Tuesday, July 7, 2015

July 7 -- What You See When You're Quiet


  1. Be quiet!
    Shut up!
    I yell at my thoughts
    As if they still lived
    In my childhood.
    They finally obey and
    Fold inward like a
    Cardboard box,
    Flattened out and
    Unable to hold
    Any substance.
    I stand on the quiet box
    As my thoughts
    Press back underfoot.
    I sway as tiny ones escape
    And knock me off balance.
    I wonder what the large ones will do.

    Carole Avila

    1. Carole, it's great to see you here! Great poem too!

    2. I love it. I love how the box folds in on itself.

  2. Leather Bound Forest

    I sit in silent solitude
    amongst the trees in my private forest
    each one labeled and named
    standing neatly in endless rows

    The leaves are no longer green
    and the trunks no longer reach to the sun
    my forest has no birds nests or bee hives
    nor the babble of a nearby brook

    My forest is special
    its where nature evolved into technology
    the branches now hold the thoughts of man
    a merger of mother nature, and human nature

    There is no whispering wind
    save the gentle hum of a ceiling fan
    and there is no chirping or clicking or howling
    save my reaction to the words I am reading

    I smell the age on the paper
    feel the softness of the page between my fingers
    carry the weight of the meaning behind each word
    In my heart, like a mountain lion carries her cubs

    It's peaceful in my forest
    and I have never lost my way
    though I have gotten lost in many a story
    I can always find my way back

    Surrounded by countless voices
    who speak only when I crack their spines
    they guard me like a leather bound army
    shielding me from the outside world

    1. Happy birthday, Molly! Great birthday poem too. I love this!

    2. I like the reference to books "I smell the age on the paper", and "when I crack their spines". This is superb!

  3. Walk Along

    I go for a walk alone
    I see the sidewalk
    and look at rocks
    and the dirt and as I look
    I see the rocks are sometimes
    shaped like hearts
    When I pick one up to see it closer
    the imperfect shape leads me to
    throw it back
    It is like I am a heart rock wanderer
    with my head to the ground searching
    for the perfect rock
    People pass me and say hello
    Some pass and remain silent
    I keep looking with my head down
    and search for the perfect heart
    shaped rock
    I wish I had a dog to walk along
    The dog with its tail wagging
    and its smile on its face
    with its tongue hanging out
    of its mouth panting
    The walk turns the corner
    as I look up again to see some
    milkweed, but no butterflies
    The air is fresh in the morning
    rush with people going to work
    in their cars with a fast pace
    and in a rush
    contrasting my easy stroll
    only going ahead a mile or two
    To only get some fresh air and
    some exercise
    It let's me see more people like me
    A lot of them are talking and busy
    But, I am quiet and alone
    with myself with my walk
    and my internal dialogue
    I get an idea to write
    a poem and pull out
    my pen and paper
    It is a good notion
    to have some words
    to title a poem
    Like walk along

    1. Ah, I love how that comes all the way back around to the beginning. Fantastic!


    I wasn’t prepared for the coyotes
    Or the intensity
    Their yelps made me quiver
    I don’t remember the last time
    I trembled like that
    Maybe it was my first kiss
    Or the time under the klieg lights
    When I was so nervous I could die
    It must have been a kill
    I thought
    Sitting upright in the tent
    I imagined the blood on their lips
    Howling at the shine of the moon

    1. Love this description of the coyotes. After a decade of living in the mountains, they still send chills. You've got them down.

  5. quiet in the
    corner content to watch
    the milling crowd

    1. Which proves "keep it simple" still rules. Lovely, as usual, Thomas Thomas.

    2. Yeah. You really capture something with these short poems!

    3. Thank you. I never know what sort of poem I will write until I start (well sometimes I plan on a certain style). Once I start the poem leads me.

  6. What I see, when I am Quiet

    I sat down
    On crisp, creased off white sheets.
    On a Serta mattress
    So comfy.

    I look into the mirror
    Of my small wooden dresser...
    I look down and close my eyes.
    No peace to be found...

    Only images of my favorite people yelling at me to be better,
    All the while choosing to be content with what is, what I am.
    I scream, "Get the f*** away from me, just leave me alone!"
    Unfortunately, I do scream these things out loud.
    Having become used to being known as that neurotic 20 something white female or that psycho mexican woman.
    Which ever they prefer. Since it's always room service.

    I admit though,
    I do the same thing those people do,
    I sin just as much
    Maybe at times lesser or greater,
    Whose to really say?
    I think the voices are there to keep me from sinking to deep.
    But alas, are they even real?

    1. That's a really touching poem. I love the way it ends. This is really powerful

    2. That's a really touching poem. I love the way it ends. This is really powerful

    3. Maybe too touching. It was quite uncomfortable to write. I'm glad it is powerful. That's worth the digging and stretching it took.