VISAGE OF MY SILENCE Karine Ovsepian

i think of each life as a flower, as common as a field daisy, and as singular, a photo by sevenworlds16 on Flickr.

I sit alone with my silence, head to head, heart to heart,
Though reasons vary today, but the labor of my words seems one and the
same?
I cannot stand beside it mute, for my thoughts are my hopes,
And yes they are nameless, with roots that are shrewd,
My hunger is for living lines, those, which I cannot pronounce out loud,
My tongue speaks many languages; today’s is a hushed sweet dialogue,
Dressed in the golden ray of beachside wind,
As my stripped soul rests within its own arrogance,
Today, silence seems my favorite fruit, my favorite mourn.

*

My mind dances like a fresh lily, precipitating into the air,
I choose to stay nameless, just a peaceful silence within the world’s
fold.
I am a wild flower, who likes to live a passionate life,
I am crazed and dangerous species with lethal stillness,
Don’t sing my song, don’t tap my dance,
I am gratis like a mocking bird.
Today I breathe silence; I exhale its pieces into your life,
Be content if you can, I never could.
I can only be silence, that is where I find my content,
where you rest beside my thoughts as a visage of my silence, entranced.

ONE OF TOO By Kevork K Kalayjian Jr

fantastic day, a photo by Atilla1000 on Flickr.

The sky is more expensive here
simply because there are too many windows.

It’s no use, but you keep on trying
You press the elevator button for the top floor,
The lights will indicate that you are going up
But down and down you will go
Till you reach the temple of faith,
There, prayer consists of rearranging the furniture,
Until by chance, you will find the invocation,
The furniture arrangement, which will please their Gods.

And when you are exhausted, tired of moving the furnishings,
run out to the street, and wait by the main entrance
for the delivery man, to bring the missing parts of your soul,
delivered to your door, C. O. D.

Remember the village, remember the farm,
you did something with your own hands,
you milked the cow. Now, everything is sold,
nobody milks the cow, they just watch the animal
dance, in the middle of an air-conditioned auditorium.

WHY ARE YOU HERE? By Kevork Kalayjian

Common Room, a photo by The National Archives UK on Flickr.

Why are you here
Listening to these repetitions
Of rhyme, rhythm, and roar
Oscillating music of
Imperfect monotones
Mesmerizing, hypnotizing and
Capturing, no captivating you with
Deception and titillating vision #

Emancipating your imagination
From this boring stuff, which helps you see
The excellence in the reader before me,
The fantastic in the performer after me.

Yet you focus on the walls, the ceiling, the tablecloth
As they tell you all the secrets hidden in time
Observed and recorded from different angles
From different ages # fanatical outbursts on the run.

So now, you know the day I cut the line
To get to the hot coffee # the dried fruit.
So now, you can see, here, right in front of you,
The day they made Irish Soda Bread! In 1902.

MOVED By Angela Keshishyan

MISTY [EXPLORE FRONTPAGE], a photo by ~~~johnny~~~ on Flickr.

This morning I saw the mountains make love
I saw them embrace and caress
They told me a story of love with their stillness
and it moved me a thousand times

I wondered how such a story could be told
in a moment not realized

This afternoon I watched the wind do a pirouette
I watched it move with such grace and gallantry
It told me a story of loss with its dance
and it moved me a thousand times

I wondered how such a story could be told
in a moment not realized

Tonight, I will gaze at the stars as they deliberate
I will be a witness to their eternal blaze
They will tell me mysterious stories of the past and the future
and they will move me a thousand times

I will wonder how such stories could be told in prominence
In their moving silence, perhaps I will realize