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She stands, it calls her
From the cold and damp, stale air
These walls - a cage now
Orange flowers a scatter
Past the plethora
To the quiet green, she moves
Shadowed sussurus
Of leaves, root and soil afoot
They whisper. She stops,
And settles into the grass
Her eyes, blinking slow
Cool gusts move
through her fingers

Softly, she exhales
She didn't know she'd withheld
That breath -
Now a tear
A poem about escaping what’s heavy and letting the earth hold some of it for you.
Sometimes healing starts with a whisper through the trees—and a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.
she calls me by my name,
and i answer without words—
only an offering:
a silent prayer,
bare skin,
a breath held,
a promise kept sacred,
to worship her.

she calls,
and i answer with stillness.
like dusk slipping
into the night—
utterly, completely—
pulling me apart
under the tears
of moonlight.

she calls
even as i soak
in her waves,
as they kiss my collarbone,
make heaven blush
when i fall to my knees,
laced around her soul.

her intention to claim me
was there from the start.
written in her whispers
******* my thoughts.
she never asked
what broke me.
only reached with rippled hands
to take my weight,
press it into the riverbed
like something malevolent,
already forgiven.
this one is about the ache i carry for water — for the stillness, the surrender, the quiet kind of belonging she offers.
july 14, 2025.
lisagrace Jul 10
The Stillness
 
It does not echo.
It does not push, or pull.
It only stretches into the yawning void.
I stare over the edge and think,
What if I went?
 
I do not want this,
But I will not go there.
I am here.
I want to BE HERE.
 
I am floating,
Hovering.
 
There are no voices in the stillness,
Telling me to come.
Telling me to go.
What to think,
What to say,
What to feel.
 
I find solace in the silence—
a...not quite peace.
It's the space between pulses
Where I am not chasing
Or being chased.
 
No demand to perform,
No mask to hold in place.
It's a hush that lets me breathe,
A little something just for me.
 
But I like it here,
Right at the edge of this void.
It's where I can just be.
And wonder,
What if I stay?
 
So I stay...
and find out.
The Stillness is a feeling. An in-between place where I can just...be. A calm nothingness. But also, a choice.
"Who are you?" life asked me.
"A fighter," I answered.
"Who are you?" life asked me.
"A kind soul," I answered.
"Who are you?" life asked me.
"A child of God," I replied.
Life no longer asks me this question,
because I have finally found the only answer that I shall ever need.
I no longer awaken in the stillness of night, with a question lingering on my lips.  

-Rhia Clay
"Real?"
"Sure, why not?"

No
purpose.
Just
stillness.

(presence...)

Drowning in it with you —
no air,
no need,
no expectations.
Just there.

Some questions
don’t
need
answers.

(just presence...)
Some moments don’t need meaning — just presence.
Now the cuts
have faded to pale seams,
from the girl
who left her key on the counter,
and took the why with her,
and the friend
you hadn’t seen in years
but still called brother,
his last paintings
hanging quiet on walls
in rooms no longer yours.

like the ghost of an old song,
still in key
you rise again
fingernails dark with soil,
burying sunflower seeds
in morning’s cold fog.

The dog needs feeding.
There’s toast to burn,
and leaves to steep.
You carry your small life
like a cracked bowl
that still holds water.

After years bent in ritual hunger,
knees pressed to rock,
tongue dry from vow,
nights lit like altars,
no revelation came.
No divine telegram.
No trumpet of truth,
just the kitchen humming
and the silence after the call.

Only the widow neighbor,
waving through fogged glass.
Only the pipes in the wall
clunking like an old lung.
Only the light
barging in
without your consent.

You believe in coats
with missing buttons,
safety pins where zippers gave,
old threads that never matched
but held anyway.
You forgive the past
not because it asked
but because you need the room.

It builds in your bones
like wind in an empty house,
constant, uninvited,
and full of old names.
Like a tune half-remembered,
only the hum
remains.
Beat
(still)
Beat
(still)
Listen—
Can you hear it?
Life.
From nothing.

Pause—
sit
within
the
emptiness.

Let
it
become
the
bea­t
and
the
(still)

Eyes, wide with wonder.
A heart beats
to the rhythm
of tiny,
pitter-patter feet.

Beat
(still)
Beat
(still)
Listen—
Can you hear it?
Life.
From everything.
From breath. From pause. From presence. This is what I heard.
Verin Samel Jun 17
I don’t get my mind.

Sometimes I hate myself.
Sometimes I want to hate myself.
Sometimes, I just don’t get it.

I sit still—
And yet, am I still?

I shake uncontrollably,
internally.

Do I feel safe
in this skin,
in this mind that hurts?

When silence is a reward,
Is life the punishment?

Spending time with people
you care for them,
you love the time,
you cherish,
you live,
you exist
and yet,

I still need the silence.

But what happens
When silence starts to feel unsafe?
When sitting still and movement
both become burdens?

Tied to a screen,
To a mirror,
To an expectation
Of how life will go—
Because if it doesn’t...

Then am I just existing to take up space someone else should’ve had?

Maybe my pain lets someone else
Be happy,

Just for a moment.

If I go,
I want all to know—
Maybe it will work out for the better.

Maybe silence,
Sitting still,
Alone.

Maybe that is all I need
Over the snowy mountain peaks
A star is gliding through space
As I’m strolling, embracing the breeze
On Saint Anne’s frozen lake.

Icicles have crept up on the trees
All the living have run away
Sorrow lingers in the silent eve’
Dimming prayers at Winter’s gate.

The cold flurry of air penetrates the bone
Reeds wince with the chill.
A flock of birds pass by like ghosts,
their shapes trembling in fear.

Oscillating wings carve the way
as they fade away in the sky,
a new thought is born I can’t shake:
This is my home. I’ve arrived.
'Erdélyi pillanatkép' translation
June, 2024
Spicy Digits May 27
Tiptoeing past the cemetery
Barefoot and free
The 1am beckoning hour
When I am no longer me

Draped in midnight hues
Unshackling of roles,
My body glides in sacred silence
As a piece of the whole

Leave your lamp on,
String lights, windchimes
My pain will wander quietly through
Returning at half-light

And when everyone wakes
I hold on again til night
And tiptoe past the cemetery
Away from the streetlights.
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