there is a silver living to the white noise of a forest
a unique manner that pulls static from air
tender, invisible touches…slowing a harried way
I could stand in the ever green of nothingness…
not knowing if sound or sight has gone or stayed
how rare it is to take notice of the peace?
and, if I were to take my weathered hand to scoop ease away…
pocket the quiet grace for another kind of sway?
brooding crickets, settling leather tree trunks…
could seek refuge in the silence
all respite would fall from compliance…
leaving no room for another day
Like those who have gone before.
Little time for haste.
White noise everywhere.
A traveling companion for despair.
What of the place that heaven indicates?
For those who hesitate.
thanking its visitors for listening.
Fabled messages on hold.
Sounds of lines going dead.
Suburban Noise: In a world without windows. We would have no choice but to see ourselves for who we truly are.
Why is it…
with closed doors.
During this season where the
want is more.
The mother cries,
you are always poor…
But she speaks of justice with
amazons of credit by the door.
Dens of forked tongues
Such are the domesticated that eat their young.
With open arms there is a claim
to save the day.
Yet where is the awareness of the
wars we must wage.
Some of our conflicts started with Nixon and Disney
in a box.
Other agendas began upon the day we were
left behind with just a key and a lock.
No, matter it’s still the same age
From one-legged veterans to
birds singing from a cage.
Still open windows and closed doors.
One step forward
two steps back
In search of the wars we wage.