Not a Word - July 19 2026

 

Not a Word

July 19 2026

No vow of silence.

No voice to save.

No silent treatment,

like a stubborn spouse

nursing a grudge.

Yet I haven’t talked all day

  . . . not a word.

Nothing to say

and no one to say it to.

My voice will not grow old,

the high notes

will not break it.

My throat will be smooth

cords tumescent

larynx supple.

I will be startled

to hear myself speak,

surprised by a sound

that surely couldn’t be me.

Might grope for words,

stumble over my tongue

or self-consciously stutter,

like a shy 5 year old

hiding back of his mother’s legs.

Yet there is much to be said

for silence.

To not use words

for self-protection

or as weapons in a duel.

To not feel the need

to assert myself;

as if my presence here

needed defending,

I needed reminding

that I exist.

To not disturb

a settled world,

stirring the air with my noise

and dropping sentences

in capital letters

that keep shouting too loud.

Nor risk words

emerging from my past,

haunting me

like zombies from the grave.

Instead, I listen

take in

consider.

And even though words pour through my head

I keep them to myself.

After all, there is more than enough cacophony

to fill the ears

of a fidgety world,

contradicting

interrupting

and outshouting each other.

Or simply words

to fill the awkward silences,

small talk

before the panic sets in;

anything

from weather

to thoughtless blather

to jokes your dad would tell.

Solitude

becomes me,

and silence comes easily

in this peaceful place

far from the noise.

So I will speak again

only when there’s something worth saying

and someone anxious to hear.