Why people feel the need or desire to
Listen to the radio
Or surround themselves with machines that whir and beep
Or white noise to fall asleep
Or go to concerts
Is beyond me
I don't understand why
People want noise all the time
They're committing a terrible crime!
They mutilate silence
Tarnish delicate laconism
And mangle quiet
Machines everywhere!
Machines and devices, noise and distraction from the essence of life
Tooting, blaring, screeching, whistling, crashing
Honking, booming cracking, grinding, and trilling!
We happily bask in this cacophony

So much noise that we tend to forget that
How truly precious real silence is-
A gold nugget in a long, tumultuous river.
Yet we don't want any of it, not even a sliver
Silence is that which comes nearest to expressing the ineffable
It's so pure and so true, so delectable
Silence is a true friend who never betrays
Whatever has happened to saying it all with a simple gaze?
Words are by no means proof of wisdom
Silence isn't ignorance or dullness of mind
Silence is refined
Silence is
A pause between birdsongs
The mournful song of lonely hearts
The sigh of a tree
The shift of the clouds
The obscure and perishing rhythm of forgotten thoughts
The throb of the summer sun
The timid streaming of tears down a child's cheek
The fall of a snowflake
The pulse of the veins on a frail white wrist
And a kiss between whispered promises

Babble is empty
And words, like wire
May seem solid
Yet they can be twisted to resemble anything-
Weak promises, false prayers, delusive prophecies
And can easily be broken, if one distorts them enough.

Silence is more eloquent than phrases
It is not nothing
It has a form, dimension, substance
A texture and quality of its own
So many people associate it with mystery, privacy and isolation
When really it reveals it all
Silence can be jealous; rough and small
It can be peaceful; blue and hazy
It can be tumultuous; confused and crazy
Silence can be loving; soft and surrounding
Or it can be spiteful; violent and pounding
Silence can chaste; reserved and shy
Or it can sensual, with a voluptuous sigh
Silence can be puzzled; blurry and nauseous
It can be disgusted; halting and cautious
Silence can be grieving; a falling apart
It can be horribly heavy; the weighing of unspoken secrets on a fragile heart
Silence can be anything
Agitated, insecure, submissive or authoritative
Giddy or gloomy, vicious or respectful
Silence contains it all
Every word, every language,
All the knowledge, all the memories, all the emotions
If you've ever watched a sunrise, or been in love, or spent a night home alone, or sat in grieving silence as someone held your hand
Then you know this

The silly young, the brash and impatient ones, always break the silence
With gossip and music and profanity and small talk
They always giggle, interrupt, argue and squawk
Constant conversations, words, motions, defense, offense, back and forth
Yet those who are comfortable with each other can sit without speaking
Because to love and be quiet is enough
To hold hands and not say a word is enough
Silence is the gift of the world that we've pushed aside
A precious gift wrapped in white that we've rudely denied
Silence is the highest form of thought
And it is by slowly developing this mute contemplation in us that we will,
Step by step,
With reflections, speculations, and musing
Be able to reach what is true about ourselves.
When we are quiet and timid
We sit silently and watch the world around us
We see things, we read things, we hear things that others don't, we keep quiet about them, and we understand.

I don't understand why people fear the hush
Perhaps people are afraid to surrender to the clear ****** of it
Maybe all these fools think that to keep quiet is to erase yourself
Maybe they associate silence with loss of life
Perhaps some of them know that listening to the silence can be painful
That it can reveal the pain of the world
So they cower and shy away from it

Yet look at what I've done
I'm just like the rest of them, aren't I?
I wrote and wrote, yet what do all these words mean?
How pretentious of me to think I could be one to put silence into words

I want to climb the hillsides
And to see each wondrous view,
And find the peace I long for there
It's all I wish to do,
I want to walk down winding lanes
And to see the lands of green,
And to smell the pretty flowers there
And breathe the air so clean.
I just want to change my world
I need a brand new start,
And leave the strife of city life
A country boy at heart.

I want to cross the meadows
And to see the woodlands grow,
I want to find serenity
Wherever I do go,
I long to see the rivers
And the gently flowing streams,
Which sparkle in the sunlight there
Within a place of dreams.
I just want to change my world
I need a brand new start,
And leave the strife of city life
A country boy at heart.

