“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.

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