Silence
My Love is here
I walk along the empty beach
kicking bits of jagged shells
reflections lying in musk of time
setting sun ushering the darkness
My Love is here
I crawl bereft into bruised dusk
salty tears mingle with his streams
sea of solace stretches out her arms
still, I scream mournfully at deaf sky
My Love is here
balmy winds breathe his kindness
glazed stars of his wide smile
palms up, he waves his sweet goodbye
my grief blends with the soft rain
My Love is here
I see the back of his head
slumbering in billowing clouds
thirsty tides have waned
he has floated into new ripples
My Love is here
the crested waves swell
forming stiff meringue peaks
broken shells washed out to sea
waters unassuming and deep
My Love is here
the peaceful sleep of angels
on calmness of ocean floor
casting his beloved shadow
upon my azure memories
My Love is here
carving a path in the sand
through the ups and downs of life
surging currents to remind me
that he is not lost in my sea
My Love is here
a life buoy to hold on to
smooth water fingers
cushioning me from grief
the soothing sound of silence
My Love is here
The Edge of Silence
On the Feast of the First Morning of the First Day, in the Year of the Monkey, 1968, North Vietnam’s wildcat soldiers—many dressed in pale shirts with pleated pockets, button-downed trousers, and wearing sun-helmets or jungle hats—attacked South Vietnam.
Bullets and tracers cracked the silent sky; grenades and mortar fire shook the earth.
Thousands of Americans in hundreds of cities, towns, and villages, faced ever-growing waves of gritty soldiers trying to provoke citizens in the south into overthrowing their own government and siding with Ho Chi Minh and his Communist regime.
It did not happen.
What did happen, however, was a bloody mess: More than 40,000 Viet Cong died, along with 7,000-plus Americans.
I was not in-country during that brutal battle, known as the Tet Offensive. I showed up later.
In 1971, I was given guard duty at the end of a runway at Da Nang Airbase—a runway that had been overrun during Tet.
Spooky.
The night-watch lasted four hours. It was deadly dark. Menacing. On the edge of the jungle—a stone’s throw from hell.
I was alone.
It crossed my mind that somebody was out there. Watching me. From the other side. (Of course they were. Why wouldn’t they be? They were doing their job—like I was doing mine.)
Nighttime creeps me out. Haunts me. Especially that night. Gloomy thoughts conjured up layers of fear, anxiety, and dread. I didn’t need that. Not one bit.
I was wearing a helmet and flack jacket along with my uniform-of-the-day. My weapon: an M1911, Automatic Colt Pistol. The barrel was rusty; sand had found its way into the detachable magazine.
Nobody ever taught me how to shoot a 45—let alone dismantle and clean it. Didn’t really matter. I was told not to load my pistol unless ordered to do so. And, if so ordered, not to shoot unless given an official OK. Good thing, too, because (given the rust and sand) the dang gun would have exploded in my face.
About two hours into the watch, I got paranoid—trees became stalking solders; shifting ground-grass transformed into a dangerous threat. My breathing sounded like labored gasps from a faulty fireplace-bellows; my heartbeats reverberated like hollow thumps rumbling through a defective drum.
At some point I put my hands in my pocket and was surprised to find the harmonica I’d used the night before to play for drinks at the on-base saloon. Of course I wouldn’t play the harmonica out here. Not on watch. For one thing, the sound would call attention to me; for another, the shiny metallic top and bottom plates would make a great target for sharp-shooters.
Playing would be a suicide move.
Eventually, boredom, fear, and dread teamed up to form a strange euphoric alliance. Pragmatic. Morbid. Sinisterly re-assuring. I took out my harmonica and played a sultry blues riff. Panic melted away. Terror took a trip. Apprehension dissipated into wistful puffs, like ghostly smoke leaving a dying fire.
Better target for a sniper? Sure. But I figured I’d rather take a kill-shot than suffer a shattered arm or leg.
Silence sauntered away that night. Quiet as a bug. Far away from my one-man parade—drifting through a stream of blue notes and caressed by a soft, summer breeze.
