the sobering silence
of anger
that forms in the echo
of a slammed door

then there is
the soulful silence
of lovers lying side-by-side

the singular silence
of a man
alone with his thoughts

the silence of a friend
waving goodbye from the window
of a train

the silence of enemies
standing on either side
of a line in the sand

the silence of a hawk
in flight

of the sun
the stars
and the moon in the sky

of a stopped clock
of a flower unfolding

the silence just before
the film begins

of paint drying on canvas
of lips moving in prayer

the silence that occurs
before the wind
that arrives ahead of the storm

the silence between
the final vibration of a violin
and the applause of the crowd

the silence of
worry
pain
loss

distinct from
the silence
of a smile

the silence
of the color blue

or the silence
we choose

and of the thousand thousand silences
the most powerful silence of all the silences
is the silence
of silence

(D James)

the sun doesn’t ask
why it shines

the tree doesn’t ask
why it leaves

nothing
in all the world
asks why

except us

because we think
what we think
matters

and it does
but only to us

so what if
we let our thoughts
fall away like rain

what if
we shined like the sun

what if
we let our false-selves go
like leaves from a tree

what if
we stopped asking
why

what if
we just admit
we don’t know
and never will

and what if
we didn’t
make it mean anything

(D James)

like life
or something similar

wanting
to be free
from fear

or at least
push through

needing
to take action

but bored with
the supposed options

stifled
by the thoughts
of past failures

though there’s nothing
to be done about them now

avoiding
hard work
and difficult
conversations

instead
I’ll write
and smoke cigarettes
make a life
out of words

because in the end
that’s all any of us
really have

(D James)

rarely
what it is

so we talk about

as if a description
of a thing
is the thing
itself

this isn’t how I feel
these are the thoughts
about how I feel

judgements
on a theme

proximity
of an approximation

but what is it
moment by moment
this thing we call
life

I don’t know
but I can tell you
about it

for hours
and get nowhere

or instead
keep silent
find the moment
in the moment

because it’s happening
it’s always happening
even when we’re struggling
to understand
or explain it

it’s happening
right now
whether we’re aware
or not
whether we understand
or not
whether we agree
or not

it’s happening
even when we’re
not here

(D James)

(D. James)

it’s the last
small joy
we have

like a slender shaft
of sunlight
through the basement
window

don’t take it
away

we won’t
know what
to do then

waiting,
like refugees
under a rain-soaked
tarp

hoping,
for what was
what might be

so please
don’t take it
away

they’ll be
nothing left
to say

(D. James)

which ones will I catch
in the net of my mind
hold onto for dear life

which ones will I let fly
laughing at what nonsense
I can come up with

what if they were all
just passing

like a small spark
or bolt of lightning

electric and fleeting
shinning a momentary light
then gone

instead of being turned
into the truth

(D. James)

silently mocking
my attempts
to scribble
something

of weight

the blank page
like a snow-covered
mountain

challenges my ability
to communicate
and whisper-laughs
at my thoughts of words

until I say
to the blank page
“ok, you write something”

then there is silence
and I can finally settle down
to begin the work of stringing words
together into something that makes sense

to someone
somewhere

(D. James)

never and always
right and wrong

bone and dust
blood and guts

intransigent and flexible
solid and liquid

everything
and
nothing

(D James)

and and and
bringing together
disparate thoughts

and and and
an endless string
of ideas

and and and
where I’ve been

and and and
where I’m going

(D. James)