the maple
l o o s e n s its amber hush,
leaves drifting
in slow, deliberate strokes
around the bench
she sits
in her denim skirt
and beige sweater,
mittens cupping
the briskness
of the watercolor air
a small stack
of pale pumpkins
rests beside her~
soft autumn accents
in the muted scene
before her,
a watering can waits,
and from its spout
a rabble of butterflies
rises,
tiny brush marks
of wandering color
she gazes
to her left,
comfortable
in the silent drift
of leaves and wings~
perhaps letting her thoughts
l o o s e n
the way the season
does
rain
books
silence
between pages
the quiet weather
the mind hears its own thoughts falling
Her haven wasn’t grand or wide;
no sweeping place to run or hide.
It lived in smaller things she kept~
a teacup where the morning slept,
a folded napkin, soft with wear,
a breath she balanced in the air.
She found her refuge in the pause
between two sentences—because
that quiet space, so slight, so thin,
let calm collect and settle in.
A spoon against a porcelain rim
became a steadying hymn for her,
a sound that asked her heart to stay
a moment more before the day.
Her haven wasn’t built to last
or hold the weight of shadows cast.
It simply offered gentle ground,
grace in tiny places she had found~
the ones that ask for nothing new,
yet give her back a clearer view.
No grand escape, no sweeping plan~
just smallness doing what it can.
A haven shaped by quiet art,
no larger than a beating heart.
The radio towers died at noon, the screens went blank and cold,
And static ceased to whisper of the empires bought and sold.
Down in the deep concrete redoubts, where millions gasped for air,
The ordinary citizens were stripped of their despair.
But in its place came something vast, a terrible, clean weight—
The absolute, unyielding hush that settled at the gate.
For thirty days no leader spoke, no siren pierced the dark,
The automated generators left a silent spark.
Men stared into their calloused hands, unable to recall
The frantic noise that used to drive their backs against the wall.
The silence was a physical thing, a pressure in the ear,
That forced the crowded bunker-rooms to face their oldest fear.
Yet by the third long, wordless week, the madness turned to rest,
As heartbeat matched to heartbeat in the quiet of the chest.
They learned to read the shifts of light, the breathing of the crowd,
And found a stranger, softer tongue where nothing was allowed.
Before the silver wood reached down to claim the planet's lease,
The bunker citizens survived the suffocating peace.
You loved...
You loved the silence and the empty screen.
You loved a guy, enough to wait on him for weeks.
Waiting for a simple message
to ease the longing your aching heart feels.
Waiting for “I love you”
to quiet your fears.
And it was hard...
hard not to break beneath your thoughts.
So, when your heart would ache,
you'd hide.
Hide behind the memories
of words you only once read.
Hide behind the hope
that all of it was soon to end.
And you'd wait...
for the moment you'd be found,
by the one
who had your heart in his hands.
My heart waits again,
Hands sweating with familiarity,
When peace is present... What's next?
Wondering and knowing of readiness,
Shifts knocking on the door,
Will I hold my own hand... Be my own friend?
Of course I'm capable,
Bending realities at will,
Will I finally fathom it never ends?
Wondering if I'll embrace it,
Catching myself before I leave my lane,
Will I again be shocked by coming pain?
Hoping I will balance it now,
The mind and the fire inside,
I'll speak to myself in a week, again.
A quiet period,
Noticing myself again,
A new is coming.
Another cycle completed,
Doors closed quietly,
Monsters left behind.
Hands slipping silently,
Goodbyes necessary,
A young bird again gains flight.
A small clearing,
Understanding my fractals,
Which part of me is next?
A quiet period,
Challenges festering...
A badge of honour on my chest.
A quiet shadow falls across the floor,
Where solitude keeps watch beside the door.
The world moves on in steady, distant grace,
While time stands still within this empty space.
A deep desire lingers in the chest,
To hear the echo of a welcome song,
Yet cut away from all the humming rest,
We wander blindly where we don't belong.
The windowpane is frosted cold and dim,
As shadows lengthen on the outer rim.
We sit apart, introspective and deep,
Guarding the secrets that the quiet keep.
So vulnerable, exposed to sudden harm,
Reaching in vain for any gentle arm,
Until the silence claims its final toll—
A deep isolation that engulfs the soul.
