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through words,
I heal my wounds
by completely exposing them
The intertwined branches of the
woods are brown...
There is not a song in far away lands
The scarf has pain
Knitting veil from my hair
The trees are repetitive to me
I see a man, green
Having no woman next to him

شاخه هاشان در هم تنیده
...چوب ها قهوه ایست
دوردست ها آوازی ندارد
روسری درد می کشد
از موهایم حجاب می بافد
درختان برایم تکرار اند
من
مردی سبز را می بینم
...که زنی در کنارش ندارد
It's hard to remember how everything was,
before people changed, before they turned into
a selfish and distant being.
Even those of us who refuse to turn into that
state of obscurity are considered weird, but the truth
is that we are exhausted and disappointed.
Those people who dare to call themselves humans
drain our positivity like parasites and take
advantage of our honesty.
I was lucky to know a true freedom for a while, a place
of remarkable spirit that was taken from me.
I will not yield.
R~, a name so vibrant,
Teeming with endless vitality,
She was named to flow through the ripples of the stream.

Lacing within the folds of clear liquid,
Weaving through the movement,
Breathing in, out.

Unconstrained, forever free, traveling with currents.
Spilling, gushing out from the motion,
Rising above to disappear,
Breathing in, out.

Formulating in little crystal droplets,
Swirling into cotton candy in the sky.
Transforming into birds, fish, happy things.
Breathing in, out.

Shapes churning into sudden wisps of thick gray,
Consuming brightness, leaving darkness.
Deafening booms of anger, bursting streaks of blinding white.

Pouring from the sky, endless invisible beads,
Heavy, weighing the petals of flowers down,
Collecting in pools of reflection.
The soft pitter-patter, a lullaby to the ear,
Falling once again upon the stream,
Merging with the currents of energy,
then slowing to a calm,
Breathing in, out.

Oh so vibrant,
Teeming with endless vitality,
Flowing through the ripples of the stream.
A poem for a friend.
I have been left
            floating
     my arms out
in mid-action
as if to stop
what might have always
             inevitably come        
                   and I am dangling
above forest and brush
            above wild animals
          who look at me
in wonder
my goddess energy
in temporary shock
      my grief
billowing behind me
like an 18th century gown
in a black cloud of mourning
it threatens to
drown me completely
but my secret weapon
      is to let it ride its course
              to feel it in all intensity
For I know
this will pass
I will be ok
and so I let it go
untethered
like a river's rushing current
like a pocket of turbulence
like a storm that whips up,
engulfing quiet
in sudden froth
my hair flows
      like a manga warrioress,
about to strike
her revenge upon the Earth
rage in arrows that pummel
your confused, bruised heart
where truth hides
within layers
upon layers of
     veiled
night air
Happy to say that for the most part, the feeling has indeed passed, yet the positive aspects of what was are in my heart
When the window
of your mind
is clean,
you can see
the beauty of the Unseen.
~

a crystal cradle slowly falls,
from an indigo sky;
coyote’s distant howl,
blends his primal song,
with the whoot, whoot of the owl;
desert minstrels, keeping beat,
with cricket and cicada’s chorus.
above, a dark horse grazes,
in a field of ancient stars;
and below, encroaching mists
gather in the waving grasses,
crouching... waiting to devour,
all who venture near.
the endless whisperings,
of the brook, stream of
ageless waters, tell of tales
of distant ice and snow,
far above these thirsty plains.
aurora’s blend their magic,
their enchanting flame,
dancing in the rising ethers;
mesmerizing sleepy eyes,
a shepherdess is lulled away;
transported by her distant dreams.
dawn’s approach she fails to hear,
’til it's much too late;
when songbirds of the desert,
now seated in this orchestra,
sing her sleeping soul awake.

~

*post script.

watching the set of a cradle moon on a late night return from the rolling hills of Central Oregon’s high desert last month prompts just enough lines to keep these images alive, until i am able to give them complete thought and words this morning.  aside from fatigue, i love driving at night.  197’s winding crossing down to the Deschutes at Maupin and then it's descent into The Dalles beside a wide Columbia; these, and my longing to be home beside my wife, keep me from sleep driving, alone with my thoughts and imagination.  though rare to Oregon, there are times of year when the aurora borealis pushes its way far enough south to be viewed on moonless nights.
Wildly clanging bells, soundless--

housed worship withdrawing

senses...your button black pupils

struck dead.

Alarmingly alive, wearing *******

vengeance in pure.

Both Christ and high priest tearing

open your skin, to shed a

blasphemous tour.

Exemplar energy transference,

popped cellophane wrap round

mileages of barbwire.

Eavesdropper, peace-fingered

tongue thru fangs...plunged in

red rondure, swell fruit.

Salival juice, moonlit seafoam --

hard jazz tripping your wire.

Asked to Come again--questioningly

striking, you always come again

on the flip side, straight up.

That notched spine: O sole mio.

Bite till darkness takes cover

in me.
It's easy to hear the loneliness in her voice
As she speaks she has no one to talk about, there's just no choice

She talks about the good old days
Filled with love and compassion all was just a faze

Loneliness is when you cry
There's no one there to make her smile or dry her eyes

No one to help with the demons inside her head
No one to subside the discomfort of pain from deep inside

The demons are here to prey on the misguided brain
She continues to hide her pain

Only to give into the loneliness of despair
Her loneliness has only become a reality because nobody cares

Trying to fade away loneliness has taken its toll
On her soul

Sound of loneliness is silent
She doesn't hear the birds singing with great talent

She doesn't feel the sun shining
People pass her by as if she doesn't exist so she starts declining

She wishes her heart could love again highly unlikely loneliness has become her only way of life
She remains unable to feel due to the coldness in her heart stuck by a knife
Written by: Denise Huddleston
Amongst the barren trees and evergreens
The beautiful white leaves of the pear trees
The low lying bushes begin to green
The crocus and tulips at full bloom
It must be Spring
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