Skip to main content

Behind the Silent Door

It comes into me with the wind. The door, having closed after me, stands now as my entrance to escape with me nestled safely behind it.

Behind my door I sense angers loss, unhappy chains rattling like a Kai-chilampu, fists pounding out their truth upon the skin like a drum with taut flesh for cover. I know I'm ready. I know I'm all set, waiting on the procession to finish throbbing. Her arms reach for the door with questions, I remind her that I’m here, my vault of tears. She stands with me in her great silence like a statue, her eyes filled with old spirits, hands reaching down to touch the path she knows I cannot walk alone.

Her answer spoke in the gust of air. The question no longer seemed relevant. We took the other’s hand with great care, her silence moved through me like worship. Her spirit comes into me with the breeze. The door handle begins to shudder, beckoning me through the unknowable veil where the lessons of love echo their flesh.


© 2011 by mark prime


Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

........•SHRIEKING MACHINE•........                  •HEAD-LINES•                           •RIP•     ---(“Russian missiles blast Ukrainian military academy and hospital, killing more than 50, officials say”)---    There are no more lessons to learn here, no more beds to hold the human wounded, just missile’s shrieking their grotesque ode, The Death of Humankind! RIP, children of God…    ---(“Hundreds attend Mercer Island vigil, march for murdered Israeli hostages”)---    Dear mourners, this is the brutal vacuum of a genocidal, terror-filled, indiscriminate war-machine made of fear and we are all hostages to its deafening roar! RIP, children of God…    ---(“10-year-old allegedly confesses to fatally shooting 82-year-old man and his daughter”)---    I must confess, this is part of war’s shrieking, children lost with a we...
Post a Comment
read the poem

sdrawkcaB nruT (Turn Backwards)

I have been witness to the four pillars and see no reason to carry death there. Doesn’t the world know that life moves for more than just the sons of Abraham? O! I see the stunned throats floating by in the dusk to their stiff-limbed sleep as metal rains down over the Jordan’s western prophet, children dying there. I am here, waiting, breathing in the dusk under the shadow of the patriarch, asking, can we again build the shrine inside the soul and leave our flesh to time? © 2008 mrp/thepoetryman
32 comments
read the poem

Per Plex Ed

            PER+PLEX-ED When you haven’t heard the truth in so long, when you do, it rings a most familiar s ong. That’s the human song, the truth rolling out exactly when it should.      (If a truth is told and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound only to the one that spoke it?)    Yes, but our ears aren’t strong enough to hear it.     [a perplexed silence] © 2017 Mark Richard Prime
Post a Comment
read the poem