The Hushing of Noise at Wild Acres

Silence floods my skin
and bathes my seventy trillion cells
in music without sound.

Silence knits my disparate pieces
into a seamless garment,
so I move like the snake I saw on the trail.

Silence points my attention
both within and without, as if
I had no membrane at all.

Silence is crammed with mystery
yet wicks a sensible flame
with no fuss, no negotiation.

Silence gathers me in its arms of air
and expects nothing,
accepts everything.

Silence invites
my heightened awareness:
keen ears, eager eyes, each sense alive.

Silence waits for me,
like my final friend,
without a shred of impatience.

Silence. I am her humble companion.
In this turbulent world
she’s the song I have longed for.

©Susa Silvermarie 2015







Always in the Stars

After stargazing on the Owl’s Nest deck every night at Wild Acres

Whatever you’re doing right now,

you’re doing it in the midst of stars.

The stars are below as well as above you

right this daytime minute.

Wherever you are on the planet,

inside your house, at work,

in Australia, in Alaska,

the stars in fact surround you.


Peer through floating clouds or blue;

squint, and nod your recognition

to all that             Space                         behind them.

Seeing no end,

settle in and cherish flesh,

the body that cradles your magnificence.

Sense how precious small you are.


No need to be concerned

when you don’t remember the stars—

the gauzy atmosphere of Earth

has its own allure and learning.

The birds bring you near to yourself

in a more intimate way. But oh,

this always-in-the-stars perspective

pumps your viewpoint muscles,

and turns you into

a seasoned spiritual athlete.


Switching your view back and forth,

from Out to In, stars to birds,

builds up the finest alignment.

You can do anything,

You can go anywhere,

You can talk with anyone or any thing at all.

You belong to a Family of Creators.

who live aware, alive,             and large.

©Susa Silvermarie 2015


Inside the Minds of Artists

            For the resident artists of Wild Acres from  1999 to 2015           

The inside of artist minds—

revealed! in the cabin Journal volumes.

Process of projects,

inspirations, obstacles, all laid bare,

each entry in distinctive penmanship

that makes the writer real

as typescript never does.

We craft our praise and despair,

draw the wild creatures we encounter.

In the pages of the Owl’s Nest Journals,

we stay, despite our leaving.

We serve forward to the next,

encouragement and generous blessings.


I can see the woman who wrote

that she danced in exultation,

on this same grey carpet where I do Tai Chi.

I can hear the one who composed on the porch,

a solo piece for the contrabass flute.

I can feel the artist who emptied her fears

by standing on her head in the grass.

I can smell the paint and feel the pots

and rejoice in the perfect photograph.


We surely all are here at once

in parallel dimensions.

Those who came before me

thicken the air at the desk,

make tea with me in the kitchen,

despair with me when yesterday’s marvel

today needs much improvement.

We do the work, because we can,

because we’ve been given this gift.


Our gratitude seasons

the Cabin’s every cranny.

I add my deepest own,

for all our good and silent company,

which cheers me on my solo way.

©Susa Silvermarie 2015

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Spider Stuff

My hands are full of rocks

that must come home with me,

as I walk through webs the spiders wove,

overnight across the trail.


Filaments invisible, yet one by one,

they drape their touch against my face,

my neck, my eyes, my arms,

breaking only at each side

as I stride. They tickle my face,

but my hands are occupied,

and I can’t brush them away.


Against my skin,

the strands keep multiplying.

Each a gossamer finger, but

I might, after all, be caught!

Mightn’t five hundred spiders’ threads

on forehead, cheeks, chin and ears,

combine to capture me?

Or cure me?


This filmy mask of spider stuff,

that feels so insubstantial,

might hide, or bind,

or heal me.

©Susa Silvermarie 2015