Category: Uncategorized

Living in the mountains, high and serene,

Is my quiet escape from the city’s harsh glare,

And the blinding white light where the ocean waves lean.

I seek the deep calm where the timber stands tall,

The cool of the shade where the shadow-lines fold,

Where the birds guard the canopy, watchful and small,

And the wild things move softly through mosses and cold.

It is quiet up here on the ridge of the earth;

The steepness demands that a traveler go slow.

No rushing, no metrics of status or worth—

The hills hold the floor, and we follow their flow.

I have fallen in love with the winding contour,

The small, scattered towns tucked in valleys below,

Where the mist settles low like an unwritten cure,

And the breeze takes the weight that the daylight bestowed.

The slowing of life in the mountain’s embrace

Clears the noise of the world from the mind’s open space;

Here, a man is allowed to establish his pace,

And look out at the earth with a peace on his face.

Legend tells us the strong wield sword and steel,

rescuing the damsel to sit atop the hill.

Society tells us the strong are full of might,

imposing their will to win the loudest fight.

But history tells us the quiet ones hold the strength.

They conquer every battle without help or aid.

They slay the demons of a heavy past,

vanquishing monsters you never knew.

They endure without boasting of hidden conquests,

without recognition or parade.

The only proof of our strength

is that we are sitting

right here.

We walk among the stones and read the verbs of the dead, forgetting that ‘lived’ was once a roaring, active thing.

To them, the century wasn’t a chapter in a textbook— it was a shadow lengthening across the floorboards, it was the current price of flour, the ache in the lower back, the absolute certainty of ‘now.’

They were just like us. They hurried through the rain.

They let the door slam, regretted the harsh word, and looked at the very same stars we see tonight, wondering who would stand here, centuries later, breathing the air they were finished with.

Lilith, who lived for one hundred years.  Edward, who lived for three days.  All brought something to this world.  All impacted someone’s life.

Now, the quiet of the land surrounding their resting place is the story of how today became and is what we call “history.”

A fraying hem, a torn cuff, a button slipped free—

small fractures of living brought straight to her chair.

She would reach for the basket of weathered split wicker,

unraveling time with an unbothered care.

Inside lay the spools of dull cotton and silk,

the silver thimble, the cushions of pinned, patient steel.

She measured each thread with the span of her fingers,

tending the fabric with labor so quiet and real.

I realize now it was more than the clothes she would fix;

With each quiet stitch that she made to a tear,

She mended the seams and repaired every part,

And sewed all our days together with her heart.

Now the shirts wear away in a different season,

and no hurried hand smooths the edges in place.

The small woven basket sits still on my table,

holding her needles, her quiet, her grace.

I lift the light lid to the scent of old thread,

where the grief and the gratitude secretly blend—

remembering how, with a knot and a thimble,

she knew every way that a tear could be mend.

The poem is just a whisper,

Of what the poet wants you to hear.

He speaks the soft words,

The ones he holds so dear.

The poem reflects the feelings,

So deep inside his soul.

He shouts them in his head,

But writing them is his goal.

A poet speaks the feelings

That so many others feel—

The ones they cannot express,

To help an aching heart heal.

The poet feels obligated

To put into words others cannot.

He toils with expressing the feelings

To turn the whisper into a thought.