My Poem ‘Survivor Instinct’

Once the mist has lifted,
once the dust has settled,
once a new day begins
and the dark clouds have drifted,
and the frozen time has melted,
once the sunlight breaks through
and showers to the ground,
once people find a way to say something
to fill the void of silence
once again with sound,
once everybody no longer feels guilty
for showing a smile –
everybody can learn to accept and to move on
without constantly living every hour in denial.

Some people do not blink,
some people do not know,
some people do not think,
some people care so much
that even the thought
of something tragic
happening to someone else
anywhere in the world
feels like they are
carrying a heavy load.

There are people
who would do anything
and would give anything
to someone who was in need
more than them;
there are people
who get up out of bed
hoping to help someone in some way;
there are people
who feel a need to give to charity
in the form of a donation;
there are people
who live their life
with a constant open hand
to anyone and everyone every day.

Heroes are all around us;
angels walk among us;
where there is dark you can find light;
you never know when someone
is going to safe your life.

When something is happening far away from you
it is easy to convince yourself
that it isn’t happening;
when someone is hurting
and you don’t know them
it is easy to switch off
from the image of them
as if the memory of them
was a creation of your imagining;
when you see something happening
and you know that you can do something to help,
when you believe that you can be a light
to guide someone out of a living hell,
when you see a chain
and you would give anything
to be that necessary missing link,
then do what feels the most natural to you
and use all that you feel
when you turn on your survivor instinct.

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My Poem ‘Mourning in Paris’

It’s morning in Paris;
people from all over the world
are in mourning;
the city of love
has a shadow hanging over it;
the free world was rocked during the night
by the actions of the agents of darkness;
and when I close my eyes now,
I listen and I can hear
the sound of Paris’ calling.

There is a golden silence;
the smell of burning
still lingers in the air;
kisses are still being shared
on the bridge of sighs;
people are praying for peace
while standing at the feet of the Eiffel Tower;
all eyes are looking for the answer
to the question: why?
eyes still sting with pain
at the thought of all the innocent people
who last night lost their lives.

All violence is needless;
every loss of life is an open-wound;
taking the life of another makes no sense;
the day when all of humanity
wakes up to the truth
that all life is sacred
is long over-due and cannot come too soon.

Fear can be paralyzing;
hope is a way and the road to healing;
the only answer to anger and hate
is to carry on shining
like a search-light in the dark
and be a constant beacon of peace;
standing together in solidarity
and extending a hand to those who are in need
is the only way to accept
and to get past a tragedy –
and that is why it is important
in the morning to remember
those who we have lost…
and this morning,
I am in mourning
and I stand shoulder to shoulder
and hopeful for peace
for the people of the city of Paris.

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My Poem ‘Deathly Silence’

It is very rare
to actually hear the voice of a writer;
every writer is known for their writing style,
their preferred subject matter,
and by the way that they describe something in words;
however, you don’t always get to hear a writer
‘speak’ in their own voice –
to tell you about themselves,
and to get the chance
to introduce yourself to a writer –
because, most of the time,
writers are what they write:
most writers are the characters that they create.
Who a writer actually is as a person
is something that, as a reader, we may never learn.

Most writers enjoy the solitude of their own space,
their own time, their own breathing room,
to be able to successfully descend the elevator
into themselves, and their imagination,
so that they can focus on the puzzle they are figuring out;
most writers have an idea
about what they want to write about,
and what they want to say,
as soon as they begin –
however, if you were to ask a writer:
‘did it turn out exactly as you planned it?’ –
they would most likely laugh in your face;
because writing is a journey,
and, like all great journeys,
unexpected things tend to happen along the way.
Things of great importance should never be rushed,
and a writer will tell you
that “something is done when it is done” –
and allowing for mistakes,
and accepting that sometimes
you might need to change things, is a big help.
In my experience, and in my understanding,
a writer writes much –
however never gets the time, or the opportunity,
to say exactly what they want to say.

