culminates in her silence.
Fasika’s mystic beauty listens
to the silences of silence.
Aparna sees how Silence speaks,
yet it never works for her.
Elizabeth feels winds of violence,
blown away by winds of silence.
Sweet Melissa’s silence is golden;
but, we ask: against what price?
Marilyn describes manifest Silences:
new days dawning, mothers in prayer.
Kay says in silence you can hear them
cry and whisper, then become speech.
Sylvia observes she breaks the silence
as she finishes sentences, then adds:
in silence all my thoughts are mingled;
in silence, I create an air of suspense.
Amy opens to silence, while Daffodil
simply sits, not having anything to say.
Donna echoes Silences full of rage —
feelings held in, lurking in every room.
Mary wonders if silence can be found
or heard — in a house truly lived in.
Theresa practices peaceful silence; still,
Mystikka knows in silence you’re all alone.
Ernestine stirs the silence, so profound;
Theodora embraces momentous silence.
Sara tells Eleonora that silence broods on
deserts, sets crowns of silence upon art.
Deepa recalls sometimes silence is so loud
and strange, heard across a thousand miles;
sometimes she wishes for at least one voice
which could kill this cold and bitter silence.
Sandra, too, notices silence is broken, with no
hands skilled enough to mend the difference.
Ina Helen notes the greatest power says more
than any word — without saying a single one.
Scarlett, ever a treat, rises upward into earliest
morning silence, hopes to hear sounds of love.
Marianne’s deepest feeling always shows itself
in silence; and not in silence — but in restraint.
Amanda allows herself to sit in silence, braves
being alone, treats silence as less of an enemy.
Edna finds silence lovelier than three lovely maidens,
as they too long for breath above, not under, ground.
So many women know all the ins and outs of silence;
especially female poets silenced — for far too long.
. . . . .
Susan Powers Bourne
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