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First Word Moon · Sep 23, 2025

Silence Waits

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Jorah LaFleur · First Word Moon

“Silence waits for truth to break it.”

~ Naomi Shihab Nye, from the poem “My Wisdom”

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truth breaks silence
like magma breaks a mountain,
a renaming rupture
forevermore: volcano
truth breaks silence
like a child breaks the surface
of the water while swimming
natural as play,
life depending upon it
truth breaks silence
like an iceberg breaks from itself
fracture as form,
wholeness forcefully redefined
truth breaks silence
like a wintered bulb breaks soil
denying dirt ceiling,
harboring blossom as destiny

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i am scared to open my mouth
lest i unleash a wail of wasps,
a weeping born to waterfalls,
the rush of gone, unending
i am scared that truth will break silence
like an hour glass of sand shattering
into hands that cannot possibly
hold so many sharp shards at once
boulders to specks, rocks worn
to the last step
before
OBLIVION
(a word of terror and relief)
g-r-i-e-f
spells its way through our DNA
Death Nominates Acceptance
Death Nominates Acceptance
Death Nominates Acceptance
as its hierophant,
priestess primed to preside
inside the heart of the heart
of existence
how the mind finds resistance to
entering that sanctum of solace
we search for other locks and keys, rattling
off pleas that there be some other path
possible, passable
it seems implausible
that this 
is the best and only bargain
the cost of deep love
is devastating loss
and yet we keep investing
each attachment is a sorrow
in waiting
each bond anticipates
the break
what form will it take?
the question defies escape
in the haunting hour,
anxiety is a restless ghost
i, living, have walked with flask
of amnesia
that will never be
ambrosia
drunk with denial
until
unavoidably assailed
through the failed
protection against mortality
i’ve been wearing
like a child in cardboard armor,
wooden sword in hand
standing against the maw of OBLIVION yelling
“Death is something that happens to other people! …right?!”
the brain fights for sense as defense
and finds no purchase
Death holds all the coins
someday i may
be a prostrate beggar, bowl
outstretched and more than ready
to be b(r)ought
beyond the song
to the silence
what violence or peace
will release me from this meat,
i know not
the knot in my belly
forms at the smell of chaos
when smoke is sky
when rain is flood
and earth is quake
every selfie i take is a
portrait of no control
in the big picture
if i could know
when my whens
would end
would i walk a different road?

3. FOR TRUTH

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on the morning of July 14th, 2025,
at the age of 49, the cherished spoken word poet Andrea Gibson
died after 4 years of publicly confronting cancer
on the afternoon of July 14th, 2025,
i found out that a great platonic love, my Bro Bear Rob, had died
alone, of causes still unknown, at the age of 47
on July 2nd, 2025, my writing community lost a talented friend, Ken Robinson
on June 22nd, 2024 my musical community lost a brilliant brother, Dorian Crow
on June 21st my mom had another birthday dinner she doesn't remember; dementia is an unwelcome guest, always at our table now
summer sings of loss in the light
Andrea’s poetic passing and poetic passages called out to millions
offering collective pain in one hand
and collective healing in the other
Andrea said, “Just to be clear I don't want to get out without a broken heart. I intend to leave this life so shattered there's gonna have to be a thousand separate heavens for all of my flying parts.”
it has been hard to figure out where to start
in giving voice to the grief that’s been keeping me
ever more turned inward
i have been scared to open my mouth,
lest i find it sewn shut like a fresh wound
it felt too soon
for eulogy,
and my fear about the losses that loom
can consume all my breath
so, i am left
with this to say (just for today)
to those beloveds recently passaged:
Thank you for being a part of my shattering, for mattering so deeply that there was no way to keep the earth beneath me when you fell. I will tell the greedy darkness stories of your long light. I will fight my own inertia, work to break silence with truth every time I can, to expand rather than shrink when I am brought to the brink of what I think I can handle…
…when my hands
have lost every grain of sand
and i find myself perfectly posed
to accept.

Read the original on jorah.substack.com

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