oft in the stilly night.

In the grass, arms folded,
resting my head,
facing a frozen moon and ember stars,
at half past four,
having not spoken aloud in 24 hours.
There’s not a rustle, nor a breeze,
not a cricket’s or cicada’s call,
or chirp for the morn in my stilly night.
And I realize,
that every single being with wings,
with feathers, and talons,
with scales, and tails, and fur,
with fins, with fibers,
with songs, and skin, and sore hearts,
with offspring, eggs,
with whiskers, and wanderlust,
with trunks, or tusks,
with golden manes,
with exoskeletons, with thorax,
with wild trot, with tame,
that every single being means nothing,


20 thoughts on “oft in the stilly night.

  1. Such a contemplative moment. I can relate well to the lack of speaking. The final thought is a strong statement, but deeply telling of the nature of life. As I read it and associate it with animals I find myself seeing it as both a loving and a fatal recognition. We may feed the life of another creature or share it, but either way we are important to them whether they consume us or become our companion. Well done, fountains

      1. You must tell me what it is like trying to write drunk? I have never known that feeling. I must say, from what I’ve heard of it you seem to have done a smashing job

  2. dear pleasant fountain,

    your poem sums it up, that beauty is nothing without the beholden… i quite agree on this thought, it’s the absence of passion that renders a beauty useless. great write as always πŸ™‚ happy new year!

  3. Exquisitely expressed Fountains, but–no surprise–I must take exception to the denouement, which was an unpleasant surprise. I take precisely the opposite viewpoint.

    By the way, I am remiss in something I owe you, but I will make it up to you . . .

      1. You are very good. πŸ˜‰

        Yes, we are everything when we are alone, and we are nothing when we are together–except when we are in Love. For then we are as if alone . . . together.

  4. I followed Ben Naga’s lead here, and since Ben has great taste, I am not surprised to find that this poem impresses me a lot. Not only is the writing beautiful, but the last lines,
    that every single being means nothing,
    are measure of what life is about. Really fine work.

say something to me.

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