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Dead Rose One Jun 2015
Lush is the quietude
of the late Saturday afternoon,
rich are the silencing sounds,
as variegated as the shades of greens
of a man-seeded, nature-patchworked lawn

rays reveal some bright,
some yellowed spots,
all a potent color palette

resting worry wearied eyes,
untroubled by the gentle fading light's illumination,
that soon will disappear and seal officially,
another week gone by

the lawn,
acting as an ceiling acoustic tile,
absorbing and reflecting
the varied din of disharmonious
natural sounds orchestrated,
an ever present reminder
     that true quiet
is not the absence of noise

I hear
the chill in the air,
insects debating vociferously
their Saturday evening plans,
the waves broom-swishing beach debris,
pretending to be young parents
putting away the children's toys for the eve

the birds speak in Babel multitudes of tongues,
chirps, whistles, clicks and clacks,
then going strangely silent as if all were
praying collectively the afternoon sabbath service,
with an intensity of the silent devotion

this moment, i cannot
well enough communicate,
this trump of light absolutes,
and animal maybes,
that are visually and aurally
presented  in a living surround sound screen,
Dolby, of course,
all a plot of
ease and gentility,
in toto,
sweet serenity

here to cease,
no more tinkering,
leave well enough,
plenty well enough
for Sally and Rebecca, who love the lushness best....

JUNE 2015
Dead Rose One Aug 2017
consciously, willfully, I wish it

quietly the Sunday, the sun day, drifts toward,
in its natural game, set, overmatched,
the foregone conclusion, nightfall diminishment

the water songfully swishes,
as the tide departs for places unknown, this then, now
the only natural authorized aural apparition,
the power boats renounce their normal noisy conditioning,
honoring their silenced, under-sail brethren,
as well as admitting their noises disfigure
the fast approaching majesty of the end of
our summer seasoning of humanity

consciously, willfully, I wish it

once again, lush is the quietude,^
now given up, surrendered and surceased to wonder,
how come I to write of these moments so oft,
thenever-ending quest to re-inscribe it on my sensibilities,
in vainglorious hopes that this stamping will last, be the last,
see me through the turgid frigidity of my Lucifer life,
come the fall, the winter, the early dark,
the daylight's brevity, the hurricane season of the mind,
that...need I say more?

consciously, willfully, I wish it

the particular white cloud formation of the moment at hand,
shall stay in place,  be the capstone of my summer living vision,
become permanent part and parcel
of the sclera, the white of my eyes, and when
I will write, soon enough,
my vision white weeping clouded,
you will weep knowingly, sympathetically

consciously, willfully,
I wish for that as well*

8/27/17
6:35pm
Enigma Jul 2018
Meet me where the Daisies bloom
where it often showers too.
Meet me at the crack of dawn
It will be only me and you.

Meet me where the sun-rays fall
and paint my hair auburn-red.
We'll walk around the mossy knolls
and run upon the grassy bed.

Meet me where the trees and leaves
are still dripping with the morning dew.
Meet me at the quiet end, all alone, with a placid view.

All I need is a simple gesture
or even a solemn promise from you.
Promise me you will come for me
Then I will think about it too.

A.S.
I didn't read the news today
I just didn't care what it had to say
I rolled it up and put it away
I'm gonna keep the peace
I've got no reason to cry
I'm not gonna look for a reason why
Let the whole world pass me by
Cause I'm gonna keep the peace

There's enough to fear and dread
Without shoving more **** in your head
So, write it off and go back to bed
There'll be enough time to stress when we're dead.

The days are long and life is short
Facts are things that they all distort
Just gimme sports and the weather report
And I'm gonna keep the peace.
I hope you'll pardon my dismissive tone
As I turn off the TV and silence my phone
But all the ******* can leave me alone
Cause I'm gonna keep the peace
No news is good news.
Stanley Wilkin Jan 2017
How slow the swan glides
down the darkening river
twisting its sleek, slithering neck
away from the sunshine-
saying nothing.
In the morning
only ducks drive through the water
only voles snake along the banks.
Molly Jenkins Apr 2016
how alike

are oak leaves trembling in a soft wind

and sea foam gliding up

a million grains of sand-glass

as if all of nature is sighing into my neck, saying

“hush”
I have so much work to do but God if five minutes outside in the sun under a good tree doesn't help me feel like myself again, and refreshed
Sillage Nov 2015
You sat next to me in quietude
But your heartbeats called me deafeningly
Reluctant to hear your voice rupture
While I waited for my name to echo stoically  

You sat next to me in quietude  
But you fought the guilt inside you solely
Tackled it with a valiant front  
As I watched you succumb inside me spiritually  

You sat next to me in quietude
Acknowledging we love semovedly
You succumbed harder in your world
And I succumbed in return silently
stars silently
    enveloped
     turbulent seas,
gingerly dappling
   each current,
whence the tides
   were stilled
'til they ebbed
    'tween streams
        of serene
            spring waters,
      rushing its
          banks in
             cascades of
                tranquil
                     awed hushes
                         overflowing
                                midst
                                   surrender's
                                                   quietude
svdgrl May 2015
we are forever rendering what it means to be alone.
to see the solid sun in the distance going down, the colors,
the way the branches of the trees creep into the horizon,
like black veins around pearly blue eyes- the sky
its something we all describe,
in solitude.
it's been done by each of us every time we look up.
it is the reminder that we ought to be fond of ourselves.
that we are all the same, an those of us
who feel the pangs of loneliness need to fill the space
with the pleasure of quietude.

— The End —