@ Tim

It is good to see you here my friend. It’s good knowin’ you’re out there. Takin’ ‘er easy for all us sinners.

She circles her hips along on the platform
And the hoops on the screen swing around
The synthetic music scales to the action
Rising and falling in motion with the circles
As the air whirls gently around her
The counter ambulates upwards past
Three hundred and heading to four
I laugh at her rotating butt but she doesn’t hear
She is intent on victory and the record
And I am content to watch her quietly

They said – Write a poem that ends with “quiet”
but they didn’t tell me what kind of quiet
is it the darkness of dawn, the now dimming sound of
the garbage truck as it pulls back
the plang, plang of metal slamming bin-receding

is it the quiet of my children who tiptoe at the edge of their
netherworld, as they lay in the benevolent sunlight – books
and pink castles spread around them.

maybe it’s the quiet that I take
when I swallow
my own sound. Stiffle and stuff
the claw footed demon- shush, shush now
–wouldn’t want to wake it.

Or is it the quiet of poetry itself
- the silent shadow slips under your door,
hand now over your mouth-pulling you
to the back alley where it’s truths are written.

- revelations that are anything but quiet.

@John, thanks for the simple meditations link. The other option is practicing Yoga (if under the right instructor) to fight burnout, keep young and optimize your energy levels. I guess, Yoga is getting accepted well in the west these days…

Cheers and awaiting more poems…
Ajith

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Out my window the weather is loud
I hear the mother, the father
Bawling at the numberless children
And the kids howling, whooping.

Good weather means no end in sight.
I turn on music that drowns nothing.
The kids call each other assholes
The father threatens, the mother shrieks.

My nerves are taut, my breathing labored.
I try to meditate and hear more screeching.
Later the swing set’s rust is loudly groaning.
I close my book, not marking the page.

It seems an unfair act of the universe
For one who lives alone so quietly.
I speak to no one, disturb no one.
Why me? I ask of no one.

Now it is fall and they are all gone.
The yard yawns brownish and empty.
The swing set is still and vacant.
No one screams. No one cries. Quiet.

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