I want to see the wheat that blows
Within the fields of gold,
I want to find the freedom
And the treasures there untold,
I want to hear the birdsongs
In early morning skies,
And to witness every sunset
And to watch each dawning rise.
I just want to change my world
I need a brand new start,
And leave the strife of city life
A country boy at heart.

Nocturne,
whence she calls me
Nocturne,
whither I call back

After hours, when all
the lights turn out
but mine
I hear birdsongs
as the sun turns on
the sky

Nocturne
whence she calls me
Nocturne
whither I call back
Nocturne,
whence she calls me
Nocturne
Best never to look back

After lights out, and all
the streetlight seeps
through sidewalks
I see her there
she turns the sun
back on

Nocturne,
whence she calls me
Nocturne
I reply
Nocturne
I turn guiltily
Sometimes dreams remind

Sometimes dreams remind
Some dreams rewind time
Sometimes dreams rewind
Some dreams rewind time

Nocturne,
as she calls me
slowly I reply
Nocturne,
shill she calls me
Guiltfully I close my eyes

the streetlamps dim
to push sleep past the sidewalk
up through windows
into bedrooms,
like an ether
with a deep breath that never exhales

collapsing with the smog and the traffic
until asphalt footsteps are as loud
as the ringing in your ears

and four o'clock comes
from endless birdsongs
courting darkness
as if it were
light.

You are my coral sky
and all that lies beneath it
Roughness, softness,
pain and ease
I hear the bitter winds
and the birdsongs both
Rain on me
or bathe me in sun
You are my coral sky
bright or diffuse
you light me

I don't want
to rescue you
I just want to be
the cleft, the cut
in the rocky *****
ready for your hand
or a foothold
simply there
at the moment
when you need
to centre
You are my earth
how could I be less
Rest on me while
you catch your breath
when you look up
and out
to that coral sky
I just want to be
there with you
to share the view

copyright © 2016 Ken Rush

She painted peace over the wounded mouths twisted with lies, truths unspoken, love never claimed,
She brushed them with the pink of a newborn baby's lips

She painted peace over the hands that held weapons, fingers that had pulled triggers to **** or maul,
She scraped them green as the new shoots from blades of grass reborn in the Spring

She painted peace in the hearts of those women and men who held broken pieces filled with sadness, scarred with inner rage
She colored them red of the rose in full scent and full bloom

She painted peace on the eyes and bodies of children stripped away from their life force, their source of mother
She traced them the purest blue found in the color of water at dawn's first light

She painted peace in families torn and broken
She swept them with all the colors of the rainbow appearing just after the rain, when the light shines through with hope

She painted peace in the indigenous souls torn from their culture and land
She circled them the color of the green flash-
the flicker of pure green born after the sunsets, existing only for a second

She painted peace in the unborn and the born whose differences bring challenges to them and their families
She skimmed them with lavender fields blooming in the swirling winds, with the sounds of the bees buzzing in joy and abundance

She painted peace over the wounds, the carcasses of animals fallen in a frenzy of human greed and misunderstanding
She whisked them golden as the sun rising in its glory to begin a new day

She painted peace over the ghosts of the forests and their inhabitants
She rolled them the brightest yellow of the night sky--the first star rising-guiding us though the whispers of time steering us in the darkness

She painted peace in the waters, the rivers and oceans who were littered with the makings of man 
She glided them silver to reflect the light that is always around

She painted peace on the earth and women--places torn open and stripped, laying barren, vulnerable.  
She covered them the rich colors of terra cotta- freshly made pottery from hands who love creation

She painted the air, the unfiltered air, clogged, imbalanced
She flowed it clear, the color of innocence - when we look into the eyes of the newborn, and those just about to pass.

She painted it all,

And when the summer sun melted the colors and subjects, she molded the forms, colors, scent, textures and sounds into the shape of love as eternity.
She sang the sweetest birdsongs into the new day bringing in renewal  

She painted peace into all of life.

Part I
You are so pretty,
I love your fields of flowers,
Nature is the best!!!!

Woodlands green and soft,
Pretty birdsong in the air,
Flowers here and there.

Mountains white and cool,
The mountain stream of water,
Flowers soft and sweet.

