*

on new snow, I inscribe
only footprints –

there being nothing
that the leaves have not
already said

© Sarah Whiteley

pretending flowers

light dropped
from a great height
makes no sound still

words now
would be thin and
near to useless

hush, since
it’s futile to
say you are my joy,

and watch
the hummingbird search
the warm, red bricks

pretending
flowers where
there are none

© Sarah Whiteley

morning reluctance

almost like night,
eyes closed,

outside,
crusted snow
protests beneath
some dog’s feet

I admit it’s possible
the sun hasn’t
reached me yet

© Sarah Whiteley

tell me

tell me what happened after you left –
of the intimacies that died
absent of ceremony, without song

the days since have been a procession
of ponderous silences, so close together
it has been impossible to speak between them

the things that should really rather
be shouted into the cavity created,
refined to echoes – but a response at least

tell me what happened after I awoke –
of the parting that halved me
absent of permission, and without bidding

though even had I shouted my atonement
while you still could hear it
no balm would have eased the escapement

the suddenness of it has exacted a void,
negative space for a familiar face,
impassable and contrary to heart’s reason

© Sarah Whiteley

cigarette before dawn

before dawn, I curl myself
into a single cigarette
and forget for a moment
that I am anything other than
lips, than smoke, than
the act of exhaling

when I write such things,
I am shifting the silences
into a semblance of meaning,
wrapping words around the hours
too late to be called night,
too early yet to be morning

and I am grateful for
the hard end of the bench
I press my back against
while I wait for something –
anything – to progress
beyond the gray plumes
that loop the air before me

© Sarah Whiteley

there is something that has been lost

there is something
that has been lost
the elms tell it
when the wind is high
and twisting through
the yellow leaves with
the restless uncertainty
of long-parted lovers
and mid-arabesque a cloud
of starlings senses an absence
so suddenly they are startled
into unaccustomed silence
while daily now the birch
weep their griefs into piles
for the dark-eyed juncos
to skitter through
casting about the damp
as if to descry what it is
we have somehow missed
there is something
that has been lost
and every bright leaf
bends to remind us what
we would know it
if only we stopped
long enough to listen
if we could only
still ourselves
enough to hear
as it slips by

© Sarah Whiteley

old friend

tonight I and the quiet
make a companion of the rain
whose soft staccato taps
at the window as if
asking to be let in
this – the first silence
in weeks – is as welcome
now as any old friend
or comfortable shoe
we fit, you see, without
straining and fill
without words (without
asking) the nooks
and bends of the other
’til I am quiet and quiet
is me and all is right
with the rain coming in
on the sill

© Sarah Whiteley

enjoying the silence

Well, my friends, I would not want you to think I have forgotten you. You are not forgotten at all.

To put it simply, I found myself in a place where I felt I could not write what I was experiencing. I think I just needed to feel for a few moments without attempting to put words to it. I’m not quite back from my impromptu silence, but the good news is I’m beginning to feel the cadence of my poetic self returning to me. Unfortunately, I foresee that more of these silent periods will be unavoidable over the coming months. No worries. It’s not indicative of anything you need to trouble yourselves about. Just a further evolution of self.

In the meantime, I’ve missed you and have plenty of reading to catch up on. I will post again,… just not quite yet.

Cheers,
Sarah

shush

what is it we cannot waken words to say?
where is the fathoming in syllables
that slip too lightly from undone tongues?
is silence then so much lighter
that we may fly the lines
drawn between our two skies
meet beneath the gaze of crows
and under the widening eye of the moon
embrace with a vehemence
no verb would ever convey?
if it is so, then shush, my love,
and enjoy of hush of sentences asleep
steeping deep in dreams unspoken
but take this “I” as dumb token
of implicit affection

© Sarah Whiteley

moved unmoving

let me be silent
as the stones
that mark the line
between earth
and air
and sea
let me rest
with purpose
cool intent
edges smoothed
by time
and tide
and there
let me watchful wait
for two shores
that never meet
cold kissed
by rain
be still
be small
be awake
to all
moved unmoving
let the waves
curl and call
and the air
moisten and fall
be as stones
unmoved
and feel it all

© Sarah Whiteley