Silence is a Scary Sound



How can I speak of pain

That isn’t mine to share

Pain that weighs me, slays me

As it burrows deep inside

The heaviest part of my soul

Imprisoned in Silence

Others depend on


I’m a prisoner

Of words that can’t be said

Silence is a scary sound

As it rattles around my head


Behind closed doors

He sheds tears, fears

That no one else sees

As he relives years

Of childhood rape

Never spoken of

Before now

Then, leaves

Knowing I won’t tell a soul


I’m a prisoner

Of words that can’t be said

Silence is a scary sound

As it rattles around my head


She rips off all coverings

Hiding evidence of horror

Shows me bruises

Purple to her core, sore

Knowing I will carry it all



I’m a prisoner

Of words that can’t be said

Silence is a scary sound

As it rattles around my head


They rage against

The injustice

Trying to make sense

Of their child’s tragic

Loss of breath, death

Grief rips them apart

But, when they’ve gone

Shards remain lodged in my heart

Piercing the torturous quiet

Of confidentiality


I’m a prisoner

Of words that can’t be said

Silence is a scary sound

As it rattles around my head


Secrets too dark

To see the light of day

Whispered in a room

For only my ears to hear

He, she, they

Again and again

Day after day

Pouring out agony after atrocity

Unburdening the weight of their silence

By putting it on me.


Written for Real Toads where some of the inspiration for this prompt came from Alicia Keys:

The challenge was to write about something that is usually silenced.

Can’t Slake the Monster


The raging yearning deep within

Insatiable monster

Ravenous for more

Of what it cannot have

While you stir the pot

And never serve anything

But sparse ambiguity

The starving demon

Feeds greedily on

Rotten leftovers of

Rancid yesteryear

Slices of stale hope

Scraps of sour satisfaction

Your shallow dishes of promise

Overcooked, inedible

Never enough

To quell the hunger

Boring a hole from inside

Where no one dares to look

While rummaging

Through your pots

For crumbs of their own.

Quote: Love the Questions



A Gold Miner’s Love




Long ago

Before we grew old

Treading water in this ocean of time

You inhabited the islands in my mind

Crossed waves of my resistance

To mine the shores of my heart

Searching every granule

For gold

Then turned around

As an expression of rapture

And gave it back to me

To keep

lived out my days


In your lavish love.


Image Source

Written for The Sunday Whirl.  Linking up with Poet’s United too for Poetry Pantry #219.


Quote: Struggle



September Road




was a golden road

lined with the deepest hues of red

underneath a canopy of blue

joyful autumn sky

full of potential

and limitless beauty

noticed on our walks.


Every year

as it beckoned us

with the exuberance

of crisp, first days

promising renewal

and the anticipation

of fresh starts,

we spoke often

animated with hope

for what the year would bring

and, I bathed in peace

perfectly content

in my favorite time of year.


But, one year,

that golden September road

twisted into

a grey mountainous nightmare

splattered with red

and shattered glass

silver metal

crushed and crumpled

like her body

in the daylight

underneath a cloud of tragedy

jaws of life

too late to save her

while her voice

still played

on my answering machine.


Every year

when September looms

before me on the calendar

it is that second road I dread

up ahead

the worst time of year

as it batters me

with the horror

of final loss

promising grief

and the revisited sorrow

from anniversaries

of permanent endings.


Now, October’s road

brings relief

once September is, again,

safely in the rear-view mirror.


Written for Real Toads in response to the following question:  What are your September memories?

Image Source

Stray Bullets


horse at sunrise

In the early hours

Of this dismal day

An orange fire ball rose

Thrust its rays of light

Stray bullets

Shattering Horizon’s

Darkest edge

A signal that life goes on

Outside this spot

Where I plant futile

Meandering thoughts

And place locks around

My heart’s garden

Trampled, too often,

By wild horses

Of unbridled regrets.


Word Count: 55 words

Written for The Sunday Whirl where we were challenged to use twelve words (in bold) in our post. Also, joining Real Toads to write a piece of fiction that’s exactly 55 words.


Image Source

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