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May 6, 2014—Only The Silent Can See—A Journal Excerpt

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Tangled together in clustered chaos, rising from the soil.

No bark alike. No height specific. No two seeds the same.

Are we so different from the natural world, I ask?

Tangled together in clustered chaos, rising from the bed.

No skin alike. No gender specific. No two wombs the same.

Are they so different from us, I ask?

The answer cannot be sung. The answer cannot be heard. The answer cannot be praised.

The answer shows itself every so often, in between the tangled clustered chaos, where only the silent can see, where only the silent remain.

With all stones cast

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With all stones cast

There’s a pot still boiling

And a kettle left black

There’s a house still standing

With thinly cracked glass

There’s a kink in the line

With a reel still intact

There’s a spell in the ether

Waiting to be cast

With all stones thrown

There’s a hole full of flesh

There’s a crack in the arrow

There’s an angry protest

Each body a story, color, and time

Each arrow head sharpened, pristine, and divine

Each voice becomes voiceless, estranged, and unkind

With all stones turned

There lies not a soul

The truth is but squalor

Results are annulled

In a garden of daisies

Rest youthful and old

A graveyard of rubble

for silver and gold?

In the house I keep

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In the house I keep each wall shall be

A coloring book for poetry

Where colors burst in harmony

Where war and peace succumb to paint.

In the house I keep each window sill

Shall only bear the daylight spill

Where succulents hang with free will

Where laughter’s never faint.

In the house I keep each lock will turn

With open ended thoughts to churn

Where no one line deserves to burn

Where honesty is quaint.

But when fear knocks in the house I keep

There will be no reason for which to weep

My hands dipped well within relief

Each wall we’ll finger paint.

In the house I keep my only wish

To deserve and serve this simple dish

Where forks and knives grow strong and rich

Where no wall goes untouched.