THE END RESULT
I don’t leave breadcrumb trails
I don’t leave breadcrumb trails
or porch lights on anymore.
Anyone who wants to know,
can find the door;
few come through.
I once upon a time
traveled these dark streets
leaving bits and pieces behind.
A trail of actions
dodging
meteors,
rain drops,
the thoughts of others.
Today I don’t duck
or run for cover,
there is no need.
I am well armored
by silence.
© M Durfee
© M Durfee
12/13/16
The day I turned 62 I thought about--
The day I turned 62 I thought about--
QUIET LIGHTNING
I step outside and see the lightning.
I step outside and see the lightning.
It is dry and there is no formal resound
of thunder only a pulse of light
of thunder only a pulse of light
dancing with itself among the molecules
of this steamy atmosphere where rain once fell.
There is no more awe of air
or all that happens above my pay grade
only the grave sight resignation
of this steamy atmosphere where rain once fell.
There is no more awe of air
or all that happens above my pay grade
only the grave sight resignation
that much beyond my porch
is far from my control.
I have walked among both
is far from my control.
I have walked among both
the rain drops and the tombstones
I am touched not by either;
I am touched not by either;
they have become oddities to me.
Water, undrinkable, comes from above,
eroding the stone reminders
Water, undrinkable, comes from above,
eroding the stone reminders
of a person once living
now decaying ‘neath the marker,
‘cept by etching, unremembered.
Such is my own plan,
to be undrinkable
to be unremembered.
My own nothingness will be
My own nothingness will be
a solace in my soulless being.
The lightening glows for a moment
then disappears
I do like the way of quiet lightening.
© M Durfee
7/28/16The lightening glows for a moment
then disappears
I do like the way of quiet lightening.
© M Durfee
When I was a kid in Florida, there was a period where we lived a block from the ocean. On some Summer nights we would go to the beach and watch "soundless" lightning on the horizon. I have no idea why, but it was called heat lighting. I mean, all lightning is heat, right? One of the fond memories of my youth.
ReplyDeleteI love this poem, by the way.
It's nice not to have to duck or run for cover.
ReplyDeleteThanks for visiting my blog.
Heat lightening is what we called it here in central misery.
ReplyDeleteYou will be remembered by your words and their effect on those who read them.
Doesn't all that silence get a bit lonely?
ReplyDelete... so like your "lightening" poem, friend Mark a lot... in fact it makes me cry ... am i'm glad about that, cuz when u still can cry, cuz that means u r still alive cuz u r able 2 release ... other than that" today i turned 61 (but i feel 40 ... smiles)... anyway, meouwpoppa ... ya, nothing more 2 say and yet so much mre, hmmm? Love always, cat.
ReplyDeleteSilence is both a great defense and a great weapon.
ReplyDeleteSilence is a theme in both and is a commodity in short supply
ReplyDeleteSilence...as Charles has pput it, IS both defense and weapon. How sad within the glut of noise that good words are so hard to find. Oddly, I find some of the wisest and most peaceful from great warriors, both of our times (Beware the Miliatry/Industrial Complexes, President Eisenhower) or from deep history(Things are difficult at first, it is true, but then ALL things are difficult at first. Miyamoto Musashi, 1603 Swordsman) but also right now, in your own words of "dancing" between lightning shots... which is true. The fear it impends upon one's soul is instant, yet, strangely glowing within the long long after the strike. I'm sorry, however, if my silence seems weaponized. It is a response of pure respect. You say far more with fewer words (not unlike J Cosmo Newberry, the famed Australian writer and author) than I could ever dream of.
ReplyDeleteThis moves me with steely force ~ This gives me pause:
ReplyDeleteSuch is my own plan,
to be undrinkable
to be unremembered.
My own nothingness will be
a solace in my soulless being.
The lightening glows for a moment
then disappears
I do like the way of quiet lightening.
I admire your plan Mark but why seek to be unremembered when your words burns forever in these pages and walls ~
Your poems are gentle postcards sent by your soul. Thank you for this gift.
ReplyDeleteIronically, silence can sometimes speak volumes...
ReplyDelete