The pretty forest,
Of pine trees and hunter furs,
Honeysuckles sweet.

Birdsongs like sweet harps,
Playing in the pretty breeze,
Pretty Spring is here!!!

Lovely butterflies,
Dancing in the cooling breeze,
Falling sweet green leaves.

The mossy pebbles,
Near the sweet bubbling brook,
Makes a lovely song!

*~Marian~

The sun that shines through morning sky,
Need not compare to your shining light.
The birdsongs blended with flapping wings,
Need not compare to the words you sing.
The glow of dawn, and awe of life revived like Spring,
     Need not compare, to the beauty you
     bring.


A Summer's breeze, nature's ivory dove,
Need not compare to the grandeur of your love.
A flower's petals, as pretty as lace,
Need not compare to your elegant grace.
Grey skies or blue, any version of daytime,
     Need not compare to a love so sublime.


The safety of home, an escape from night,
Need not compare to your company's respite.
The warmth and safety of a roaring fireplace,
Need not compare to your loving embrace.
A climb into bed, nay, any day, any time,
     Need not compare to a reminder
     you're mine.


Every day my love grows stronger, and that will never end,
Only to you do I wish to tend.
I've found my one, and if you are keen,
      For life, I'll be your king, and you'll be
      my queen.

Within the aches of the times between dreams  
Hobbling on
With a dour countenance
Hanging in the prevailing north wind
Someone old yet  hardly wise
Whistles an eerie hymn
In reply to native birdsongs
Cardinals and sparrows
An occasional red-tailed hawk scream
The lively menagerie joins
Into a taunting laughter

Within the cold threat of a life uncertain
Bounding on
With the sun running in
And sliding down the bedroom wall
A young man in his young armor
Walks out shining toward the day
To find clouds approaching
And beneath a thin mist
He walks his trenchant walk
Metal splashes through viscous puddled earth
And rust grows in the creases

Within the rain hurdling down
Scampering on
With a dream thundering from gray skies
Into a drab living room
A child loses himself in himself
To find a more colorful world
Where the booms are but drums
And drops of rain are chipper visitors
When the lights go out and darkness comes
He marvels at the waltzing candlelight
And nothing can touch him

Before my morning eyes have opened
a chorus of birdsongs tells me
that after days of wet
the sun has pushed away the night
and finally replaced the wind and rain

I've done nothing today. At 5:00pm I make coffee. I decided I needed a cigarette so I sat in the garden and smoked. Once i'd finished the cigarette I lay down on the grass. Pale blue skies and birdsongs. I thought about what I could've done today wrote a poem maybe, or a song. Instead I wondered around the house and sat in different places. At 5:30pm I got my laptop and decided to write this, at leased I did this today.

Dottie wishes Willie would
return home. All night she
had twisted and turned in
his bed. She looks out of
the window of their cottage
for the postie to come with
a letter from her brother,
but there is no sight or sign.

She sighs. Later she will prepare
one of his favourite pies. He’ll
bring Sammy and they’ll go
for walks and talk and smell
flowers and hear the birdsongs
and sit beneath trees and study
the sky. She moves to the kettle
and switches it on and prepares
a cup of tea. One teabag, two
sugars, a small spill of milk.

She sips and thinks. If Willie
were here now he’d lay his head
on her shoulder and read her
one of his poems. She likes it when
he reads her one of his poems.

She knows them because she
scribbles them down as he recites
them as they walk along. I can’t
write sitting down, he often told her.

I need to walk and breathe the
air and hear the songs of birds.
She sits and imagines him there
beside her, his head on her
shoulder as if a pillow, his
vibrating voice moving inside her.

She senses a headache coming,
feels the tremors along her nerves
like a coming storm. It is a time
of bleeds. The moon’s pull drags
her down. If Willie were here he’d
say, Go lay down and I will come
bring you pills and water and kiss
it better. But her brother is away
bringing Sammy. The clouds are
gathering, dark grey and heavy,
the sky becoming black, oh, she
says, if only my Willie was back.

While sketching a lamp, it was seen that the current came on.
The memoirs about darkness too got stuck then. Thus started to pray

God is a father who gives ten if we ask for a hundred.
Otherwise, would he trick me, by giving me sleep daily, instead of the death I pray for?

