
Call it anything but what it is.
But the truth is patient.
It waits
in the way your chest tightens
when you’re alone.
In the way silence starts to feel louder
than noise ever did.
And eventually
you run out of places to hide.
Not because the world finds you.
But because
you do.
—to be continued—
Ravens swarm
above a railroaded manly path
I walk
With downriver pilgrims
through mortal silenced wilderness,
away from more dogmatic savagery
Deadly, I fear,
chattering
clattering
flapping righteous wings
roosting crones
stalking,
inviting history's dry splattered bones
to continue back
toward forward
And so continue
with othered chatter
now fluttering and twittering
off right
on to left
cawing barren winter trees
warning mystery's clawing concern
Not urgent
yet relentlessly hungry
Poignant memories
for eyes to see
ears to hear,
not follow
But walk along side
then back away,
leaping invisible borders
noted by naked trees,
silent witnesses
of paternal journey's ravenous flight
Now squawking
stalking right side
and behind,
encouraging hubris to continue on
oil-spilled tracks
But not too far
for they have a place to show
much like rook voices sound
rushing early spring's awakening brook
Streaming water chattering against rock,
fat rain too loud dropping
on scolding cold tin roof
shelter.
Rain comes
enjoying refound sounds
here to witness this black river
of clatter chatter
purifying ironed tracks
Ahead now,
growing
crowing across shivering river
through grey winter woodland
Raucous spell toward quiet left
pause to swell again
like summer's nighttime crickets.
Crowded ravens regather
to cautiously
silently
suspiciously roost behind me,
watching
What trauma will pass
from upriver,
uptrack,
up desolate time's revolution
hunting haunting mystery
Not urgent
aching dull memories
of starving othered bones
for breaking richer
deeper
quieter upriver fragile times
Pausing stormy visions
fleet fluttered reminders,
then off again
Flying right winged journeys
leaving left behind
to embitter
railroad walking mine.
After the lie, truth is a gamble,
A shattered glass from which my thirst longs to drink,
I know the edges of the heart can be cut,
Yet still, I seek sincerity as if it's a treasure.
Ask me why trust is a sandcastle,
Why "I promise" is just a noise in my silence,
Why I reread old conversations like poems,
Searching for warmth in rooms where I once felt at home.
I've sat with emptiness, no mask, no forced smile,
Letting solitude breathe, revealing to me
That being alone is purer than being lost among people,
When I needed them, they scattered like leaves in the wind.
I'll never forget what it's like to write long messages
Only to delete them, knowing the reply will be short,
Like a dream ending abruptly, without warning,
What it's like to feel invisible in a crowd, a silent echo.
To be there for everyone, yet see no one coming,
That's their game, not noticing when you stop writing first,
Not wondering why you're quieter,
Not feeling your absence until they need something.
But by then, you've learned to live without them,
You've learned that silence is a more faithful friend,
That the path of solitude can be paved with light,
That finding yourself means being reborn from the ashes of deceit.
And so, you continue to walk through waves of memories,
Always seeking that truth that won't break,
Won't hurt, won't get lost—a truth pure and whole,
A beacon in the night, a light that will not dim.
She laces this dark late winter's evening
with white manna grace,
flowing flying frosting
folding in and over and around
dark naked tree limbs
Dressed up and out
under ice limned networks
down in-flowing rivers
emptying onto cold cover
of frozen lace-flake
shivering shimmering
sad season
Hovers over what had been
pedestrian front predation lawn,
now transforming and mesmerizing
ecstatic ice crystals
Twinkle in response
as their ice-flame children
follow in post solstice pilgrim path
to die their individuality
within this here-now scurried view.
I smile, perhaps flirtatiously,
within shy winter's virgin dream,
a stubborn storm of snow
softly settling
quieter than white noise still
so so civilly right,
a silent black then white
bright moving set
frames a roundly wonderful life.
S/he is not smiling back;
I know that
But I feel this cold embrace
teasing tickling of too-perfect beauty,
hope imagining S/he could sleep
within heaven's blanket
Dream down Her winter's rain
for deep composting thirst
to drink through walls of hibernating glad
brewing spring's warmest winding offer.
This could go on all night
free of freezing fright
This reverse stalking
inside window peeper out
across front and back porches
Glazing Gaia's grace
elational transfiguration,
silent musing ecodrama
shows off Her magic show
for those with ears to see
through silent first snow
of momentous perennial occasion
Falling just in time
to brighten this sad day for dreams
of Beloved black in white Communions
spreading EarthMother's silent storm
Of love,
impossible to ever sleep
deep same again
Unlikely to become unlover,
to uncover
supremely white slippery cover.
Such elegant purgation grace!
I would dishonor Her
to break such silent sleep
within surrender's coldly storming space.
I will start with a word
Not knowing where it will take me
"inconsistencies"
No never mind
Forget that word
Oh **** I can't think of a word
What kind of a poet am I?
I'll sit here and scratch my head
Until the blood comes
Hoping it will flow with inspiration
Fortunately my nails aren't sharp
But apparently neither is my mind
I feel like I am wielding a stick instead of a sharp sword
So with my stick I will poke you
Like you are a bear
Perhaps I can get your attention
Why do I want your attention?
Honestly I don't have a clue
I guess I have always been a bit clueless
It seems to work for me in some odd way
My friend tells me she marches to the beat of her own accordion
I think I'll stick with drums because I'm a bit tone deaf
I guess that is one of my own inconsistencies
There it is I'm back to that word
I guess it's not such a bad word after all
Maybe I should have given it more thought
"Maybe"
Now there's an interesting word
Maybe I should quit while I'm behind
I really like the view from back here
Let everyone else quit while their ahead
I can still see them so in the end did they really get that far
What exactly did they want?
I have never really wanted what they want
Wanting sometime hurts
Who needs hurting
It's not to say that I don't want
I just want differently
I want in a quieter way
And to be honest
That's just the way I like it
"Besides"
Another good word
I think I'm going to go in another direction
The road less traveled
Not the road not traveled
After all I do enjoy company from time to time
Even if you
Whoever "you" are might think I'm crazy
After all we're likely to be on different roads anyway
I think in the end
If it is the end
I think
That it should be could be fun!
"fun" another good word.
This was weird and fun!
For John Lawless's "Don't fight it write it contest.