WE WERE WINGS
Memories flow around our bodies from the heart of the rain this morning, we are empty. Sorrow pulses through memories, swallows up our noisy minds. We are absorbed by water, and can feel the sounds of ocean, as something familiar is dawning deep within us every morning, then it disappears again. Memories of us have the roots right in the air. We were the wings for each other, but stillness breaks before dawn, in the name of all that’s hailed, and face it all— the past remains unclaimed, driven forth by faith. GOODBYE ALL THE LEAVES “Walk on,” I said to myself and turned around, when the wind blows, the shadows change. “Walk on,” I said and continued the path, we know the rules— the light’s gate trough the wall of darkness. So, goodbye all the leaves under the turquoise sky, goodbye all the leaves above the emerald land. I walk with silence in my heart there is no room for words anymore, what’s done is done. Goodbye. SPIRIT OF SILENCE Language, the spirit of silence. Each word, the heart of silence. Without hearts we are sightless, with fingers searching for rays. I was circled by the cutlery of emptiness, but I felt your breath one day and realized my existence. Essence emerged from emptiness, all the mysteries of our century and all the answers flew with us. Silence. Language of understanding. Meanings, only. No words. THE COLD BREEZE OF BAY SHORE Long ago, the wind knew my plans. I asked myself: “If the wind knows our plans who can defeat the wind?” Long ago, I knew the answer. Silence. I always knew that we all are going to the garden, and there was a street, empty, tiny, calm street, with the tiny wall, at its very end, and a garden beyond that wall. Ruins, as precious dust of hope, and wishes. Long ago, in noisy night I was attacked. I don’t remember those faces, voices, I left for dead. All I remember is my own breath, strangely telling the truth— meaning of loneliness, as if that garden beyond the wall was the sanctuary of my own heart, always alive, always beautiful from the very beginning of time. I lived to revenge myself against my enemies, not for what they were – for what I was, from the end of childhood, friendship, war, from the beginning of understanding— when we all were created as a crown of the world, I thought the loneliness, and even that pain meant we were not loved, but standing on the other side of alone, I felt the cold breeze of bay shore, and took a deep breath, I heard the seagulls up above, “it’s all over now,” I realized, and it meant we loved Bio: 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 Poetry on Brick Street. 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.
Fevers of the Mind 