Tag Archives: #Silence

Should I taint the untainted page?

Purest of pages

is the blank page;

throughout the ages

it has come of age

and been defiled

by clumsy stroke

or inept word;

and likened to the joke

where silence is heard?


This is a poem called ‘Silence’






… is golden…



… until it is broken…



… then, you are beholden…



… to an anti-alchemist.

A minute’s silliness for the queen

For what might have not

and what might have been

I give you a minute’s silliness

for the Queen.


Corgis to the left of her

Corgis to the right,

Corgis in the morning

all day and all of the night.


She rained for seventy days,

and a few odd years,

and, eventually, the son came out –

though that eventuality was long in doubt.


Now she has gone

to take a rest

her crowning glory,

she passed the test,


and the rest is history,

and the rest is silence,

one minute for us,

an eternity for her majesty.


Not that silly,

she had a serious side,

but with a sense of humour

she ruled with pride.


God rest you ma’am.


I say, did you hear about the Librarian who prayed for silence and then went deaf?

Be careful what you pray for.

Unexpected Silence

When all has been Babel,

with calmness absconded

to a distant quiet place;

the storm’s sudden cessation

brings an unseen relief to the senses,

that the clamour of sturm und drang

have cut to the quick.

LIskeard Writers Group Prompts for 01/09/2020

1. The call of cold water

2. Finding a way back home

3. The mysterious sound of silence

Coldwater was a small, backwards town by the foot of Mount Edssegan, near to the border of Kelwith and Drammel Counties; yet it paid no dues to either.

Hemmed in as it was by the two rivers, Tally and Flynn, it survived by its trade with nearby villages and sending ground flour and other foodstuffs along the rivers to places further away. It used to be called a lost town.

However, this story is not about Coldwater.

I was lost, and fearful of ever finding a way back home. I had foolishly set off with little in the way of provisions and wearing light Summer clothing, when the Autumn chill at night was likely to reach right inside and leach the strength from an unseasoned rookie out for adventure.

They said at school that I was destined for failure – well, at least I remember something from my schooldays – I never liked Geography, and Surviving in the Wild hadn’t been on the syllabus then.

I lay on the ground coated in leaves where I had fallen. My breath was shallow and fluttering. I might not last the night.

All the creatures had settled down for their nocturnal slumbers – even the cicadas – and there was I listening to the mysterious sound that has enveloped me… the sound of silence. Difficult to grasp at nothing, but there it was. Not a leaf rustling, nor a twig snapping, but I knew that I was being followed deeper and deeper into the darkness. Some being was shadowing my path, staying at a constant distance, and waiting.

I was waiting, too; but, from the other side of the equation. My loss would be another’s gain – my departure the ending that I deserved, and my body would be disposed of in one of many unimaginable (or imaginable) ways.

Waking from the deepest of sleeps, I yawned and rubbed at my bleary eyes. Last night’s sleep had been filled with vivid dreams, that, all too often, verged on the border of nightmares. I always woke feeling drained and with a sense of onerous misgiving from these sorts of image-laden nights.

I arose and walked unsteadily to the door of my room. Upon opening the door I was confronted by a shape the size of a small garden shed. Amorphous to say the least, it was probably just a foreshadowing of the dreads that the day would bring me.

“Coffee! I need coffee!” I spoke.

The amorphous shape followed me to the kitchen – I bet it was ‘hungry’, too.

I sipped the freshly percolated brew, caffeine firing up the synapses to bring my brain online.

The amorphous shape – I shall call him ‘Syd’ – hovered fractionally above the ground; silent, thoughtful, brooding.

Syd looked at me as if to say, ‘Get a life!’. I could but agree. How is it that the truth spoken by others is easier to accept than the truth you yourself try to voice. But, yes, Syd was right. I did need to get a life.

The morning passed. Syd and I stared at each other. The world carried on beyond these four walls. Sentences became phrases. Words dissolved into l o n e l e t t e r s.

Demon Library: Where Angels Fear To Read

Demon Library: Where Angels Fear To Read

For fools rush in

and knock over a stand,

a floral display, a waste-paper bin;

loiterers loiter (as is their wont)

by the sign shouting “Silence!”

and only returning

from whence they came

at cloning time.

A book upon the Mafia,

once taken out,

remains taken out.

And the crumbs of information

gleaned from the Reference Section

are a scant comfort to readers

far and wide.

Guitar Upon the Wall

Guitar Upon The Wall

The guitar hangs upon the wall

like a picture drawn a thousand times;

but, where is the use it needs to feel,

the lyric phrase, the quirky rhymes?

Strings, untuned, coated fine

with the dust of betrayal,

silently thrum to the tune

of an unheard song

from long, long ago;

when, or if, they shall play again

it’s beyond my knowledge to know.

13 Seconds of Silence

13 Seconds of Silence

Thirteen seconds of silence

led to thirteen seconds more –

the rest did me good.

My mouth recovered,

my tongue recharged,

my impatience began to rally(

and soon there was silence

no more.

Easy like, it’s Saturday Morning – almost a Blog

Drummer = big hit as he has a big kit.

Drummer = big git as he has a big kit.

When your head is banging
Like there is a bad drummer inside it, And he’s rehearsing for his first (and only) gig.
Thumpety-thump, thumpety-thump-thump!
And if I meet him later he will surely get a frosty reception from me
And will know where his drumsticks did go.

Anyway, the day may be quiet,
But that emphasises every noise that ever there was – it’s no picnic, I can tell you…
But, I shall whisper these written words
Because even their silent rustling is like a heard (yup, heard) of cattle passing by.

I did the coffee thing – managed to pour cold water on the granules and then had to nuke the bejesus out of the result. Now, I have to wait as the coffee is 3 degrees hotter than the hottest temperature known to Man. Pour me.

It’s a Saturday, Samedi same crud, no, not true, lots of good stuff soon;
When this hangover (from life, I don’t really drink) eases off a bit.

This was going to be a poem…
It’s not.
You may have noticed that.
I will poeticise lyrically later – maybe.
For now, you have a baddish (ting) bloggish blog yow thing that says little, does less, and goes nowhere.

Thank you for reading.
If you have read, please put:

‘Shhhhh… quiet, please!’

In the comments.
Thank you