perhaps it's true:
peace is silence,
muted whispers of the mind,
pain not vanquished,
but forgotten.

Sorrow is LOUD,
Suffering eloquent,
Somehow profound.
The world's terrors spur the Bard;
Loneliness awakens the songbird,
Death the swan's tongue.

in bliss
we lie at ease,
as a dreamer drifting,
drifting like flurries of snow,
sand shifting from rolling dunes,
aware, yet
somehow absent.

Of course...
There is the joy of sex:
A pleasure rich in ambiguities:
Thunder and lightning,
Release and conquest,
Tears and caresses.
There is humor:
Alchemist making light of darkness;
And the pleasures of thought,
Victory of reason,
The ecstasy of creation.
There is the pleasure of good food and drink,
And pleasure almost erotic in expulsion.

but these
are not the pleasures of peace.
they Clamor too mightily.

What more shall I say of peace?
It is good, yes,
But lends itself not
To passionate odes or stirring drama.
Peace is the orchestra silent,
The pause between words and sentences,
The small hours of history:
Yet brief,
Giving way to the bustle and din of becoming,
The restless labor, the turmoil
Of creation.

George Chadderdon © 1998