**ON HIS BREATH CAME LOTHLORIEN**

From the empty devouring maw of the dark sea

From the vast endless breathless empty

The eternal king exhaled the heavens forth

Where no thing dwelled, all came to be

It was in his song

where death could not walk

and all was sweet with the taste of life -

From his lips spilt

the valleys rivers and seas

Off his breath floated

trees, bees, and all that was green

He spoke such that - it must be

The boughs laden with golden flowers;

mirth bubbling

from every spring.

From the law of his word

we were meant to bow

It is on the eve of rest

I wish to return to dwell

for when the king of heaven spoke

the dark empty nothingness was dispelled

ORIGINS:  Vivafication

**NEW ENGLAND SILENCE**

It is the mornings in late fall,

the quiet foggy silence filled ones.

  
When loneliness is its most profoundly beautiful

and all the world seems suspended in the mist of a dream.

It is the mornings when i see no face but mine

and speak not a word to another soul

  
When time feels eternal and fleeting all at once

as ink dances from my brush under a familiar faded song

  
It is these days that the touch of soft cloth on skin

and hot tea held to the chest blossoms warmth

  
And it is these days that I am most content with being

OBSERVING  SILENCE:  Memoir of Solitude

**I THINK I HAVE POOR LEADERSHIP**

  
I have a deep seeded fear

  
That voicing my wants

Gives gorged form to my desire

  
That it establishes in the minds of

others that I would take up space

Inconsiderate of the space others need

me and all my distructive tendencies

  
So how do I choose?

  
How do I grasp the truth of service

How do I fill the my self to brim with

the vigor of living

  
Can I bare the burden of forgone

responsibility

  
Or will I be crushed under the weight

of its judgment

OBSERVING  SILENCE:  Filling of the Self

**HUMMED SILENCE**

  
Pursed lips in the silence speak

though musings

  
As the willow’s dance ceases in the

stillness of the fog and the weight of

the worlds cloak quiets all beasts and

beings

  
The clarion cry of seeking disrupts

morning sleep and a need for something

more pulls the broken from slumber

  
It is here that fractured pride and

the boasting soul kneel; humbled

  
It is here that the dreaded call of

healing afflicts the unresponsible and

the blameworthy

  
Here in the awakening of the sublime
  
  

ORIGINS:  Whispers on the  Morning Mist

BALM OF HOPE

The Song that creates -

Ascribes the glory of making on darkness

  
The Voice that thunders across the waters.

The Voice that breaks the cedars;

strikes the mountain and shakes the earth.

  
The voice that roils with the might of the sea

and bares life on its breath.

  
That commands the deepest ocean to bare

symphonies of life and flourishing.

  
The whispers find me

As a cry of the seagull, the dance of dolphins, and the

mournful lamentations of the whale.

  
It finds me in the gentle kiss of waves against my feet,

and the thunderous roar of a Tempest at sea.

  
It is the rhythm of the universe, the heartbeat of

creation heard in the silence between the notes of a song,

and directs my ever wandering site

commands my ever drifting attentions

with a tender caress of the soul gentility nudging me

towards hope beyond the chaos waters
  
  

ORIGINS:  Hymns of The Ocean Verdure

CORESPONDING POEM

  
**DREAMING OF A DEAD THING**

In another life

 One where this dead hope did not die

 I would have loved you differently

 I could have been there for you differently

  
Now under sleepless sky I mourn

the death of a different universe

one where lamenting hope was not the outcome

 Where the fading whisper of night carried more

 than a fruitless tomorrow between souls

  
one where I could sit comfortably in the

weight of my ethos

 \-not encumbered by acquiescence or the weighty

 silence of never

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Bianca Valencia Criscuolo