I was with my tribe today.
They are often far away.
I know them by the smiles they wear
and the silver in their hair.
They don’t belong here,
nor do I,
but now and then we gather up.
We sing, we dance, we fill the cup,
then homeward I, alone, must go.
This is not sad. I like it so.
silence
Frozen.
Now here before me I see
the uncrossable bridge,
a drawbridge raised beyond.
It’s made of ice.
On the other side,
holding on to imagined hurt,
clinging to thoughts,
counting,
saying nothing to me,
quivering in rage or sadness,
confused perhaps,
a victim to perception sits
in visions I cannot change.
I cannot know what she thinks.
She won’t allow me across.
I watch as I stand.
I can’t reach out,
hold
or help.
Locked out.
This is often the worst,
the worst of the worst of all.
Misunderstanding
breathes in the silence
between us,
in unspoken words
through closed doors,
no air.
This is injustice.
Heartless.
A vacuum.
A chasm.
A void.
Unwise.
Silence, a solid structure
of ancient deeply grained timbers,
sealed and barred,
a simple torture device
that stands on immovable stone.
Left with a hard decision to make,
for myself and how I feel,
the choice between anger
or sadness or nothing,
nothing at all.
I could ignore it again.
In nothingness
there’s no pain.
On days like this
I would willingly give up
on words
or thinking at all.
I can’t help myself either.
I am frozen,
emptily sad.
Gannets
in an empty room
i held my breath
in silence
with thoughts of a lonely granite rock
far out to sea
where the cry of birds is deafening
where the surf spray rises in air
and the high sky above is grey
A poem by Tamara
Old shell
Empty shell covered with wrinkles
Pearl shine brushed away by winds and tears.
Drops of memories dried by layers of sand.
Sad eyes looking blindly over my shoulders.
I stop and stretch one arm forward.
Touching the white unnourished locks.
Sudden rush of images inside dead eyes.
A smile between the drapes looks surreal.
Little sound comes out of the bottomless cavern.
Fragile like the fairies wings
Sparkling like children voices on the snow.
Just one smile, filled with tender memories.
Short.
Gone.
Silence is back inside the empty shell.
(This was written by Tamara, not me – having seen, through a window, an old woman out in the winter street)
untitled haiku
what breaks the silence of the early morning
what shadows will the evening bring
a choir of angels, distant, softly sings
The Dreaming Path 