Outer silence, yet
so loud within;

to still that clamor
you try everything.

You transfer 
your inner noise out

to page or stage. That
quells it, doesn’t end it.

You stone it, you drown it.
It coughs, it gurgles. It lives.

You turn off, tune out.
Inside gets louder in delight.

You sit zazen,
claim success,

stuff your ears
with lotus blossoms.

Your roaring head
blows them out 

like unsolicited
opinions.

Perhaps you
should resign yourself

to noise? They say it’s all 
the rage these days.

This is also an 
unsolicited opinion,

of course. If there was 
peace making to offer

that was tried, true,
proven? Shout it

into you. Break
your exterior silence

with it. Leave you
to ponder it

among your 
souvenirs. But it’s not

real. Nothing
applies universally

when it comes to
storms inside.

Outer silence
notwithstanding,

all anyone can do
is toss you a line

and whether or not
you grab it is 

chance or
fate or something else;

whether or not it is
long enough, strong enough,

easy enough 
to hold fast,

is chance or fate
or something else again

that might have a name
you can’t hear above the wind.