The only consolation is the sky. Its reddened eyes, swollen eyelids, disturb.
The previous day, I saw it fallen into and lying in the river.
No, it wouldn’t have died. I can hear the birdsongs.
Is the kingfisher a bird enchanted by the water-spirit?
Or else, leave it, let it be a fish with wings.

When I couldn’t bear the boredom anymore, I thought I would write a letter to death.
As soon as I finished addressing, ‘O last supper of a loner,’ telephone rang.
When I attended, it didn’t say anything.
Earlier, it had given me a kiss.
I don’t remember reading in any book on marriage that from the second kiss onwards, you start feeling bad breath.
Forget all that.

Suppose I bewail ‘die me, die me’, to the current?
After all, it doesn’t know proper grammar or syntax.

Is the news that the copywriter who wrote the advertisement
for the glue which merges two lives
Didn’t get his pay, in today’s papers? No, let the day get lighter
It is a pity that there is no calling bell in the cemetery
Father sleeps , having secured  the mud door .
O no, I am not making any noise

O you who makes fun of me saying that I make a sign of the cross when I see a phone booth,
Please do not sin. You will never find a purer confessional!

I had wanted to make a good lay out for the suicide note, take lots of photocopies and entrust it to a friend to have it posted too.
Otherwise, leave it, it is better to live than to die thus..

The college kids still pump out poems;
my heroes haven't published a book in years.
The academics are moving to visual arts
kerning letters on the page, adding artist statements.

Fuego en juventud. Sabiduría en viejo.

Passion fades with age, I suppose. A symptom of
the cult of happiness.

And I love to read poems
from twenty-somethings who just want to get ******.
I picture my red pen exciting them as I destroy
their fine-tuned metaphors, all muddled with conflicting allusion,
as if juxtaposition alone adds meaning.

In school, it was all Cezanne and hydrogen jukebox birdsongs,
and equally interesting but useless adjective strings.
The academics are doing the same, but with form.
It bores us, don't they know?

Fuego en juventud. Sabiduría en viejo.

**** these kids for having such easy means to publication.
I read their journals, their magazines, their "editions"
online, vivid, vomiting color and opinion.

I long for publishing classified ads and
scribbled chalk portraits of the women I loved
and the twenty-somethings who just wanted to get ******,
and reflections of how I never mastered either craft.

I long to rub the ink off newsprint in my fingers,
smudge the words on the page and ***** my hands,
watch the chalk run into the red brick
during ten-minute monsoons, smell the library's adobe,
light a cigarette and remember that the stacks are filled
with ages of greater work than these ******* kids...
and these ******* academics.

Greater than me.

These lanes are very narrow
you said
walking with Jane

from the parsonage
where she lived
to where the farm road began

Are they?
she replied
I’ve never thought about it

just that the hedges are high
and the birds chock full
in them and their songs

Yes
you said
They are

and in London
there are no hedges
or narrow lanes

and the only birds
are sparrows
and pigeons

and you wanted
to take hold
of her hand

and squeeze gently
the flesh
and sense her pulse

but you didn’t
you put your hands
in your jean pockets

and gazed sideways on
at her and her dark hair
and her profile

and the scent of her
like lavender
as if she’d dived

into a wide field of it
and embraced
the flowers and stalks

What bird song is that?
she asked
No idea

you replied
moving closer to her
the scent getting stronger

the desire to be closer
taking hold but still at bay
It’s a blackbird

she said
You’ll learn them all
the birdsongs

and where and how
they nest and in what months
and you nodded

and saw how
the summery dress
moved and swayed

as she walked
the flowered pattern
like a field moved

by a soft breeze
and her sandaled feet
touching the gravelled lane

and you thinking
how it would be
for them to be held

and kissed by you
if she were beside you
lying in a field

or in one
of those tall woods
and you pursed your lips

and she looked up at the sky
her eyes gathering
the blueness

and whiteness of clouds
and she said
Monet would have captured that so well

and You
you muttered
He would capture you well

each aspect
of your face
and hair and eyes

and she smiled
and looked at you and said
I’d want to be captured by Renoir

have his arthritic fingers
clutching brush
and capture me

and maybe secretly
lust after me
and she blushed

and turned away
and you thought  
Oh yes yes yes

but said nothing
just gazed
and breathed in

her being
her beauty
all there

for you to view
the eyes
the hair

the profile
the way her lips smiled
and sway of walk

and the tall hedges
seemed to explode
with the wild bird’s talk.

