Too Much Silence, poetry by S.D. Kilmer at Spillwords.com

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Too Much Silence

S. D. Kilmer·September 23, 2022

Poetry English

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Too Much Silence

written by: S.D. Kilmer

@SDKilmer

Don’t leave it to my imagination,
Talk to me.
Let me in, to your thoughts
Don’t keep me wondering
what you’re thinking.

Poison creeps in
to any human relationship,
when there’s too much silence.
Silence is a killer between people.
The soul’s discontent.
The heart’s lament.
Is too much silence. See!
Too little communication
leading to erroneous ideas.
Discontent in Being on
the verge of a heartbreak.

Talk to one another.
Let them in, to your thoughts.
Don’t keep them wondering
what you’re thinking.
What you’re feeling.
Silence is poison.

About
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S. D. Kilmer

S. D. Kilmer is a lifelong poet and contemplative. He is retired Pastoral Counselor and Family Conflict Mediator. His writings appear in several in-print Literary Anthologies and several online Literary eZines. See his website for details: Emergent World. He resides in Central New York State, USA.

Suman Pokhrel

Suman Pokhrel is a Nepali poet, lyricist, playwright, translator, and artist. He debuted in 1999 with a poetry collection and has since published works, including translations of Shakespeare and global poets. His poems are translated into many languages and taught across South Asia. A two-time SAARC Literary Awardee, he also received Asia’s Inspiring Poet Award and was named Author of the Month by Spillwords in June 2023. Beyond literature, he works as a freelance consultant in socio-economic research, rural development, entrepreneurial development and creative writing. He began his career in Nepal’s civil service and later worked with international NGOs. He holds degrees in Science, Law, Business Administration, and Economics.

Condoms by Seán Óg Ó Murchú

They all laughed at me. All the dinner ladies. It started with your one, I’m after forgetting her name now… Smelly Nelly’s ma. A wet little tear trickled toward her tattooed cheekbone. She was roaring red. Her harsh, wheezing laughter sounded like a black taxi tackling the Whiterock Road, her throat destroyed from all the fegs she used to be hoofing into her. She called over the other dinner ladies then, an army of them. Or maybe it was the curiosity of her horrid laughing that brought them over… I can’t remember.
“Tell the girls what you’re only after asking me there ni wee mawn.”
I looked between herself and the girls. Jesus Christ, I said in my own mind, Mental Mick is after stealing all my crayons that I’d been hoarding for myself there before the break...

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