Yet still a quiet yearning lingers best:
An aching hunger for connection, peace, and rest.
He starts with the easy pieces~
the corners, the edges, the parts of life
that stay where they’re put.
But the sky refuses to behave.
Its fragments lift from the table,
hovering above his hands
like small constellations
waiting for him to remember
where they once belonged.
He doesn’t look startled anymore.
Some puzzles do that~
they rise when you’ve asked too much of gravity,
when the unfinished part of your life
decides it’s tired of lying flat.
He reaches for a star-shaped piece,
but it drifts upward,
as if the cosmos has opinions
about how he should finish himself.
He laughs under his breath,
the way someone laughs
when they’re almost ready
to admit the truth.
The truth is this:
he’s not assembling a picture.
He’s assembling a question.
Every floating shard of sky
is a reminder that the universe
isn’t something you complete~
it’s something you join
one piece at a time.
like the rock for the centipede
or the shell for the hermit
take refuge under the moon
as the world goes quiet.
with silence like a serpent
taking shelter from the wet ground
anchor in gratitude
for the day that was had.
amidst your silenced tongue
there are sentences waiting to be spoken.
amongst your alienated adversities
awaits acceptance.
Some days the weight isn't heavy or loud,
just a fog that settles behind the eyes,
a persistent, low-hanging winter cloud
that blurs the shape of the morning skies.
We ask ourselves why we are tired or slow,
as if healing moves in a straight, clear line,
forgetting the seed buried under the snow
is working in secret before its design.
It takes courage to rest when the world demands speed,
to sit with the storm till the thunder subsides,
to listen with patience to what the heart needs,
instead of the pressure that daily decides.
You do not need to be cured by tonight,
nor prove that you’re whole to be worthy of space;
just stay in the room, let yourself see the light,
and meet your own spirit with unconditional grace.
A QUIET EARRING POETIC FLOW
Quite sun
shining,
Quite green leaves
waving;
Quiet ears
ringing:-
In the silent
night,
Ears ring
quietly
to themselves:
Echoing
to me:-
The ears
continue
To ring
in profound
silence,
Echoing life:
When will
these echoes
reveal
Wisdom
and understanding?
Ringing
silent ears;
Let us give
thanksgiving praise
For echoing life:
Without quiet
ringing,
Would we be
in this loud world?!
Let us
be happy;
Wisdom and
understanding,
Quietly
ringing out:
God speaking
all languages;
Streaming all
our ringing ears:-
Wow, what
an amazing brain:
Quietly ringing
opened ears:-
Ears not only
hear all music,
They also quietly
play theirs:-
Poetry Wheel Challenge: August 24, 2026
Theme: Destiny
Emotion: Joy
Color: Sapphire
Season: Midwinter
Form: Free Verse
Object: Crown
Verb: Carry
midwinter holds a sapphire clarity,
a brightness rising where the cold thins,
as if destiny were forming itself
in the quiet geometry of light.
you carry a small crown of joy~
not gold, not ceremonial~
just a precise glint of future
resting in your hands
“For he shatters the doors of bronze and cuts in two the bars of iron.” — Psalm 107:16
The foundry's quiet as a catacomb as I open up doors alone,
the furnace quiet in the back, molding cars still on their tracks.
Products of our previous toil, blood sweat, tears, and maybe oil.
Walking through a habit learned, do not touch lest one get burned.
Footsteps echo on the grates; I pass behind the tank of hate.
The lake of fire all contained, bound by steel and God's domain.
The water runs both day and night, keeping hell inside its shell,
for if the raging beast escapes, the iron bends. And the concrete breaks.
Stifling heat caress my lungs, within the path of grit,
it takes my breath and begs my soul—submit.
As I make my way into the yard, stumble on some steely shards,
skids and forklifts standing by; they look at me and ask me why?
The heavy doors announce a groan, the peace of man who walks alone.
The lights ignite the blackened pits, of auto cast and rust and grit.
And in the back, the beast awaits, the men of iron beyond the gates.
A soft morning emerges
Over her considerate footsteps
Radiance folds around her
Like calm breath on open
Streets
Hope encloses her spirit
In layered peace and purpose
Adoration moves beside her
Through every shifting duration.
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