A sudden weight upon the quiet sheet,
The tentative approach of stepping feet.
A wet and sandpaper caress upon the face,
Brought with a quiet, aristocratic grace.
You are the soft alarm that starts the day,
Demanding breakfast in your own sweet way.
A resonant, low rumble in your chest,
You purr your way to loving me the best.
Curled tight into a perfect, furry wheel,
A gentle crescent, quiet and surreal.
You sleep through storms, you sleep away the day,
Until the fleeting twilight calls to play.
A breathing moon of warmth upon the bed,
With folded paws beneath a sleepy head.
In your deep slumber, perfectly at rest,
You teach us that the stillest life is best.
Although I felt alone, like a shooting star,
My light always showed from very far.
He is the Earth's stillest bodies of water,
So clear, so calm, he will never falter.
He beautifully reflects my streak of light,
He sees how I can be so warm and bright.
I see him for all of what he is truly:
A serene lake so deep, cool, and lovely.
I am the fire matching his passion,
He is the ocean mirroring my compassion.
He and I, although often physically apart,
Our souls inherently know every psychic art.
Although I felt all alone, faraway, for so long,
I suddenly descended to where I belong,
Like a falling star, he made a wish upon me,
I emerged anew, from his own sea of lonely
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.
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.
Terrific tornadoes predicted
On guard
Trees tremble, leaves shake
Be safe
Phoebe fanfare inflamed
In tweets
Errands to run
Save them
Stillest darkness, imperceptible danger
Don’t be fooled
The weather map in ugly shades of red
Holding my breath
Shelter contains walls, floor, roof
Please stay
And windows and doors
Stay closed
Terrific tornadoes predicted
On guard
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
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
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.
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.
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
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-
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
Seems like always I sit in the same lonely chair,
but no one ever hears me,
sees me or feels my presence;
I might as well not be there
for all anyone seems to know or care.
Seems like always the same creeping daily routine
unfolds before me as I sit,
unflinching, unwavering,
forlornly serene,
the stillest statue sight unseen.
Seems like always I stare through the same pane of glass,
withdrawn, not really seeing at all,
struck blind to the world
as it's narrative crawls past,
isolated and frozen, alone, alas.
Seems like always the frowns furrow into my face
and life never visits
or takes my static hand;
an exhibit confined in a museum case,
an insect in amber, suspended in space.
Seems like always the silence, no movement or mime,
always remains as always does:
hauls and goads each fraudulent day;
always a sentence in absence of crime,
always seems always a very long time.
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