Unspoken Words to the Dying,

 

There are some griefs so loud
They could bring down the sky,
And there are griefs so still
None knows how deep they lie,
Endured, never expended.
~May Sarton, "Of Grief," A Durable Fire, 1972

 

 

When my father was diagnosed with stage 3 lung cancer, my stepmom could not bear for him to be told.  I am not entirely sure how he was in the dark of it all, but we continued with the façade that there was hope, and hence words that needed to be spoken that would have been obvious of what was happening were never said.

 One day on morphine and nearer to passing, my dad was hallucinating as only a very logical engineer could have done.  He would very matter of factly ask me, “do you hear that music?”  or “Do you see that car moving in the painting?”  When I answered with a bewildered no, he remained silent and unfazed.  I cannot help but think that music is something that crosses the border of here and heaven.  He was hearing the echoes of where he was headed.  Some sounds preach truth no matter what secrets may be kept. That is my thoughts on it and like the hope for miracles, that is what I choose to hold on to. 

 

I kept words folded and starched in an innermost closet like formal attire for a place I would never be able to go.

 You see, one cannot dance at the reception hall if the building has been burned to the ground.

Yet, still I dance alone with a grace that loneliness carries.

Swaying with words that know how to move in my company but never step out of that room.

It sounds absurd to someone else, but I know where they stand and why.

And I listen because I need to.

For I must remember, and I shall!

I smoke them like a joint.

Holding my breath hard as I wait for something more.

But there was a time that I was the voice that carried high, like a song reaching for broader skies.

Now my heart is a nightbird; still and quiet in the daylight.

You say I look brave and sure like a train to the city, but don’t be fooled my dear!

I am thoughts unspoken and dubious.

The regret of a thousand backward falls.

I am an old frayed ribbon from the gift of memory of long long ago.

Just one hard pull and I could break.

Linking with Shay's Word Garden (Janis Ian is the featured poet and singer/songwriter)

& the Sunday Muse for Muse #244

Come join us!

Silence Has a Blackness

Photo by Isabella Mariana from Pexels

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse # 49

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There are times when silence has the loudest voice. ~Leroy Brownlow

I was raised in a house

that made more sounds

 than the voices that it held

 creeks in the night 

whistling windows

steps that whined louder

 than a child wanting more

old secrets walked the rooms

with colorful voices

that only faith and children

could truly see

silence has a blackness

darker than coal

but it always catches the light

brightly once truth has a chance to shine.

©Carrie Van Horn 2019

The Echo of Silence

The Mag #258

Also linking with Poetry Jam for the prompt "Silence".



Silence is a text easy to misread.  ~A.A. Attanasio

Ignorance is a dark hall that seems to have no doors.
Where wisdom has no voice that fools can soon ignore.
And truth can be a luxury when it is nowhere to be found
as secrets can deceive like lies when they do abound.
For the truth holds a certain power like a shelter in the rain
and when it is abandoned it leaves one vulnerable to more pain.




When I was around 4 years old we had a gold fish that lived in a bowl on top of our console television.  One day I was left in the house alone while the family was doing some yard work.  I got the wonderful idea to feed the fish.  Everyone else was doing something productive and I wanted to do something to.  So I decided to get the little shaker bottle of fish food and make myself useful.  Once I started pouring it seemed that more would be better than less, after all, it was probably very hungry.  The rest of the story speaks for itself.  You know the outcome.  Too much dinner for fish is a certain death indeed.  A few hours later I heard the sad gasp of my mother as she discovered the fish floating on the top of the water.  At the time I did not realize what I had actually done.  It was not until I was older that I put two and two together.  You see, ignorance is not always kind.  At least not for the poor gold fish in a fish bowl.  Not knowing what I had done, was less painful for me at 4 years old, but if someone had shown me how to feed them and why, maybe little Goldie would have lived a longer life.  The echo of silence tends to be a sad sound indeed.

The Heart of A Woman

House At Dusk,1935, Edward Hopper

The Mag #119

"A woman's heart is a deep ocean of secrets."  ~Old Rose, Titanic



I am a home with intricate carvings
 inside are many rooms
and lovely windows to the outer walls.

I can see out to many different views,
yet onlookers can never see within my inner halls.

I stand strong on a foundation of love
that in devotion truly abides.

Yet I fall hard with an awkward grace
when I allow someone new to come inside.

I contain a menagerie of glass illusions
a collection of keep sakes of the unsaid.

For I am a fortress with many corridors
that few will ever truly tread.