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

White Chalk from my Black Jacket Pocket

I am a shadow of the night

a calm air upon your door

the haunting whistles rustling

the leaves outside your porch.

I am the moon's glow,

the howl from beyond the trees,

a shimmering eye from the forest

that chill your thighs.

I am the darkness lingering

under your chair, in the peaceful

space of your coach,

waiting for that perfect moment 

to writhe out. 

As you fall.

Fainting.

I am the second glance over your shoulder

when something feels uneasy and your

Spirit stirring self, silently, 

successively spots Source's sight

and yet

only to be taken by goddess' dark flight.

I answer the moon, the stars, the void.

Between, you think, lies very little.

For in the Sun you cannot see how

I beam and shine, like Sirius diamonds.

You desire this side, when darkness calls. 

Perhaps, I prefer the shadow of the night,

the silence of my halls

where creativeness falls and

Death is found whistling the

leaves outside your porch.

2012 © Yuriy Mironoff

2014 © DNKGrauman Chalk from my Pocket

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

The Challenge of Forgiveness: Inspired by Craig Taubaum & Co.

An open call on the High Holy Days,

On an eerily quiet morning, as neighborhood dogs slept and birds kept safely to their nests, a song began in my dreams and carried into my consciousness: “Forgiveness, forgiveness, even if, even if, you don’t love me anymore.” Don Henley’s 1989 hit coursed through me. Family lore spoke of the power of dreams and lessons attaching themselves to us upon waking, and openness was key to deciphering the code.

Fumbling through the mix of psychology textbooks, clinical progress notes, to-do lists, and gooey substances upon my nightstand I found my iPhone. I was greeted by seven missed messages from a male colleague, whose company I enjoyed fabulously on a number of occasions. His tone was frantic, content angered, and feelings dejected. I couldn’t hide behind the dark curtains of my broken reality anymore. It was time to peel back the layers and reconcile.   

Inhaling, I called and was greeted by silence. When he talked I listened, admitting that the mirror he held to my soul revealed a connoisseur for “The Game.” Begging for vindication, he cut my soul, “Wow. It took you this long?” Click. Pause. Silence. I scarcely see the morning of that bitter sorrow, but from time to time, I hear his virulent malice not granting my release. It’s that moment of wanting release that chains me, shackling me to memories of his charm, wit, celestial balance and life philosophy.

The greatest gift given by growth is awareness. I became astutely aware that I was responsible for forgiving myself. That no words from a man, woman, or even from HaShem would heal me. Forgiveness begins with pure intent, transformation comes through facing fears, and healing starts when we give ourselves permission to do so. Action is required.

            My dear ones, I challenge you to sing, perform, create, write down your trial(s) with forgiveness this year- with yourself, others, or G-d. What holds power over you? What would you need to release it?

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