Total Silence!

How, thought she, so quietly

to tell the world those things I see,

of the whispered words I hear

and not be left, sitting, in the ashes all alone,

as days drift past, all knowledge gone?

Will they laugh and shake their heads

thinking, this one’s mind is dead,

just superstitions of the uneducated;

you know how they are,

those old hard heads keep dreaming.

Such things, that the ancients speak

send chills of fear down to my feet,

of children, dying in the streets

and not one hand lifted to help them breathe or eat,

let alone, a place to sleep.

Doomsayer, you are called,

if even once you speak of the coming pall,

though clearly, they can see

the results of their own histories,

not us, they laugh, we are beyond all that.

Are you drunk, or just stupid, old one

can you not see, we are progressing,

are you blind to all that has transpired;

we are civilized people, with smart leaders

we cannot fall, or be toppled.

Oh, woe, and not simply looking for the worst

only paying attention to the truth,

one thing I have never been:

the pessimist that sees no daylight ahead,

call me realist instead, please.

So many changes in my own life time,

none yet, to lead me to believe

mankind has learned from strife and greed,

me first has become their battle cry,

what a standard for man to bear.

Just sit here, and do nothing

bite your tongue, and give no warning,

gather close, those you love

prepare them, as best you can,

leave the world, to find their own way to safety?

Watch in pain, as they crash and burn

betraying all that you have learned,

let the lessons sit idle,

waiting for a brand new people,

perhaps they will be kinder?

Take yourself back to the caves;

listen to their past mistakes,

gentle hearts cry out so loudly

you cannot leave without first trying,

grandchild, can you live with yourself after?

Enough, I cry, or they are right

my mind will be soft gray mush,

I cannot think with all this howling,

one at a time, and not so loudly

I cannot bear this screaming at me.

Seven is our Sacred number,

but three times three will be the terror,

burning rains and raging winds,

trembling earth, feels like the end,

instead it is in truth, the beginning.

Cities fall beneath our feet

leaving holes where once were people,

leaders lie to save themselves,

blazing headlines of hurricanes and tornados,

this too, is not the ending.

Rivers flood and once again run backwards,

the greatest danger is our caldera,

below the surface, trouble stews

molten heat, as ashes spew,

here, my friends, is where most life ends.

Dreaming, in full living color,

wake up screaming to the heavens,

it will not help, so just be quiet

leave it alone, soon there will be silence,

oh, but the cost to my spirit.

Quietly, she sits in contemplation,

knowing well the cost of saying

what she sees in the world around her

cannot be spoken, to these people,

be still now, no more crying!

Oh, grandmother, these dreams are driving me

crazy, NOW I understand what you were saying.

granny

© Sheila Williams

Awarded 25 July 2010