quiet isn’t really quiet
it screams over deaf ears
in a forest of fallen words
quiet is solid, thick enough to cover the grandest of canyons, but subtle
effervescent in the tiniest of dew drops at dawn
quiet isn’t “crickets”, that’s ignorance
but quiet may be cryptic to the ignorant
quiet holds up sacred space between the abused woman and drunken husband sprawled across the couch
quiet is not a haven, it is a resting place
quiet knows things, not worth speaking to the hidebound
quiet is collectable, but sometimes only
jagged eggshells embedded in your feet
quiet can hurt
quiet doesn’t always like itself and longs for invisible strings to be plucked into meticulous, enlightening melodies that lift spirits instead of eyebrows
quiet is the tea bag in, thoughts steeped from depths untapped, poetry poured out
it stretches infinitely, briefly pausing for birdsong and rumble of thunder
quiet is often unwanted but persists, can be easily broken by the weakness of intolerance or the strength of the benevolent
quiet has a steady breath
and then…
quiet is the ultimate end
At dVerse Poets Pub, Kim has challenged us with writing a poem on the quality of a different thing (noun, verb, adjective) using the same format as Les Murray’s poem, The Quality of Sprawl.
Image: Michelle Beauchamp