Silence ll

By Elaine Maria Upton

Silence is not a lack of words.
Silence is not a lack of music.
Silence is not a lack of curses.
Silence is not a lack of screams.
Silence is not a lack of colors
or voices or bodies or whistling wind.
Silence is not a lack of anything.

Silence is resting, nestling
in every leaf of every tree,
in every root and branch.
Silence is the flower sprouting
upon the branch.

Silence is the mother singing
to her newborn babe.
Silence is the mother crying
for her stillborn babe.
Silence is the life of all
these babes, whose breath
is a breath of God.

Silence is seeing and singing praises.
Silence is the roar of ocean waves.
Silence is the sandpiper dancing
on the shore.
Silence is the vastness of a whale.
Silence is a blade of grass.

Silence is sound
And silence is silence.
Silence is love, even
the love that hides in hate.

Silence is the pompous queen
and the harlot and the pimp
hugging his purse on a crowded street.

Silence is the healer dreaming
the plant, the drummer drumming
the dream. It is the lover’s
exhausted fall into sleep.
It is the call of morning birds.

Silence is God’s beat tapping all hearts.

Silence is the star kissing a flower.

Silence is a word, a hope, a candle
lighting the window of home.

Silence is everything –the renewing sleep
of Earth, the purifying dream of Water,
the purifying rage of Fire, the soaring
and spiraling flight of Air. It is all
things dissolved into no-thing–Silence
is with you always…..the Presence
of I AM

Read more poems from Elaine Maria Upton

Index of poets on Allspirit

 

A Perfect Example

Steve Toth

I’m a perfect example
of the kind of person I am
An utter idiot
looking endlessly into your eyes
We want to ride together some waves of delight
but our bubbles pop & we’re shooting stars
There’s a moment of feeling ridiculous
Our love is a light we like to leave on
I love you as you love me
& you don’t find that scary

Is that a warmth or a tingling
making its way slowly up your spine?
I feel something in you matching the chill
crawling up mine
Love has ripped our realities open again
Every cell in my body has free will
that’s how I come to love you so freely
It’s the sympathetic magic
of ordinary things coming together
to become extraordinary

We’re involved in ways we can’t imagine
I have no idea for instance
what’s flowing in a flower besides water
or making a bird cry
out its name until we start calling it that
We become the breath of life
inhaling lifetimes of wounded desire
What were we just talking about?
I’m always talking about you
no matter what the words say

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Echo

 

By Christina Rossetti

Come to me in the silence of the night;
Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
As sunlight on a stream;
Come back in tears,
O memory, hope, love of finished years.

Oh dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter-sweet,
Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,
Where souls brim-full of love abide and meet;
Where thirsting longing eyes
Watch the slow door
That opening, letting in, lets out no more.

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
My very life again though cold in death:
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give
Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:
Speak low, lean low,
As long ago, my love, how long ago.

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Are you looking for me?

By Kabir

Are you looking for me? I am in the next seat.
My shoulder is against yours.
you will not find me in the stupas, not in Indian shrine
rooms, nor in synagogues, nor in cathedrals:
not in masses, nor kirtans, not in legs winding
around your own neck, nor in eating nothing but
vegetables.
When you really look for me, you will see me
instantly —
you will find me in the tiniest house of time.
Kabir says: Student, tell me, what is God?
He is the breath inside the breath.

Translated by Robert Bly

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the flute

 

Yosy Flug

the poet is
like a flute
shaping the breath
into a melody
true poet
shapes his life
into a breath
of the divine. . .
hollow from self
touched by intuition
life breath becomes a tune
in the symphony of being

when you read/hear a poem
and it touches your heart
it is because
you yourself
are the endless
poem
of life

and
the flute
inert in the flutist hands
cooled by the passing breath
caressed by the loving fingers
cares not
for the sound
produced

_()_
yosy

Lovers’ Infiniteness

 

John Donne

IF yet I have not all thy love,
Dear, I shall never have it all,
I cannot breath one other sigh, to move,
Nor can entreat one other tear to fall,
And all my treasure, which should purchase thee —
Sighs, tears, and oaths, and letters — I have spent.
Yet no more can be due to me,
Than at the bargain made was meant,
If then thy gift of love were partial,
That some to me, some should to others fall,
Dear, I shall never have Thee All.
Or if then thou gavest me all,
All was but All which thou hadst then;
But if in thy heart, since, there be or shall,
New love created be, by other men,
Which have their stocks entire, and can in tears,
In sighs, in oaths, and letters outbid me,
This new love may beget new fears,
For this love was not vowed by thee.
And yet it was, thy gift being general,
The ground; thy heart is mine: what ever shall
Grow there, dear, I should have it all.

Yet I would not have all yet:
He that hath all can have no more,
And since my love doth every day admit
New growth, thou shouldst have new rewards in store;
Thou canst not every day give me thy heart;
If thou canst give it, then thou never gavest it:
Love’s riddles are, that though thy heart depart,
It stays at home, and thou with losing savest it:
But we will have a way more liberal
Than changing hearts, to join them, so we shall
Be one, and one anothers’s All.