There Are Chords in the Hearts of the Most Reckless
The chamber was grotesque. The curtains were a textured black on black brocade. A settee rested in the the north-eastern corner. The wood, charred black. The satin, black shadows. The flat black of decayed skin adorned the damaged and bruised walls. An ebony clock with hands of black slept in fits, nestled between two windows. The windows, the sickening color of congealed blood. The glass, almost melting as a fiery, vermillion light poured through the crimson panes and onto the room of gloom and death. And I entered in silence. My ears heard naught, but beneath my skin I could feel rushing and pounding. My fellow stared at my paling frame. Hands raised in front of dirty mouths that coughed out dark puddles to cover the sound of buzzing rumor. And I heard naught. Cradled between the guests were obsidian monuments to the bizarre. Sable statues of the madly disfigured. Abandoned limbs darkened with rot and mounted on plaques of onyx. Vessels of inky liquid allowed fingers and eyes to drown in their waters. I looked on in disgusted silence. The band played endlessly, but I heard naught. Fingers traipsed patterns on piano teeth. Bows ripped across the veiny string of violins. Gloved hands rested on wanton waists, guiding a feverish waltz. And naught but silence touched my ears. The blaring quiet was utter and absolute. And my mind ached from the lack of sound. My being begged to conjure even the echo of a hushed whisper. But I watched in a noiseless horror as the dancers frolicked into unblushing celebration. And though I heard naught, I saw all at once, the room at large turn to the west. And the waltz was ceased as they gazed on in foreboding trepidation. And nestled between the ruby flushed glass, in one of its insomnia-ridden waking moments, the pendulum in the shadow clock swung, rapid and surreal. And the room stood paralyzed. The faces surrounding me, dazed and overcome by sounds I heard naught. And all at once, from every pore in each body, blood leaked. Flaming pinpricks dropping crimson across the dance floor. And the skin paled. And the mouths poured blood. And the ears gushed violent red. And the eyes dropped crimson tears. And the room fell dark as I watched. And each waxen figure fell seizing. And in every black corner lay wan corpses, freckled in red. And my own skin dabbled the floor in tiny constellations flowing out my pestilential veins. And I heard naught. And I seized in hysteric fits. Writhing in pale terror. And the knell of the clock rang out across the scene. And I heard naught.
the white spaces in between the words contain all the answers, just read the silent lines of my poetry.
Sans Bruit!
In the shadows....
moves with grand stealth~
Not even the sound of
His footsteps
past the hallways
Can be heard—
Deadly & Silent he is!
With one flick of his wrist
Aims two of his knives
Right at his first victim
@ Midnight!
The body falls to its knees
Then hits the ground
Not before he catches it
Making sure not to make
Too much of a fracas...
Pulls out the knives from
The victim’s chest and jets off
Out of the edifice
Leaps into the air
Runs over rooftops
Heading on to his next kill.
#SansBruit!
Harmony of Our Demons
Our demons stare at each other
Yours, a void
Mine, an open flame
Mine wails in pain
Yours suffocates in total silence
Both, longing to be held
You cannot hold a void, for there is nothing to grasp in emptiness
You cannot hold a flame, for you'll surely burn when you reach.
The flame steps into the void, giving light to its corners
The void contains the flame, giving it modulation
with your hands
don't make a sound, fingers dance, stretch those arms, move those hands, glide through the surface, breathe in the air
not symbolic, not a sign, just some love, don't name it, don't call it, silence in the matter, songs under the heart_ no sound, no voice, no me, no you
fingers dance in the air, move your body until your soul cracks, eyes closed, glide in the open room, doors wide open but no one to walk in_ floorboards don't creak, birds don't sing, gentle flutters of a burning heart
it's just a muscle, don't make a sound, back bends to the side, arm lifts, fingertips searching for a tune, move them fast, they're creating the world_ palms shift, elbow to the right, knee to the left, sing out without a sound
hold the whipers, forget your breath, dance in circles, reach the sky, move the ceiling to reach your needs_ walls fall, universe ceases to exists
keep on playing, rocking to nothing, baby your dislocated, with craks in the bones, spirit sticks but the body flows
so move your fingers, palms up, limps bending, hush...
___
Biding the Tide,
What didn’t we say? again.
Will you hear me less...
when I am old and grayed?
Till now we’ve secretly despised
the fragile middle wave of Time
and mouthed every sensitive
impression as unspoken blemish.
Years take hold in storied misty vapor
and if age has its dole Tomorrow,
the soul need not be silent...
even as the corpse goes cold.
I am no longer bound
I live in the silence,
I want to scream,
But my voice is not heard,
I feel like I’m in a dream.
I live in the silence,
Never a friend,
All alone,
Abandoned again.
Betrayal clouds the air,
She was not my companion,
She is a liar,
I now live forgotten.
Who wants to be friends,
With the girl in the back,
With her hood up,
It’s just confidence she lacks.
I look up as someone come near,
“Hi. What to be friends?”
A smile spreads across my face,
I know my silence is about to end.
I nod with confidence,
I pull down my hood,
I smile at her,
The silence is gone for good.
A burst color,
A burst of sound,
I’m now alive,
I am no longer bound.
Born, Silent
Frail, her heartbeat faded 'way
Silent chamber; her shroud
Angelic babe, to sleep always
Fluttering wings surround
Mother carries, still, her child
Grief bemoans a dirge
Resting place; tomb, undefiled
Her womb, she's soon to purge
Born, absent of life and breath
To seas of tears; bereft
Innocence, entombed in death
Her father's chin and cleft
Cradled; pine and ivory
Silk garments draped in place
Blankets laid; white lilies
Her soul more pure than they
Fragile hearts are broken
Tears speak; no words define
Each time her name is spoken
Echoes sorrow, still carried, alive