The Modesto SWAT Team Waits in Violent Weather
Violence is essentially wordless, and it can begin only where thought and rational communication have broken down. Thomas Merton
unquiet night
sky rushing
past peace
past even
the thrill
of anger
howling clouds
slowly twist
to darker thoughts
and drop
mute ice
on lavender fields
on lilies, white and life-
less.
In Whispering Woods
his mind snaps.
He fires off rounds
of death,
and, wordless, waits
for the ice.
poem by Steven Federle
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Silence When Speaks
the silence still speaks of all secrets
even the untold story of love in the hide
when whispers being seemingly wordless
webbing the hearts by the soul immortal
rhythm when expands by the crooning
heart still talks even being wordless
never when listless by the deep silence
single word even curves the art of love
love still whispers by the art of silence
love still rhythms triggering the impulse
art when rills across the silence by the eyes
even being speechless when undisclosed
in its room of secret by the walls of mute veil
stance yet intoxicated by the quiet nod
story of love when courses upon by the blue
yet the thunder talks even being wordless
muse of flow relentless swing as wordless
poem by Dr subhendu kar
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To Soar
to soar among the heavens
wind rushing past
giving way to the blackness around
to soar among the heaves
wind rushing past
the uncertainty of tomorrow t
he wisdom of yesterday
to soar among the heavens
wind rushing past
through the galaxies
small spots of color appear
helping peace fill the void
to soar among the heavens
wind rushing past
a smallflutter in my chest begins
the colors all around brighten
to soar among the heavens
wind rushing past
the flutter becomes a beat
then a pulse
sound all around
music
to soar among the heavens
wind rushing past.
poem by Lauren Kiczula
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Cain
The delicate action of grace in the soul is profoundly disturbed by all human violence. Passion, when it is inordinate, does violence to the spirit and its most dangerous violence is that in which we seem to find peace. Violence is not completely fatal until it ceases to disturb us. Thomas Merton. Thoughts in Solitude.
Like a delicate wind
your grace shaped my infant soul
filled my emptiness
with angelic form
and I was beautiful
and good
until, jealous for your love,
I slew my brother.
Now I fear the abyss
that opens beneath me
the grave
of my sin-withered soul.
and to you I pray
forgive me! bring me back
from the numbing peace
of careless, empty
days!
poem by Steven Federle
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The Lofty Sky
To-day I want the sky,
The tops of the high hills,
Above the last man's house,
His hedges, and his cows,
Where, if I will, I look
Down even on sheep and rook,
And of all things that move
See buzzards only above:-
Past all trees, past furze
And thorn, where nought deters
The desire of the eye
For sky, nothing but sky.
I sicken of the woods
And all the multitudes
Of hedge-trees. They are no more
Than weeds upon this floor
Of the river of air
Leagues deep, leagues wide, where
I am like a fish that lives
In weeds and mud and gives
What's above him no thought.
I might be a tench for aught
That I can do to-day
Down on the wealden clay.
Even the tench has days
When he floats up and plays
Among the lily leaves
And sees the sky, or grieves
Not if he nothing sees:
While I, I know that trees
Under that lofty sky
Are weeds, fields mud, and I
Would arise and go far
To where the lilies are.
poem by Edward Thomas
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The parachute
I get a brown parachute
and make sure that it’s folded right,
strap it to my back
and feel that it fits well.
You must make certain
that a parachute
can carry weight,
if it’s a parachute
I accompany a troop of soldiers
into a aeroplane
that takes of roaring from the runway
and we fly higher and higher
until the light first flashes red
and then green
and the aircrafts engines stop
while my heart beats in my throat
I get my turn
to stand at the open door
and see how the landscape
flashes past like a picture
beneath me.
Then I break through the wind
and count wordless
before my hand finds the pull string
and I fly on wings of silk
that folds open and draws me up.
The world lies small beneath me
and the wind swishes gale strong
and in my thoughts I fly up into the sky
past other parachutes
and the aircraft
while the clouds fold around me
and I go through the stratosphere
Later it gets chillier
and I can hardly breath
and I must be near
the mesosphere
In the vacuum around me
the earth lies
like a blue-white ball
at my feet
and I am past the thermosphere
and around me I see the universe
with stars and planets without number.
poem by Gert Strydom
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River Lilies
Saw a boy three lilies white,
Lilies in the river,
Half heart-open to the light,
Full of golden arrows bright,
Each a silver quiver.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
Said the boy, “I’ll pluck you there,
Lilies in the river!”
Said the lilies, “If you dare
You shall drown, or homeward fare
Dripping and a-shiver!”
