The Edge of Silence

The edge of silence

haunts me,

listening here,

where there is still

song and rhythm

and echoes and noise,

sounding and resounding.

 

It would do

no good

to put my ear

to the edge of silence.

There would be no news,

no hints, no vibes, no clues,

coming here from there,

from beyond the edge,

from no place.

 

I cannot speak

across the edge,

but neither have I crossed to there,

and I still have this voice.

And so much left to say

about who I loved

and how I loved

and what I did decent

and did well and what I did

that did not help

and what I should have left undone.

 

But all songs have accent points,

pianissimo, harmony, crescendo,

and debatable notes,

and so shall mine.

The best that I have done

was arguably the work of others

with whom I played, and loved,

and labored, and chased after

gossamer-winged fancies.

 

Can you hear

the smile in my voice,

when I say, here,

at the edge of silence,

that we were sometimes great

together,

and sometimes awed

at what we discovered

in and out of each other.

To have simply lived as we have,

and as we do,

and as we went and go,

was and is, perhaps,

too careless or, maybe,

too careful, but was and is

courage all the while.

 

And so,

I am moved here

at the edge of silence

to say that I am certain

that you will step forward

and forward again,

and be just as brave

as you can be,

and full of song,

and full of look and listen,

and full of touch and love,

and building dreams

that will last and last

as long as you are willing.

 

All of you.

My dear ones, my babies,

my comrades, my heroes.

Tripping

The fear of being

consumed by something big,

something fierce,

is dispensed with

in the certain knowledge

that I have flown,

that I have twisted and soared,

that I have dared and died

and emerged from all,

or almost all,

as myself,

or as some other self,

and laughed and loved

and found and shared

a bit of comfort,

and found

that I believe that there will always be

another someone,

more and more somebodies,

perhaps an infinity of those,

to do the same

for each other

again and again,

for as long as words are magic.

Seasons of Hope

It is definitely an Outdoor Poetry Season kind of day here in Brookland, my cozy neighborhood in Northeast DC, where Pope Francis will arrive one day next week to say or dance (or whatever, pantomime?) a mass at the Basilica about a mile up the street. But he’s not here yet, and I cannot even dimly sense his pending presence. We are moving slowly, but with something like purpose.

I sat down under a tree to write. And wrote a poem and moved on. Now, I’m on the roofed deck built up against the side of our house, listening to Natalie Merchant while I type. Her voice disrupts nothing, seems to deepen the peace. I’m drinking a lambic—a rather unstraightforward sort of raspberry beer—from a small mason jar. It feels almost like today is another birthday and (like old Eben Flood) I’m celebrating in the middle of my crowded all-alone.

This is the poem I wrote earlier:

Whoever

is coloring this day

started in the a.m. with autumn

but has since veered to the moist heat of summer.

Fine

by me, I was gonna sit here in the shade

by the Brookland Metro regardless and wait for the next

surprise to come round the corner where two streets meet square.

It won’t be the Pope

when it comes about

as surprising as yesterday

Wait—that’s tomorrow—but when it comes

I’m expecting a beautiful surprise

with spring in her step

bouquet in her hand

and me on her mind.

The Sneaking Suspicion

In an earlier post, I explained a bit about why I call this blog "Outdoor Poetry Season." It is so named, in part, because a lot of my first lines, sometimes whole drafts, develop outside. That is how this one happened.

Overcast and warm and drizzly, almost no one else around. Jetta, usually solidly opposed to getting rained on, didn't mind the drizzle. She was off leash for a lot of the walk, too, but keeping companionably close. I imagine the warm, moist air was redolent with good stuff, lavishing scents and contentment on Jet.

Freed of the responsibility to supervise, of the worry that Jetta might joyfully accost and unintentionally terrorize passersby, I savored the peace of the Franciscan monastery's pastoral garden and mini-Via Dolorosa with its ritual contemplation of death and resurrection.

Walking slowly uphill, I wrote a poem about life after death and one aspect, at least, of the shadow of doubt. Raindrops splattered irregularly on my paper, spotting the page, rendering my pencil somewhat less reliable than usual. But like I said, it was warm and pleasant and peaceful and the poem got written during outdoor poetry season. A good thing, I say.

The Sneaking Suspicion

If you believe
in life following death,
then the sneaking suspicion,
trailing behind

like a holy phantom,
like Smeagol,
the reflection
of all our sins,

could well be the thought
that you
are already
dead.

Outdoor Poetry Season

Why "Outdoor Poetry Season?"

Because a lot of my poems begin with ideas that flowered outdoors. (Maybe "budded" would be a better description, but the word thuds on the ear.)

I can write a poem outdoors down to about 35 degrees. And get a little lower if I'm warmed up inside, but not ever below 30, thanks to the skiing trip I took with Buffy Aries and Danny Sobel some 45 or so years ago.

I frostbit a few fingers on that trip and they cause a little trouble off and on. I didn't learn to ski, either. But, on balance, it was a good trip. Both Buffy and Danny have given me much of value. Stuff worth more than the feeling in two or three fingers.