Tag Archives: Poetry

Urgency in the sound &Power in the Silence

“Nothing strengthens authority so much as silence.”
― Leonardo da Vinci

We wait for the loudest sound before we act. Not much will clear a ball field or a swimming pool quicker than a roll of thunder or a crack of lightning. We all see it coming. The wind picks up, and the gray, angry clouds roll in, but we still sit there, watching the sky, commenting on whether we should pack up or wait it out, and finally we run for cover as the clouds spark.

There is a seeming power in sound. The throaty roll of an engine coming to life or the roar of the crowd as the cheering intensifies. We are drawn to believe that what is loudest holds the greatest power — that volume commands influence. And though there is truth in the thunder, not all strength needs to shout. Sometimes, power moves in silence, and influence flows in barely audible whispers

After the earthquake, there was a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire came a still, small voice. – 1 Kings 19:12

The most powerful forces in nature occur in the vastness of the universe. Exploding stars, massive black holes, and Gamma bursts produce unimaginable forces in absolute silence.

I think we have fallen for the folly that to be successful, you have to have a platform that makes noise. You have the bang your drum and stand before an audience of thousands to have an impact. Those ways can be good, and they have their place, but we must not forget about Betelgeuse.

Betelgeuse is a red super-giant star in the constellation of Orion, and when Betelgeuse goes supernova, it is said it will shine in our night sky brighter than the moon for several months. Everyone on Earth will look up and take notice, and will be impacted by the beauty or just be in awe of the powerful mute death of a star.

A silent hug, or a whisper of encouragement in a friends ear can feel like a supernova inside someone who is hurting. A hand on a shoulder or your best friend showing up in an ER waiting room, without saying a word, can feel indescribable.

For the ones who are hurting, God may have you where your voice is not heard, or you feel like you aren’t seen. You may believe you aren’t impacting much of anything and in those times discouragement can creep in, grip you, and tell you, you are worthless.

Take that time to listen, to look. God maybe moving in silence. Take this blog for instance, it hasn’t blown up with hundreds of followers in over the couple of years I have been posting. When I started, I imagined I’d be answering emails and messages from readers and it would take up so much of my time and I would be connecting with people from all over the world but In fact, I can admit, it only has a handful of people who even know it exists. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t carry weight or have any impact at all. Maybe God didn’t mean this platform for the world, maybe he meant it for me. There are days when I’m discouraged, and I look back and I read one of my posts, and my very own words cheer me up and give me insight. They are old thoughts in a new season, and like the immense events of the heavens, these words on the screen don’t make a sound.

If you must shout, then shout resoundingly with purpose. But if the moment allows, move with quiet intent—
For silence can strike as powerfully as sound. If you have ever witnessed heat lightning then you know the silent flashes that can wink across a summer sky. Does the lightning lose strength for not roaring like the thunder?

In your experience does the squeaky wheel get the grease or is there something to be said for for quiet authority?

Keep developing yourself and to my future self who is reading this, don’t give up, you are loved.

I thought about sharing, the sound of silence, by Simon and Garfunkel (the remake by Disturbed is amazing in my opinion but I thought this fit better, so enjoy some classic Depeche Mode.

Poetic Uncertainty

  • Creative Writing
  • Poetry

Poetry is my red-headed stepchild. It’s the relative you send a Christmas card to each year to acknowledge their existence in the family but you quickly send them to voice mail on the occasions they call.

I was introduced to poetry in elementary school. It was lyrical, the sing-song style that every little kid is introduced to, inevitably leading them down the path to discovering that no English word rhymes with Orange. Then poetry tried to get reacquainted with me in high school and college, and he was in full rebellion. Poetry didn’t rhyme or have a fun meter anymore. No, he was free-versing it. But, it just wasn’t the absence of the rhyming, he also had branched out his romantic side into sonnets, become the class clown with limericks, and even traveled abroad, coming home calling himself a Haiku. I couldn’t keep up and I didn’t like it. It was like trying to read the King James Version of the Bible as a child.

I was not poetry’s type either. I didn’t go to coffee shops with a Macbook Pro covered in stickers demanding to free Tibet and polar bears alike while wearing a crocheted beanie and drinking something akin to coffee. We weren’t compatible and I was okay with that.

So, when poetry started knocking on my door like an unannounced Jehovah’s witness, I did what we all have done; muted the TV, told the kids to be quiet, and hid in the kitchen, away from open windows until the knocking stopped. I then sneaked to the upstairs blinds to see if the coast was clear, nervous to part them for fear of being seen.

Why had he come back? We had nothing to talk about. I was fine writing my fiction work and he had his niche among the English Lit students across university campuses. I still don’t know the answer, but this idea wouldn’t leave my head. So I indulged it, manipulated it, and for God’s sake it had to rhyme.

I mentioned a few posts ago that I would be sharing some of my work. When I wrote that, I meant a chapter or two in my developing novel. Instead, I give you the first poem I think I have written since elementary school. I’ll be honest, I ran it past a few friends first. After a friend told me it was good, and he could actually understand it, I felt that I had come to terms with poetry, even if it is on shaky ground. I didn’t even have to wear a beanie or join a cause. I just had to write it the way I wanted. So below is my poem. It may be missing some punctuation here or there but I still think it’s pretty understandable even if it was written on a PC.

Icons

The colossals of the past stood stoic in their stone

Watching us live before fading into bone,

We praised our own hands worshiping what was sown

Still, they stood silent, not even a kindly groan.

We filled shelves and libraries with literary tomes

about the busts we rent, sitting silently in our homes.

Oh, the glory we heap on the marvels of today, our monuments still silent, molded stone and lifeless clay.

So why do we cry, weep when they fall

Aren’t they just lifeless forms, standing rigid and tall?

Maybe it’s the artist and all his toll and torment, or maybe it’s the shape these figures represent.

Some fall by nature, taking back what is hers

Some fall by man, by the anger that it stirs

Whether rage or storm, the assailant does wield

The colossal is reborn, refusing to yield.