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
Wilful still the boy would clasp
Lilies in the river;
Tumbled in ere he could grasp,
Scrambled out with puff and gasp,
Plucked no lilies ever.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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The Anger Trapped Within
I do not express my anger
I prefer to be at peace
I go away from present danger
and my problems begin to cease
But I grieve, for it cannot last
My anger refuses to be ignored
Painful memories from the past
Have become a ruler and a lord
They rule over my mind with brute force
I cannot help but to cry
Of actions they cause I have much remorse
Because of these crimes, I deserve to die
Anger trapped within
has become my torture, my sorrow, my sin
poem by Glaedr the poet
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Death
The journey of death, I think of dying as it were
a sleeping process which it brings our thoughts
the illusion of angel's, heaven, clouds and paradise,
we see ourselves in a utopia dream world,
that brings us peace and harmony. Death is a
sad word; a word that is continually present with
melancholy thoughts that haunts the mind. I always
dismiss it from my mind, but always comes back.
It's there always trying to torment me, maybe if death
wasn't so enigmatic and dreadful, our thoughts would
change. We wouldn't think about it at all. When I think
of the old age, is like thinking, death is near, it's the
nearest thing to old age. Death, death is like a cold
and lonely sigh, Death, it comes like thieves in the
night, it takes you and it wont give you a notice nor a
warning. A deep anguish takes over our feelings;
death is a sad word, An empty sensation and a huge
grief, that torture's the soul and mind. Death we can't
defeated, escape or make it null. A reminder each
day that time will eventually stop and become eternal.
Death the only sure thing we inherit from the second
we are born, death, death, I cannot comprehend the
purpose to all, we struggle in our journey in every way,
to at the end, become dust in the wind, and then after
time has past, not even a vestige of us.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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The Only One
'The only One Who can teach me to find God is God, Himself, Alone.'
Thomas Merton, Seeds of Contemplation.
The only one
who can fill black night
with interior light,
who can lead me
past the gun-shots,
thump and thud,
hate filled percussion,
of hidden mines,
the death of
children
is God,
Himself,
Alone.
poem by Steven Federle
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No Immediate Tomorrow
Metamorphosis comes first,
said the path
missing the trail of truth.
Spirituality remained unconnected.
Cunning lies kept on
popping up like bush fires.
Non answering provoked
a wordless war between tall trees.
Non sleeping fears
held the linear perceptions.
Tirelessly the thoughts mapped
the doubts and plunged into grief.
A name was engraved on nevertime tomb.
Show me your tattooed skin,
a proof of a dream.
Don’t push it down, it is always there.
Your basic fear.
You want again to cook a slice of past.
A tragic penetration into darkness.
There is no immediate tomorrow.
You are seeking a burning star,
smacked of revenge.
poem by Satish Verma
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Images of Time
The images in my mind is like my thoughts.
Expressing my thoughts is like expressing my feelings.
Words are spoken.All my images are broken.
Broken down into pieces, which can never be made into new dishes.
Those images of past.It takes time to last.
It will last forever for met to take over.
All those images wore my past life.
But it has nothing to do with my past life.
Those images can be forgotten.But not those people.
Those people who are in your images.Can be in a real image.
When you see those people in front of you.
You like to say 'How are you'?
If they say I am fine.Then you will think of those time.
poem by Yash Pradhan
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0020 Bliss
After that first photo-flash in mind
that signalled that there beyond where, might be
a poem waiting to be formed;
and there followed, that strange mixture in the mind
of awe, surrender, thrill, and wonderment;
and as the mind, now as obedient servant
beyond the asking, brought the building stuff
for this new, strange construction (though not, I noted,
in the order that these would be used) –
after all this, and the poem now on paper,
I walked to the front door; and stood; and looked;
looked like a child looks, and expects to look,
seeing the world as gift; as ever fresh;
no thought, no wish, the mind drained, grateful, of all thought
except the awareness of just – being allowed to be –
as the impressions flooded in, the senses sensed,
watched, as all the – all – passed through
without a judgment needed, made;
and that portion of my mind
now free to think or not to think,
superb in that peace that comes with freedom,
made the connection which
was not intellect, but knowledge –
pure knowledge which was
almost silent, wordless worship of that 'that'
which is beyond name and form, yet known -
'this, this, is bliss itself; this present self is bliss'.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Unwritten Silence
The blankness of the page
Stares back at me tormenting
With the wordless expression
Of an unwritten silence
The uninspired imaginings
Stir a void of nothingness
Denying ink drawn from the pen
Where dreamless ideas fail
The numbness of my thoughts
Search in vain for a muse
A potential line cast aside
Too cliché for a verse
The living edit of a poem
Still requires the first word
Yet nothing but stillness
The empty page before me
Torments in wordless expression
My unwritten silence
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Poetry, shadow of universe
Even wordless but it shouts,
may be silent but speaks loud.
