Be Still, Little One
Sometimes the silence
Sometimes the silence is deafening.
Oppressive weight crushing my chest
Of words that can’t be said
And tears that can’t be cried
The ache of all that should not be
The thieving tide, unpredictable,
Turning, seeping away
Beyond my reach.
Sometimes the silence is deafening.
Sometimes the silence is holy.
Seeping into every corner of my being,
Sacred and undefinable,
Gently bidding me to linger still
Where presence is a gift,
And all that is required.
Sometimes the ache is right and good
And eternity bends close.
Sometimes the silence is holy.
Do you mind?
We’ve been trained and been drilled,
learned our lesson so well:
the tenets upon which our culture stands—
keep your hands off.
Every person’s an island,
so mind your own business.
But if our own business is all we mind,
everyone else is left behind.
How can we be so blind
to the lonely and hurting,
averting our eyes
from each sight that implies
we may not be quite as self-sufficient
as we want to believe.
We deceive ourselves,
ignoring those who don’t have a voice,
who can’t make the choice
to cry for help.
When we’re so busy with our own business
we don’t even notice
when people disappear right from under our noses.
And they’re gone,
and they know they were right all along
because nothing really changes.
Relationship was just an illusion.
A delusion
that someone might actually care
if I’m even there.
But they care.
At least, they think they do—
they’re trying to,
but how can someone really know it’s true
when all you’re given are post-it notes
slipped from prison cell to prison cell
with meaningless platitudes
and out of context Bible verses.
We know there should be so much more
than our poor attempts
at reaching beyond the wall we’ve built
to hide ourselves from discomfort.
While handshakes are nice and all
they tend to fall
a little short
when you are drowning.
How can we even show that we care more
when we’re trained to ignore
those we pass on the street
all the strangers we meet
that we greet
and forget.
Good wishes without substance are not very appealing,
and caring isn’t just a feeling.
But no one will ever know its there
if we won’t dare
to step out of our little box
into the mess of others’ lives.
So would you mind
if we could mind
just a little more than we do,
and find
perhaps
we are the lonely and hurting ones
too.
Thank you for not being afraid to write about so much real. real emotion. real hurt. real life.
Anika berger
Memorial Garden
do ashes feel the cold
do they know
that life once flowed hot
through their veins
why should absence hurt so much
does the wind just blow
or is a heart behind it
and does it make a difference
to these tears
loving never really stops
do these words spoken here
somehow mean more
than words we’ve spoken
somewhere else
walls of stone cannot contain you
freer than you’ve ever been
does there come a day
the flowers fade
and no one visits
anymore
maybe I will have a little girl someday
is it strange that I still see
God’s loving hand
beyond the ache and tears
a gift
children of the wind and sky
Children of the wind and sky,
Dancing across the fields,
Hair blowing in the breeze,
Swept back from shining eyes
And dazzling smiles.
Children of the water and waves,
Laughter bubbling, brimming over,
Flinging recklessly into my arms,
Giggling, wriggling, fleeing,
Returning with arms open wide.
Children of the sea and sky,
Wild, chaotic beauty
Uncontainable within my arms;
Infectious delight of life itself
Frees my heart to soar with theirs.
Become a Patron
If Leane’s poetry touches your heart, consider supporting her work and becoming a real patron of the arts!
Newsletter
Sign up to receive an occasional epistle including updates and excerpts of Leane’s poetry and other writings.
