conversations in three parts


Not once, but for some days
I though and wrestled over
Thoughts about conversations
Conversations with silence
I supposed that there were none at the end
Not with Silence
But all, at their core, the conversations themselves,
Were simply and truthfully
A gentle or not so pleasant exchange with the self
Not even could it be certain
That it was even the bigger ‘self’
The one that stands alone with a capital S
Self – that one
No, more likely always it was the small one
Timid at times, or filled with fear, anger, confused
Giddy, overjoyed
Who half-kneeling spoke, under the pressure of Silence
nothing much of value was said.
Once some days ago, months now maybe it is hard to tell
By now, I had thought about this long enough
To try on the ideas and conclusions like they were clothes
Some like heavy felted wool,
I shrugged them on around my shoulders
Stumbling as though forced down by the neck
Into the dirt
Others instead, slipped on my body effortlessly
Like a well worn pair of jeans or shoes
With a memory of every movement, every path made
Worn to a mold of myself after a million steps
And without another thought I was walking
In these familiar impressions once again.
Still others – and there were many
Made me shrink away – away
At first glance
Resistance to those threads of thought
And then at second glance or third or fourth
I found no connection, no comfort, no understanding
I refused to open my palm
To embrace what I could not face,
Not even once
The thousand faces buried here
In this line of thought, pushed and pulled
Wrenched and cajoled and still
It was not the Silence I mistook it for
It was not the conversation I was part of
Not as I naively thought
It turned out to be just a smaller version
Of me
Now, as I sit here to write
Humbled and quiet
I find that the conversation
Has always been
Well over my head.

Leigh-Anne Tyson


To the ear, words and discussions,
Poetry and dreams are like candy
Some days, where they fall inward
Like a stream of water through the soul
Punctuating the day and night
They leave me at their close,
With the sense of having known something
That I did not before
And I treasured that
Some days, they are like a bitter drink
That flows through the inner canal to the heart
Words, like daggers, score the surface
And deeper still
They throw the inner sky into turmoil
Those days are like high winds beating
Itself against the wall, and I am left
Spent and worn down
These are not new – not to my ears
Or eyes or heart (and likely no one else’s)
But when solitude exerts itself
And sits on me like a lumbering oaf
I can no longer decide which of the two
I most prefer.

Leigh-Anne Tyson


An echo rumbles outward now
Propelled by unseen hands
I am only one standing on the edge
To listen – but what do I really hear?
Like a face reflected in the mirror
How do I know which is true
The note that leaves the instrument
Or the one reverberating in my mind?
What weight does the truth have in either case,
When I only want to listen….
The echo now is caught in my throat
Like a horn or drum that sounded at one time
Carrying messages beyond, but stopped awkwardly
As I wonder am I strong enough to follow through
Despite the hesitant step,
the sharp pangs of fear and self doubt
the echo as insistent as the original note
bellowing to be heard
love. live. be free


Leigh-Anne Tyson


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