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Archive for the tag “silence”

Green Grass

Green Grass png

Silence,

the green grass upon which

every dream of summer rests,

to wither,

lost for seasons,

burnt,

then cold,

unremembered,

until awakening in the

nightmares of another spring.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Forty-Eight Beats Per Minute

pick me up

I woke up two hours before my alarm.  The TV was still on, but barely audible, and it wasn’t the thing that woke me.  There was a dream.  There is always a dream. 

I had three messages on my phone from three different people, still accustomed to my old hours.  I’m not up all night anymore.  I’m just as likely now to fall asleep watching a movie before I know I’m even sleepy, and be up before the sunrise, before my brain knows what time it really is.

The only thing that is the same in my very different life is the coffee.  Except now, that first cup, and the time it takes to consume it, is as sacred as the silence that surrounds me as I drink.  Now, the only sounds that keep company with me are the clock on the wall behind my head, my nearly silent breathing, and, if I’m truly still, the slow beating of my heart.         

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Ghost Town

ghost town PNG

Today I moved into a ghost town, where the past and the future live in perpetual now.  Leaving behind all my worldly possessions, except my bed, where all my senses are aware, in dreams. 

In this ghost town, there is everything you need.  There is silence and solace, ignorance and inquiry.  And time, because in a ghost town, time is as plentiful as weeds in eternal sunshine.

There is no fear in my ghost town.  The neighbors, because they are good ghosts, welcome you.  But slowly, as they know that you, like themselves, came here with the echoes of the noises of your old life in your head, and that is scary enough for now.

So today, I live in a ghost town, where life and death aren’t the law, only acceptance.  This is the place I always belonged, where hope and love keep the peace, and the ghosts of the past shake hands every day, because they have made peace with each other.

And they wait to shake hands with you.  Wait, until you are one of them.    

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

What I Want

Love Unwitting

nano safety pin heart

 

Your words once meant more to me than my next breath, until they didn’t.  So well you did making that happen, through silence and invisibility, entered into, I assumed, for your own preservation, that you have seen to mine as well.

Till now that I, instead of hating you, thank you.

For what I once endured as a sign of your contempt, I now accept as a last act of love, unwitting. From which I emerge, knowing that, for both far better, and a little worse, I will never be the same.

 

© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

Noise

noise04

Noise.

I want it to stop for a while.  A fucking long while.  I don’t want to be deaf, I just want to be afforded the luxury of turning it off.  I want to be able to cultivate the habit of silence, and be allowed to choose the time and the place for the intrusion of sound.

And to kick the addiction of distraction.

There has to be a way to quiet the voices and quell the interference that has burrowed into that place between my ears and my soul, where the notice of deep calling out to deep must dwell, and where the allowance of unhindered contemplation… where the allowance of… where…

FUCK!  Make it STOP!

This is my day.  Everyday.  Multiple times a day, like the feigned multiple orgasms of a well-compensated prostitute.  Hollow, meaningless, empty sounds that, if umbilicaled to a meaningful source, might bring joy or great pleasure.  Or possibly just 10 seconds of a throw-away happy.  But these escapes are filled with the unwelcome familiarity… the rumble… the droning hum… of 10 million pissed-off bees.  Songs, voices, and words.  The goddamnedest, most annoying spew of words.  Words that will not, cannot, and always refuse to, stop.

Until that moment when life navigates you into the omniscient, perfectly well-rounded ass-end of time and space, when a singularly unplanned bookmark splits the page of revelation in the place where the sun ain’t never shone before.  And you realize, for the first and only time in your querulous excuse for a life lived beneath the expectations of everyone, especially yourself, that the silence…

might be…

worse.

 

© 2013  Bill Friday

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