As the Storm Arrives Silence with its excellent syntax is so real, rhythm compensates breathe when the stream of our thoughts shapes our lives, we are the same and always seek each other when silence between us dies. Are we all identical in nature, different in degree? Children can smell the wind more than pets, as you know they prowl the streets, and the smell of the wind will color them lilac, though for now only the moon rises, and each tree, remains as the heart of a wind, each wind a string on time’s lyre, divine love reflected upon its own reflection, wickedness kindling that flame of darkness, but when the hero strikes her anvil of freedom, the vision returns, here the mist is a single thought floating within islands of silence, and the clouds above you form as the moon rises, you try to give them a sense of purpose, you know that the messenger with the bad news won’t come, tomorrow, there is no bad news after this stillness in the world, anymore, but emptiness, a wind, as your memory, will vanish as the storm arrives, and the empty world around you— meaningless, cannot return. Acacia Tree Acacia tree is a tree of hope. I named it, a tree of hope, when I was a kid, standing alone, under the noisy shadows of aircraft, shaking the sky. Acacia tree has a smell of hope, I follow that smell, I’ve heard a call, acacia tree always knew how we loved, my heartbeat— a merciful distant voice of childhood’s tales, still echoes right away, not knowing the reason of love, and you still see that your life belongs to the echoes only, and you still feel the whole world is that echo, and you do what must be done to hear more, and acacia tree blossoms with that hope, not believing in mercy that will ever be enough, and mirages of clear water across dusty horizons, ripe expectations just over the rise, right there. An old photograph makes us chuckle, but now your smile has such a glare, I just can't tell. This endless journey keeps me turning back to something forgotten, to something misplaced, keeps me turning back toward you— acacia tree. In the Middle of Bowery Street I love that tree standing in the middle of Bowery Street in Manhattan. I see how caterpillars make the silk nests on that tree. Why are they doing this? I thought. I feel how the roots of that tree go deep in the ground, shacking by the echoes of the footsteps, and when the midnight comes, and when it floods in from a far, the leaves of that tree drift on the waves of prayers. Today I placed my palms on the gnarled skin of that tree, I felt the light channel through its veins, as the north wind torn away the leaves. “There are days when I hear the voices,” tree said to me. “And days when I am not. My heart is a vineyard of hope in the morning, and a prayer of the rolling sky at night, and caterpillars are making the silk nests, because they know the secret, that there is no death, but butterfly. Divine name of silence.” Picture from My Window at 7 a.m. See the birds over there? They don’t need our help. They don’t need to find out what we want to be. Wings are words. Language is air. We are the lost children in our own dreams, and every morning at 7 a.m., the pilgrims pass by my window on the towpath, I see them clearly, they look like birds, under the lilac shadows at dawn, they witnessed something familiar at dawn, for there the birds flew up in dreams from other dreams that lent the calmness as they flew, crowned with softness of hope. I Still Remember I still remember, there was an ocean, right behind that constellation over there, named as an Ocean of Breath, we all lived out there when we were young, and the breath and thoughts strayed transparent, and there was a tree ragged by the prayers, shadowy followed in our wishes, shaking with hope before the end, when those seconds— always starving lodgers of times, took our wishes away, leaving the myriad small sparks trying to shine a light in our hearts, as the precious stone in dirt cannot be consumed by slow decay, not even dragged by force of doubt. Breath of Time Yesterday, you felt yourself like a shell— heart of water, where pearls are composed. Today, you feel like a sweetest melody, playing by north wind. Sometimes you follow winds, water has a beauty of time, and it’s always fresh, and always keeps the imprints of our glances, whispers, wishes. Sometimes you’re silent, and cold, but you are always here. This is what you always wanted— to be free, and if someone asks you what’s the secret of beauty, your answer could be that melody playing by north wind, and a shell— heart of water, where pearls are composed.
David Dephy (he/him) (pronounced as “DAY-vid DE-fee”), is an American award-winning poet and novelist. The founder of Poetry Orchestra, a 2023 Pushcart Prize nominee for Brownstone Poets, an author of full-length poetry collection Eastern Star (Adelaide Books, NYC, 2020), and A Double Meaning, also a full-length poetry collection with co-author Joshua Corwin, (Adelaide Books, NYC, 2022). His poem, “A Senses of Purpose,” is going to the moon in 2024 by The Lunar Codex, NASA, Space X, and Brick Street Poetry. He is named as Literature Luminary by Bowery Poetry, Stellar Poet by Voices of Poetry, Incomparable Poet by Statorec, Brilliant Grace by Headline Poetry & Press and Extremely Unique Poetic Voice by Cultural Daily. He lives and works in New York City.
Author Photo Credit: Kethy Jane