Being a writer is like being a god –
who has the power to create new worlds,
and bring to life new characters
and people out of thin-air.
Meeting a writer is an exciting moment –
one filled with genuine adulation, awe, and love,
and you just feel so lucky, fortunate,
and it genuinely feels magical to be in their presence.
No writer will ever truly die,
no author could ever truly be forgotten –
because their stories and creations
will always be somewhere out there.
Even the most amazing, supreme, incredible,
inspiring, prolific, writers
only have a short time
to be who they were born to be,
and to let their voice be heard
by the few or the many,
before they say goodnight for the last time –
and following their sad,
and their always untimely passing,
there always follows a ghostly, magical,
and deathly silence.

In memory of Terry Pratchett

My Poem ‘The Silence’

I hear nothing.
Life is as it always is,
but something just doesn’t feel right;
all I can focus on,
and the only sound that breaks the silence
is my breathing;
all that I am certain of
is that I am still alive,
because I can still feel my heart beating.

The stars are in the sky;
the moon is full;
everything looks as it has appeared before –
however, I just have this feeling that I can’t shake:
that there is something lingering in the air,
something building in the darkness of the night,
that makes tonight feel like it is not just any night.

It’s probably my mind playing tricks on me;
it’s probably me thinking too much;
it’s probably something completely logical
and easily explainable, as to why I am feeling “funny”;
it’s probably my emotions running away with themselves –
however, usually when I do so,
my emotions tell me exactly what is happening,
or going to happen –
but my emotions are the thing
that I have learned to trust the most.

I have had feelings like this before –
as if I am watching a huge wave,
while standing in the ocean,
and in-awe of it and unable to move,
because I feel like I can’t look away,
and because I need the wave
to come crashing down on me somehow.
My thoughts race,
my instincts go into overdrive;
I swear in my mouth there is this odd taste;
I try to see past the darkness, and the wave,
but I cannot see beyond what hasn’t happened yet –
these days, the future feels as if
it is an ever-changing cloud.

I feel like I am looking up at the night sky
through a telescope, seeing something bright and blinding
approaching in the lens,
that looks like a meteorite
that is coming straight for me,
that is going to fall right where I am,
and the thought that I might not be touched by the impact
is one that holds no hope;
and, as I watch, as I wait, as I feel, as I listen,
I know that something is coming,
there in the silence.

My Poem ‘The Psychology of Silence’

Silence speaks louder than sound;
silence is where true discovery is made;
silence is where truth is found;
silence is full of infinite space;
silence is where you can hear a heart beating,
or a heart breaking;
silence is a no mans land where no one can hide;
silence is waiting; silence is a tide.

There is no sound in space;
there is no sound in a vacuum;
silence has no face;
silence can hurt you.

Words on a page rise silently;
words written in ink have depth deeper
than the paper they are written on;
words are not the only poetry;
words are a way of transition.

If you can convey an intention, a feeling,
an emotion, a meaning, without making a sound,
or without the aid of anything
other than that of you and yourself,
you truly understand and are on the same wavelength
as that of nature;
if you can say something with an action
rather than with an empty sentiment,
then not only can you be a powerful presence
on the present, but also, more importantly,
a talisman for the future.

The planets of our solar system
orbit around the sun unheard;
if you were listening from high above
you wouldn’t be able to hear anything,
but you would know that humanity was there
by the tiny lights that we all make
from our place on the surface of the Earth;
everything, everyone, has a silent story
that speaks for itself, and themselves;
epic people and fantastic worlds
can be spoken to and journeyed to
within the pages of every book on every bookshelf.

A therapist uses silence as an essential tool
to open a person’s mind;
a fisherman uses silence and patience
in unison with their bait to catch their fish;
an artist uses silence along with the paint on their canvas,
and if need be could make great art blind;
anyone can decipher anything with knowledge and common-sense;
everything is there to be something
to something, or someone, else-
that is what I found and interpreted
when I analyzed what struck me
about the psychology of silence.