Let creation set you free: Poetry

Silence

Cut down, pushed down, thrown down

a spastic reaction, a commandeering confection of a bully 

Crashing. 

Down.

What is silence.

To be torturted by it. Nay but nay. 

What is silence. 

The gift of tongue forcibly ripped, defiled from the frame, literally silenced. 

What is silence. 

Lover castigating your soul's breath, making it trivial as a reminder of your "place."

What is silence.

But of water squelching on the fires of passion, on the passion of devotion on the devotion of IT.

What is silence. 

A self made prison of barbed-wire and chain linked fence, where the tulips grow outside the unlocked gate.

What is silence.

Is it found in the twisted torment of a childhood bound by scars, lashings, and pleasurably guilted sex scents?

What is silence.

Is it the empty "home" with blood stains strewn across the idyllic curtains 

and 

fallen photos staring into the loathsome Nothingness upon its walls?

What is silence.

Is it the noose around the neck of the body whose burden is too much to bear? 

What is silence.

What is silence?

Is it madness? Is it peace? Is it revolution? A time of contemplation? 

What is silence?

It is tethered by invisible strings that flow from Genius, to fingers, onto the page.

It is the feeling of rage, hate, love, kindness, peace, swelling tearfulness, & desire to be alone - in a single moment?

What is silence?

Is it in the mindful spaces between the pauses and screams? 

Between the sirens, flashing lights, the tireless infant and the paranoid lover incessantly battering?

It is found in the quiet, panted inhalation of the willful submersion.

It is found upon the bitten brim, invisible beside the flesh eliminated
It is found in the shards of the forsaken heart anesthetized through decades.
It is found in her Mind, that despicable self-disdain, to allow such subjugation. 

When did the Uninvited silence, Silence me.

Photo: Ellen Haroutunian

© 2014 Silence - DNKG

Let Creation Set You Free: Poetry

Untitled

Vision of the past
swell inside her heart
the shadow of a broken dream
a life shattered,
imagined to have been perfection

a quivering lip and shaky hand
are the only visible signs
of scars left unspoken
perhaps its the revenge
that keeps her questioning
or perhaps its the atonement
that keeps her cold,
a poisonous house
in which none could grow.

standing alone in the dark lot
staring at the lights, enter the rain
her mind returns to that night
when eternity changed for her
she waits anxiously in the cab
legs shaking so rapidly
the rhythm annoyed

waiting, aching, scared, petrified
dark, dark and disgraced, she disappeared
the whispering glow and painted graffiti
were witness to her opprobrium;
shadows encroach on her
laugh at her doom
laugh at her future now destroyed
laugh at the choices she must make

Sullied was the fibrous essence
tainted in the Dogma of 2000 years
confused, conflicted by instinct
she sits on the curb
juggling...

emotions, thoughts, corporeal responses
he, in all his love for her, he
stoops along her side; embrace.
"Everything is going to be okay"
he whispers unassuredly
she lies, "I know"

weeks pass, the fatigue noticeable
her advisors and associates remark
performance is poor, "you're not yourself"
she witnesses change, he can see it to.
Afraid of excommunication, terrified of execution
paralyzed by the Present;
FROZEN
with no time to waste

Snow falls upon the roof. The world is quiet.
In her silence she waits
In his arms does she seek refuge
only to pull away
writhing on the floor, hiding her face from the pain
tears of self-loafing, relief, and despair fall in the carpet
her hands the only bloody witnesses to existence that withers away from her

Decades pass. Lives press forward. Recollections Fade. All but one.
In the recesses of the shadows of her lies a memory
branded on the most damaged part of her soul.
Shame. Embarrasment. Hate.
Years of guilt that cannot be unbound
She cannot save herself.
She is trapped in a cesspool, dying and re-dying everyday

Vision of the past
Bondage of time, being set free
meditations on the heart and mind
heal the clouds that darken the day
pink heart in hand with "love" it is written
a simple sigh and a tender phrase
repaired the damage from eons ago.

Death, demise, execution- Perish
She saved him
only to have him
save her
so that she could save him
again with her last dying breath.

He utters,
"Warrior Mother.
Never change your colors.
Until our next lifetime.
I love you"

DNKG

Untitled © 2014

The Invitation

Was reading through some old posts in a far off distant blog elsewhere...and I found this one to be worth re-publishing


The Invitation


It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing. 

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive. 

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon, I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow. If you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear or further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it. I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance wtith wildness and let the ecstacy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human. 

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true, I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy. I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence. 

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!" 

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be dont to feed the children. 

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back. 

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away. 

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments. 

-Oriah Mountain Dreamer