. . . There's a darkness in the room next to me . . .
. . . I'm not sure what it could be and I can't yet see . . .
. . . My heart isn't changing, it's been long since it last did . . .
. . . I know where the basement is, the attic too . . .
. . . I know the bones hang in the closet by the door . . .
. . . But I've never seen the looks of you before . . .
. . . Hair like choking coal and eyes of putrid ebony . . .
. . . Some thin breezy nights I wish you'd swallow me . . .
. . . But I haven't yet left so here I'll be, burying my soul . . .
. . . Where a devil and an angel wait patiently . . .
. . . I'd go with you now if you'd come with me . . .
. . . Please don't hurry, I left you behind to find yesterday . . .
. . . I'm not quite done yet with staining ancient history . . .
. . . Birdsongs play in cemeteries so why can't we . . .
. . . Never said I was sorry, now I guess I'll go . . .
. . . But I'll take my skeletons with me . . .
. . . Please don't forget to blink before I fly . . .
. . . Into the darkness of the room next to me . . .

It’s dimmed outside.
Birds come back to nets with empty corps,
but with a lot of warmth and compassion.
Their hatchlings and fledglings will sleep hungry tonight.
I can hear their birdsongs though.
Strong wind blows,
across the yard,
and all around the cosy nests.
High deciduous trees rustle,
shuddering me.
Withered dry leaves fall,
reminding me of those humans falling every day,
without saying goodbye to their final autumn,
in my homeland,
in Palestine.

Mohammed Arafat
Nobember 20th, 2019

I cower in fetal position
As angry words are thrown
Not at me,
But hurting all the same
I close my eyes
But I can still see
My safe haven
My stable foundation
Is crumbling
Because of things
That may or not have
Even happened
Just suspicions
The slightest little hints
Taken as proof
Of infidelity

I slip on my shoes
Tiptoe around them
I leave, they don't even see
I walk thro the yard and
Grasp the branches of my favorite tree
And climb up until
All I can see is the beautiful landscape
And all I hear is birdsongs  
And then the tears come
Ever so quietly

The moon rises upon your face
And shine falls when you smile
Your silences like conversations
Often you unfold the emotions,
You're happy with your dreams
Though they're many miles away.

The ocean slows down for you
And waves play with your mind
The spring gives you green days
Cause maybe you are loveable,
The moon rises up to your face
Your shine falls when you smile.

The flowers smell pretty in your courtyards
To help you sleep at night
The birdsongs wake you up happily
Every day in the morning,
The moon rises up to your face
Your shine falls when you smile.

The morning takes away your sleepiness
To make you ready for the day
The evening shadow makes you blue
To give you a good sleep night,
The moon rises up to your face
And you shine when you smile.

I listened to birdsongs from my bed,
swimming out from a cloud of foam and *****,
and peeled back the flattened hair against my cheek.
Outside there was a cacophony of light:
illuminated leaves, the glimmer of pollen lazily drifting,
my sister’s hair, a reflecting pool of black, catching dust in the wind.

Last night I cried myself awake and fell into a bottle,
shoving my red mouth full of sleep and trying to find a path away
from where I had left my mother’s yelling
and my father’s knuckles against the bedroom door.

After it had quieted, I circled aimlessly around the house,
dodging the skittering shadows of insects
and barbed wire slinky ringlets.
Toys left askew mobilizing in a thundering sea,
my arms like anchors, me, the ship adrift.

In the last hour of the night I closed my eyes and traced
all the spots and veins, a webbing of purple and orange.
Wondering what my grandfathers’ felt as the last ounce of them slipped out at Buôn Ma Thuột,
asking their ghosts to hold me together,
my breath in shredded ribbons,
my soul whisked away.

in regards to where we would find
our hands and elbows entwined,
you never did guarantee that
you could answer with certainty.
"Anything could happen
in five years, Vin-
we could be the last two people
on Earth," you told me,
"how's that for an answer?"
well, it's a shame that we weren't.

it's a shame our love had to share
so much in common
with the stars that we swore
were living with us
when we'd ******* in the car,
forgetting how much light years
play tricks on our eyes.

it's a shame that our love
had to be the canary that
never made it out of the coal mine;
though we reassured ourselves
it would come about before night,
the last echoes of those birdsongs
only came from the walls of our minds.

and it's a shame that
when we speak,
it's seldom that we talk,
so I may never know
just what you really wanted to do
with all of this-
whatever it was,
I just hope this wasn't it.