Comes from wind, waves, sun,
deeper than centre of gravitation,
dumb as rock, fast as our thought,
sees the future, keep ledged the past,
understands baby's coo, bird's chirp.
Poetry is shadow of the universe.
(C) S. D. Tiwari
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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In My Childhood Days I Pick Lilies In The Marsh
In my childhood days I pick lilies in the marsh,
I pick lilies, the most beautiful that I can find
in colours of red, yellow and white
but now a tar road cuts past.
The highway runs almost to eternity,
I wonder where the dilapidation did start
see no coots, plovers calling
broken lies the marshland that I love
and I have to search into the bright blue
to cling to the untouched
while smoke clouds of white, yellow and grey hang
like a blanket that is folding over everything
while wealth increases, nature becomes distorted,
and the plain has offices that is encroaching it.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Lavender Hill
I want to walk eternity,
In through the land of make believe.
And watch the clouds roll over me,
And let the sun shine down on me.
The only place that I wanna be,
Lavender hill for me.
Wish I could live on sugar and milk,
Then I could live on lavender hill.
Then I could raise my head to the sky,
And let the sun saturate me with love.
I wanna walk you up lavender hill,
Everybody loves lavender hill.
Even the bird that sits in the tree,
Seems to sing sweet melodies.
Even the breeze is whispering,
Lavender hill for me.
While people eat their biscuits with tea,
They dream of daffodils that sway in the breeze.
And every sunday afternoon,
Tidy ladies shine their shoes.
And every little lady dreams,
Lavender memories.
Lavender hill for me.
Lavender hill for me.
I wanna walk you up lavender hill.
I wanna walk you up lavender hill.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The storm that hangs threatening
From Margate beach
I see a ship sailing past,
with people that are
dots on it.
The summer sun is hot and high
but there’s a strong wind
that swishes over the sea
and waves that like white spectre horses,
curl and twist and rise foaming
and shattering
fall to death against rocks and the beach
On the horizon grey clouds hang ominous,
where a storm is rising
and the sky breaks the water.
I am caught up in a life
that is broken into pieces
and I wonder when
the storm is going to overwhelm me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Pain In Mind
The pain in her mind
Swallowed her thoughts
Drowned her heart in sorrow.
The darkness was her home
Where she went ti hide
From herself,
From the world.
It was her hiding place
Her place for serenity,
Where she found her only peace
Her only tranquility.
The pain was all she had,
In the world,
Where she was the only one
She was alone.
Her thoughts kept her alert
In her darkness
She knew she was alone,
Yet her past was still there to haunt her.
The she saw,
The life she watched leave,
The past was all there,
Her memories poisened.
The past would never leave her mind
It would never let her sleep in peace
It would always be there,
To remenid her of the pain.
The pain in her mind
swallowed her thoughts
Drowned her heart in sorrow,
It consumed her sould.
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Five Charms in Praise of Bewilderment
1.
At first when you leave town,
the dog and I maintain dignified silence.
After no more than two hours
I’m talking to her, after three
she’s telling me the story of her life.
I nod my head at every word,
encouraging her
to take all the time she needs.
2.
I have the vice
of courting poems.
Pathetic, I know.
I also like to watch Oprah
if no one is around to notice.
That’s right,
I court poems, I watch Oprah,
I even let out wordless sighs late at night,
and call them
my spring fields ploughed, my ready earth.
3.
Sitting quietly at dusk, I’ll admit
my life goes like this:
dark branches
scratching the still darker window.
4.
“How are you?”
I ask a woman at work.
“I have no idea,”
she replies,
sounding pleased with herself
at the heartfeltness
of her own bewilderment.
5.
We don’t know,
can’t possibly know,
never have known,
never will know.
We just don’t know.
poem by Jim Moore from Invisible Strings (2011)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Dead Can Never
Dead can never come alive
They got to be buried underneath to relive
They stay with peaceful time and in silence
So not to be disturbed by and stay with peace
Past is past and to be buried
Never to be remembered and opened
It has its bruise and sad side
Why we should bother about it and hide?
If you carry it further and bear at heart
It will be slow poison from the start
It may make you mentally sick and spread slowly
To whole body and kill you gradually
Past is to be forgotten
Wealth is to be donated if ill gotten
Life is for change and must move on
As river water moves for the purity of its own
Body may decay
Vision may go away
Hands may refuse to move
Only soul waits to be removed
One day you may be silent past
Life may move suddenly very fast
Death may knock and take you over
You need not find then any cover
You are gone forever
From the human memory with stop over
Few family members may remember on some occasion
Then slowly you will be put in 'question'
You were and now you are no more
Life size picture may be pushed in store
You will be taken out on anniversary
As it may then be felt necessary
Live in present as it is living thing
Past has no place for lively thing
If present is bestowed as blessings
Never afford to loose with other happenings
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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