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: Cigarettes in the Night

In the late hours of
the evening
with screaming, crying,
and labored breathing
Hands of
lightning zinging,
the Mind
busily working,
yet drifting
still disassociating
along the trestles of my bed.

The sway and bounce,
bustling, and teeming
the radiance
of Life,
silently quelling.
Apis, a Monarch
reduced to worker
reduced to slave
eviserated to
gangly being,
a ghost
invisible
along the trestles of my bed.

Once upon a time
where feet once
dangled,
gilded and laud;
where shadows met contours
embracing their
stage;
a juncture of
movement and space.
A silken body draped
in satin
and candle lit spill,
enchanted
by the rhythm
of breath
along the trestles of my bed.

Within satin sheets
and dimly lit
walls bound
by universal
secrets,
unwritten or whispered.
Holding the mysteries,
betwixt and aligned
of rapturous
revival
and static, idle nights
shrouded
along the trestles of my bed.

Thrashed and wasted
spirit and heart
waiting, wanting
for a portent
to warm, to heal
to know all is not for naught.
In the broken
starlight,
with detached eyes
through disheveled hair,
the waft of cloves
and burning
cigarettes
clouded
along the trestles of my bed.

Waiting,
Ever
Waiting
along the trestle of my bed.

In the twilight hour
of the Sun's gentle
rising, the wind's light caress
finds defeated brow
in hand.
And, the susurrus of
sweet, balmy dew
echoed
a fire kindling,
for love and hope
that is
only found
along the trestles of my bed.


© 2014 DNKG Cigarettes in the Night

Let Creation Set You Free: Spontaneous Release

Plunge

Throw me in the fire
Let the embers glow
Pitch that match
I won't scream
See the Maven
Endure...
subsuming the
warmth from which 
I dawn

©2014 DNKG

Let Creation Set You Free: Secrets of the Cedar Cellar

In her silent cedar cellar
upon a warm, smokey floor
back settling upon
the burgundy spirits 
holding
her aches, joys,
dreams and curses.

She, in empty hands, asks
"Am I not enough?
Am I not woman enough?
To what do I owe this
malcontent, this disrespect,
This. This. Just.....this...

Be it true, that
the grime, the dirt
the stains on the floor
or the crinkled bed linens
dictate my
unworthiness
of being
Wife of the Year?

Be it true,
the piles of clothes,
sink of dishes,
the shedding dog,
the muddied children
and tearful baby
dictate how I am
unworthy of
Mother of the Year?

Be it true
in the mirror, oh, that mirror
which haunts and laughs
at the lines, wrinkles,
the cellulite - uninviting;

Be it true, that this body
which bore children
that receives your reprehension,
is just a memory of THE body
existing in the broken fragments
of the psyche refusing
to take form, proclaiming:
YOU are not worthy of being
a Sexy Woman."

Soft tears roll across her pink skin
carrying the pain of decades,
beading upon the amber cedar.
Arms hiding her vision
breathing in and sighs,
"Am I not enough?
Am I not enough you?"

She trails
"I am enough for me.
But, fail so miserably for you...why?"
Faintly, she chokes,
"I am enough." 

A sudden warmth enters
like first sun on dew
He, hearing her heart's sorrow,
conveys lovers words
through muted lips
and begs forgiveness, renewal
before first bird's twitter
along the willow's branch tomorrow.


© 2014 DNKG Secrets of the Cedar Cellar 

Community Comportment: Cogitating Global Disenchantment

What would our
Mothers say
if they could see
us now,
dancing and frolicking
in palaces for patricians,
where the
granite and stone
mirror its
icy hearth.

What would our
Mothers say
if they could see
us now,
indifferent
with sighted eyes
that bare witness
to the outstretched
arms and bodies,
sooted black
like the
cavernous vaults
that house
apathetic hearts.

What would our
Mothers say
if they could see
us now,
as a bountiful
earth teeming
with orchards, fruits
of the Divine
now transformed
to a wasteland
of oil riggers,
sky high risers, and
Flesh abandoned
on the shores.

What would our
Mother's say
if they could see
us now,
as people lie
slain in
streets, bazaars, fields,
from rockets,
or guns, or bombs
sustained on
egotistical
hatred.
Coordinates for peace
dissipating
in a world
divided by
"Unity".

What would our
Mothers say
if they could see
us now,
ravaging lands
to cache bootless
treasure
from the decrepit
and exhausted.
Automatons
with electric wires,
buzzing displays,
programmed to
HALT
thinking,
perceiving,
feeling.

What would our
Mothers say
if they could see
us now,
squandering
our lives
under sheaths of golden
brillance
While the streets scream
and avenues bleed,
We, a heartless
shapeless mould.

What would our
Mothers say
if they could see
us now,
picking sides
like children do
to answer a man's call;
rather than rising
with arms of love
beckoning, prostrate
for Divinity
to enter us all.

© 2014 DNKG Community Comportment: Cogitating Global Disenchantment