I wait
for spring;
the petals
on a fleeting breeze;
the scent of grass
made soft by the warm sun;
the hymn of life
started by the first birdsongs of the morning;
the faint hum
of beating wings
as a bee lands gently
on the pistil of a flower;
the lukewarm night
where the moon peers curiously
at the yellow-orange tinge of sunrise.

unknown morning birdsongs
make me aware
I am not home

imagine a world
with no humans left

without
    man-made sounds
    street noise  airplanes
    laughter shouting fussing babies
    cars  radios TVs machines
    pop songs string orchestras
    
instead
     birdsongs  leaves blowing in the breeze
     sounds of rain  of springs and rivers
     deer splashing through a creek
     wild pigs snorting through the forest
     the sharp cry of an eagle
     owls hooting under the moon
     anmals rustling in the underbrush
     ivy decorating empty window frames

imagine
    all those poems
    nobody can read

Listen as the robin sings
ever so sweetly by still waters

And here, she soars through
high and free and little by little,
her nest is formed

When I feel grey with each day
like winter, I hear her songs
and it's like I'm under a new sun

So never underestimate the power
of birdsongs! I am grateful to have
and hear it's special beauty.

Sweet Robin, born of Joy and
Spring and Summer.
Spread your wings, your
love and brighten the day

I'd like to see you
There in the sky full of stars
In the earth full of moonlight
In the morning full of flowers
In the birdsongs which wake up

I'd like to see you
In the dew on the grass
In the heart-touching wind
In the shower of the mountain
In the waves of the ocean

I'd like to see you
In the green and rainforests
In the heart-touching songs
In the white clouds of autumn
In the rainy season of nature

I'd like to see you
In the warm wind of spring
In the golden paddy field
In the beauty of green nature
In the first snow of winter

Dear Young Generation,
You will be in the future
In the sky of the nation,
You are the bright sun…

there is a place i know,
where back in a hollow,
the crisp cool water runs over the boulders of ages past,
the evidence of a time no one remembers,
but everyone can see.
it's quiet there,
the birdsongs echo in the early mornings,
and the constant babbling of the water
soothes the spirit of those who come to walk.
i go there from time to time,
to sit in the quiet and think
and dream and pray,
for in the silence,
the answers come to those who are willing to listen
to the language of the water and the birds.

Some friends are like the leaves in fall.
From the verdant spring they unfurl
in their splendor and vibrancy.
In soft whisper and summer hiss,
they stage the hues of blossoms and ballads
and whistle birdsongs from hidden branches.

Elevating from their ecstatic state of equinox,
these satellites drift into the so-long’s of solstice,
and from hue to hubris, calling come hither,
lofty leaves dance and whirl and vault
in the Autumn air for new friends of fair,
who too will turn like bookish pages into pulp.

Fly from twig in twilight, oh friends,
fade to saffron, russet and rust
carmine to cobalt into forgotten pyres of time
Fall friends, fall into the dirt and dust,
For in the spring you shall route the roots
from which fresh leaves feed, unfold, and revel sublime.

My silent little dear
snoozes in his cradle
beyond the noises
I can no longer hear.

The quiet drip of
rain and sink,
the swoosh of
inside air circulating,
the vibrations of life
I can hear only with
mental captions on,
are the inaudible sway,
that separates you from me.

Can you hear my smile
with closed eyes,
will you love the
silence or the noise?

Will you delight in
birdsongs or  
in fluttering wings?

Will you laugh at
the music of the spheres
or delight in quiet
thoughts and contemplation?


Child of my April dreams
and September haunts
who breathes in the
whitewash walls of my soul,
what you choose to see or hear,
at first walk, I will protect  
under the signing of my hands.


*This is a poem about my looking back at my baby self, before I contracted Scarlet Fever and became  near deaf, wondering what I would choose if I had the option to hear or be deaf.