Related quotes: at the extreme coldness is...

At The Extreme

at the extreme
coldness is the coldness of the arctic snow
and hotness is the hotness of the volcanic flow
he got them all and he survived them all
his palms know what are all these things all about
but he never stopped touching
he touched the rays of the sun at noon
with his hands opening in prayer
he touched the frost with his fingers
he disliked his fists
he opted more for the silence of the dusks
and the patience of some longer nights
at the extremes of seasons and events
he continued talking to the trees and all its leaves
to his horse to his dog to his door
to his chair to his bed
to his stair
he kept his prayers

He lives. He is very much alive. His solitude his nest.
His prayers shaped the wings of a white bird.
His stone his silence. His strength, his spirit.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In His Silence

In His silence-
I can hear and feel His Spirit in
me
His silence-In
I can perceive His Instructions For me.
In His silence-
I can feel His Bosom embracing
me.
In His silence-
I can feel His Nail-Scarred
hands directing me.
In His silence-
I can feel He is touched with
my infirmity.
In his silence-
I know He will never leave or
forsake me.
In His silence-
I have life eternity.

poem by Sarah A. Bell
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Winter With a Question

The aging trees will creak and groan
To find themselves ringed by frost in sleep
And snow by the wind already blown
Cast upon snow already deep.

The cold is echoed only by silence all,
And the leaves of Autumn entombed in white
At the place where leaves fall
And passing time, vanish from sight.

Who is it that judges these—
Sends leaves beneath the snow
And trees to shiver alongside trees? —
And where do they go?

poem by Ronny Self
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For Meggie In Friendship

There is a young woman,
who lives so far away from me;
if she lived closer,
I could give her a big hug.
We came across one another,
not very long ago,
since then she has touched
my heart and soul
with her poems and prayers.
She held out the hand of friendship
as I held mine out to her,
we both accepted gratefully,
and two distant lives were touched
from half way a world away.
That bond of friendship gets stronger
with every poem and prayer that we write.
Maybe we will never meet in person,
but that does not matter at all.
Because through our words
the world has shrunk,
and it is as if she
is living right next door.
That if we reached out
our hands would touch
as our words have done before.
This poem was written
in friendship for a very special friend
Meggie Gultiano.

28 July 2007

poem by David Harris
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She Brought Them All Kindly To Her Grave

of course i know what coldness is
apart from something that is cool

when mother died her hands were extremely cold
for my hold
i let them go
there was no sadness
there was that happiness of letting her rest
and giving myself a little space

for tomorrow
when coldness comes again in an empty room
with open windows
i know not what panic shall be

my hands are extremely cold these days
when i kiss them
my lips become frozen
they break like glasses

i cannot speak
there is no way that my tongue shall give in to
words
it cannot face coldness in the mirror
of my face

since you ask and you demand an explanation i open my hands
and i let your hands touch them

i cannot speak i am afraid i will be cruel
you must hold these extreme coldness for a long time
so you can all let them go
like white birds against a dark sky

so you can also experience what happiness
i had when i let go off
mama's fears

when mama closed her eyes
because what was important she knew
need not be said anymore

she brought them all kindly to her grave

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Simple Touch!

you touched my hand,
and raised this body
from the land of the dead...
you touched my heart,
and freed this soul
from the dark maze
of its own prison.
you touched my eyes,
and restored sight
to a blind man.
you touched my ears,
and filled them with
the song of every living creature.
you touched my desire,
and brought stone and fire,
and the echo of the whipporwill's song.
i touched you,
and the earth stopped turning,
rivers stopped flowing,
and mountains fell...
all in a simple touch!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Defining The Kind Of Silence He Needs

it is like the silence of an empty room
not keeping anything
not holding
not gripping hands
or gnashing teeth
the windows are not closed
or the doors
to keep a hounding silence

it is a silence with still air
you hear me breathing in
and out
of my nostrils
nothing kept like grudges
nothing hidden like
some disappointments

it is the silence that heals
that gathers strength
the silence of your gratitude
the silence that rests
the silence
of the soul in solitude
the silence of peace
one that looks out
to the grandeur yet to come
one that waits patiently
the silence of
glory
godlike

humane, and seeks to understand
the one that drives
confusion away

like a bird
nesting its eggs for days
on a stable branch

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Earth And Myself...

as i lay my body
upon the grass

coldness seeps
in my garment
then to my skin
penetrating my
body
into the recesses
of my brain

it is the logic
and emotion conjoining
like twins

there is this coldness
that i allow
somehow

from the earth
to my spine
to my heart

it comforts me
that we are still connected

the warmth of my flesh
and blood

into the silence and
coldness of

this Earth.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Unanswered Prayers

Like some school master, kind in being stern,
Who hears the children crying o’er their slates
And calling, “Help me master! ” yet helps not,
Since in his silence and refusal lies
Their self-development, so God abides
Unheeding many prayers. He is not deaf
To any cry sent up from earnest hearts,
He hears and strengthens when He must deny.
He sees us weeping over life’s hard sums
But should He give us the key and dry our tears
What would it profit us when school were done
And not one lesson mastered?
What a world
Where this if all our prayers were answered. Not
In famed Pandora’s box were such vast ills
As lie in human hearts. Should our desires
Voiced one by one in prayer ascend to God
And come back as events shaped to our wish
What chaos would result!
In my fierce youth
I sighed out a breath enough to move a fleet
Voicing wild prayers to heaven for fancied boons
Which were denied; and that denial bends
My knee to prayers of gratitude each day
Of my maturer years. Yet from those prayers
I rose always regirded for the strife
And conscious of new strength. Pray on, sad heart,
That which thou pleadest for may not be given
But in the lofty altitude where souls
Who supplicate God’s grace are lifted there
Thou shalt find help to bear thy daily lot
Which is not elsewhere found.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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