The Deeper Silence

 

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The Deeper Silence

The deeper silence is not quiet
it is the grief of those who weep
it is the pain that is deep inside
it is the pleas unanswered
and the mother's cries unheard
a deck stacked by a system failed.

It's poverty and lives of few chances
empty refrigerator, drug deal gone bad
police busting in in the dark of night
for no reason except that they can
and shouts of 'all lives matter'
by those who do not understand.

It's felons in high places escaping justice
while petty thieves sit behind bars
hostages taken, tortured or killed
while families and children have no food
and missiles and drones fill the skies
as old men fight to keep their power.

The deeper silence is not quiet
and 'we are all created equal'
is often spoken to deaf ears
but alas there is the drumbeat 
of those who hope to inspire change
and the fight against injustice grows.

Listen and you can hear the drumbeat
and may this drumbeat become louder

ever louder until it inspires change

the deeper silence is not quiet
the deeper SILENCE is not QUIET.
its VOICES will soon be HEARD.

This was written for my prompt "Silence" at What's Going On?

In the Cinema of Life

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In the Cinema of Life

 In the cinema of memory, a scene replays
A bygone era, where love went astray

They were bamboozled by passions sweet fling
Chasing dreams, with a fervent, fevered ring

But like a futile search for a vanished clue
Their hearts were left with nothing to pursue

The finesse of youth, the slang of the time
Couldn't remedy the ache that lingered in prime

Nowadays, years later,  each with lucid mind
Reflects on the past, and love left behind

The dogs of memory still roam and play
reminding them of joy that's faded away

A waiter of time serves bitter tea
A reminder of what could never be

Yet in the haze of nostalgia's glow
They hold on to the love that they once knew.

For Shay's Word Garden - Our Man in Havana - twelve words used!

The Year of the Rough Draft

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The Year of the Rough Draft

Let this be the year of the rough draft
start something and then drop it
throw things out and then regret
sort through piles of nothing
realize how rarely they matter
how little things mean anyway

let this be the year of the rough draft
open one's mouth and then revise the thoughts
start a book only to realize it is boring
forget a birthday you should have remembered
not stay in touch until the call is hard to make
let things go and let them go longer

let this be the year of the rough draft
waste time thinking time is infinite
there is always next week or next month
until there is no time at all
life comes to a screeching halt
the bookshelves are not in order

let this be the year of the rough draft
the angry thoughts spilled on the table
vegetables cooked a little too long
cheese has begun to mold
life isn't anymore what it was
the tomatoes rot on their stems

let this be the year of the rough draft
poems begun but left unfinished
ideas surface but not followed through
internet doesn't connect with anything
telephone rings but is never answered
life goes on but does not progress

let this be the year of the rough draft.

This poem was written in May, 2020, fairly early in the pandemic.  I submit it now for Sherry's prompt for What's Going On? -- "In Celebration of Poetry Month" - Open Link".  She said we could use an 'old' poem; and this is one I always liked.

Time

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Time

Time,  the great thief
anticipates our every move
stealing moments, hours, years
leaving us with memories,
beautiful and fleeting.

Like the toll of a bell
marking the passage
each chime a reminder
time won't slow its pace.

We try to capture it 
with a camera's lens
but it slips away like
coins through our fingers
again and again.

Random moments
lost in the haze
time keeps moving
in its endless daze
we're left to cherish
the memories we hold
and wonder where
does time go?

This is shared for Shay's Word Garden.  I used six of the words.

Poetry

Pictured Rock National Seashore - Upper Michigan

Poetry

Poetry is a friend,
one who listens when no one is around,
a friend who is always there and
accepts your feelings just as they are
without trying to change them.

Poetry is a friend
who will take your fear, sadness, anxiety
and do something with them rather than
letting you be eaten up inside.
It can soothe your sick stomach.

Poetry is a friend
who will listen to hopes and dreams
in a world where peace is lacking,
and in the process of writing poetry
you can find calm for a moment,
and some days that is good enough.

For Susan's prompt at What's Going On:  "What is 'It' About Poetry"

Recuperation

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Recuperation

With the bandages off my eyes
I more vivdly and brightly see!
My brain has become bitter,
see you looking like a zombie 
who is greatly in need of soap.

You try to appear nonchalant,
but I find you loathsome.
Those rings in your nose
give you a pirate vibe.
I don't wish to know you!

The music you play on the stereo
brings me no solace. I object to
your presence and urge you to leave
and take your candy with you.
I will not accept your gift. Be off!

This was written for Shay's Word Garden List - Save Yourself.

(I used 17 out of the 20 words, I think.)

A Time of Waiting

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APRIL strikes me as a month of waiting.  It is spring, but sometimes does not feel like spring.  It is a month of anticipation, and sometimes we have no choice but to wait for what is ahead.

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A Time of Waiting

April is always a time of waiting
for spring, for summer, for a package to
arrive in the mail, for the clouds to go away,
for a phone call that never comes,
for weather to get better, for a goal, some
kind of a goal that will keep you motivated
and away from all the bad news.

It seems to be very human to hate waiting
for news that could be good or bad
for truthfulness to becomes the norm again
for climate change to be taken seriously
for wars to end or the hungry fed
when so few seem to care.

You need to be human to hate waiting
to get your mind off waiting, trying to do
something, maybe read or clean or play
a word game online. You need to accept
yourself for hating to wait for peace,
for answers to the big questions, for 
democracy to flourish again, for trust in
others, and to be at peace with waiting.

This poem was written for Sumana's prompt April at "What's Going On?

Gossips Will Gossip

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Gossips Will Gossip

See the busybodies talk -
they sit in their stuffed armchairs
peer through Perspex
lick their chops for scandal
gossip about every neighbor's cherished child
speculate on each Amazon delivery.

Euphoric in their nasty sludge
they point accusatory batons past flowerboxes
beyond sheep running amok in the meadow.
No one or nothing escapes their eyes -
only a miracle can  reverse their
freezing venomous hearts.

Written For Shay's Word Garden

(I used all but two words.)

Wildness

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Wildness

There is still wildness to be found
though at times it appears to be dormant
embrace it as one would forbidden love
knowing it will evaporate in a puff of smoke
before the inevitable heartbreak
but while it lasts it is oh SO good!

Written for Shay's Word Garden

Only five words this time...it was a HARD list!

Miracles in My Midst

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Miracles in My Midst

                I.

When I am feeling downhearted or blue,
when the world arround feels black
I stop for a moment to reflect on
all the miracles in my midst.

the whistle of the tea kettle in early morn
the first sip of warm ginger tea
deer in the meadow outside my window
either scamper or stare as if frozen in time

early robins scurry expectantly in grass
trees leaf out anew as geese soar above
returning to their northern home for summer
rhubarb stalks punch their way above ground.

everywhere is birdsong, gifts for my ear
clouds dance across the azure sky as
a multi-colored dawn lights the horizon
gives birth to an extraordinary day.

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                                    II.

The work of the poet is to find the miracles in the ordinary
the delightful wong of the red-winged blackbird on the still-bare branch
the recognizable peck-peck of the solitary woodpecker just out of sight
small blue flowers that peek out from new spring grass
gentle waves of cattails in the lilting breeze around the still park pond
noisy geese making waves as they skim the surface
there is so much beauty in nature if only one looks
the work of the poet is to find the ordinary holy.

Written for my prompt "Miracles" at What's Going On?