Quiet Silence


There are several silences.

As in noise levels, there are levels of quietude.
Not measured in decibels nor like altitude,
they are perceived through the senses.

First is that which one commonly meets,
the mere temporary absence of sound.
Knowing noise will inevitably return,
true silence pauses and retreats
until the next time ’round
when it gets one more turn.

Another exists only because the din of civilization
has not yet reached it,
not yet engulfed it.
A silence of anticipation.

This silence knows only the muted sounds of nature.
The rippling of the stream,
the haunting cries of the loon,
the pounding footfalls of the elephant.

But true silence will endure.
Absolute silence, it would seem,
does exist.
We are led to it by Kabirian flute
under the rising new moon,
by the buzzing of bees,
by the gnawing of a tiny ant,
by the whispering winds
amongst the morning mist.

Immutable.  Incessant.  Incorruptible silence.

It is the space between ocean and sea,
the time between the beats of my heart.
It is the period between drops of pure rain
falling from clear, thunderless skies.
First the pitter, then…the patter,
the deluge soon will start!
Flowers stop their turning
as rain comes down in pails.

It is that pause between contraction and expansion of the universe,
that moment before, with tiny arms and legs churning,
a newborn baby wails.

It is the instant after the flash of lightning,
between one wave and the next
as they crash upon the white sand shore.

Between the tic and the toc,
the knock and the knock
upon some distant door.

In these true silences, all nature doth rehearse.

As God’s great art was painted in silence,
a canvas waiting for sound,
true silence envelops me in its quiet embrace
and I see the music of the spheres all ’round.

Not one note is louder than silence!

As before Big Bang’s creation,
before my first breath
life was spanked into me by noise.

Quiet silence left behind in the womb of space.

Until I return to that greatest of silences,
I am thrust into a life of sound so that,
in its absence, I may find peace in the moment.
If I live for and in those moments between,
if I am fully present then
and in the long progression of silent nows,
I will have a life of quiet bliss and harmony,
ever seeking true silence.

Which is joy.

There are different silences.
Some would say it is simply the absence of sound.
But I rather think sound is the poor absence of silence.

Which is love.

There is more than one silence…
mindbringer, 22 August 2010


Joy Too Old

How silent is this spawnless, unending time before the breaking light does come…

Come to me sweetly, as does the dawn!
Swiftly, as darkness yields to light!
Run forth from the terrors of night.
Now far behind you, now gone.

Becoming day, you pause with I to play in fields of golden rules
and drink from draughts of wisdom’s ration.
Beaming we as one bright ray, oe’r river bars
and glens we go, gazing thru green gaps of tree,
we turn with hopeful wishful yearning
past cities, towns and countries burning
and spy on high with warming passion
life’s giving orb that shined forth thee,
that crowned us both in heaven’s jewels.

A new day’s chance again is given!
And though man’s hopes and joys, like geese,
by v-shaped spears of hate were riven,
As I, Compassion, rise, so thee do, Peace.

We offer all on bended knee
the rings of Saturn, the moats of Mars.

The joy of old – and this – I wish thee:
know you now that I and we and all are one.

mindbringer, 12 January 2010

Sonnet in Bee Flat


There must be a place (but I’ve yet to find one)
beneath the Sol-drawn dawn of autumn skies
where cut-throat trout still find the heart to run
and the fullness of Summer’s life never dies.

There, as if Earth had changed rotation,
Instead of honey, nature gathers dew
and composes a world without notation.
Unlike the life of old, this work is new.

Despite the nearing gray cold wintry blast,
the twisted fir tree keeps her dreams of green,
of a chamomile welwitschian past,
and buzzing yellow flights of friends less seen.

But bees still dance their flower pollen-aise,
a song of haze gold mid-October days.

mindbringer, 19 October 2009

Equinox Fox


Vernon the aqua fox,
swim fast ‘ere Summer’s fall;
wade wide-streamed Autumn’s lull.
Your rust red coat and socks
of white will fade at snowfall’s call
and, hunting just to keep kits full,
at moon you’ll howl and nip but fail
at Winter’s icy onslought gale.

These equal days of light and dark
will soon make way
for short days and stark
with cold and biting winds,
whose wide streams are too hard for play.

There!  Beyond the river bends,
you see the sun of spring arrive
and all the world is back – alive!
Now struggle fox with coat of red,
to out your den, back from the dead,
and greet spring’s dawn and all it sends.

mindbringer, 16 September 2009