Wild as the ocean, free as a mountain sitting motionless. Soft as a storm blooming in full.

Wild as the ocean. Free as a mountain sitting motionless. Soft as a storm blooming in full.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011


Pulled up like a root and floating.  Wingless and adrift in the winds of change searching for ground to lay upon.  Time rolls by like a soft hill undulating, beckoning to join it like a lover that will not wait but continues to love on it's own. Shadows cascade upon walls as your feet take you into the nooks of the world, lost in another day searching for home.

©3/15/11 by Danya Mosgofian including photograph

Friday, March 11, 2011


Ethereal sounds waft through the air, into my heart and mind softening the cage that surrounds it, breaking down the crust of what held me up and keeps me dry.
Warmth surrounds me and reminds me that I am beating with life, alive with cells and vessels still intact and hoping for more expansion into and outwards.
Those who hold grace and love return, giving me what I had forgotten I had...What I needed, truly...and what I did not.
I waited and found that the best pearls were not the shiniest.
My heart swells for a small moment, reminding me it can.
Do not give up hope just because the night grows cold at times.
Find solace in precious gifts of time and memory:
The wisdom of humor when it all comes back to make sense.
Of magic you create and find in a moment of clarity, remembering what matters most in your life, in all of life.
They are there. These things that ground the sky and still the river.
These people who hold meaning in their breath and in their bones, for you and for the world.
Perhaps they are just hiding in their own shells.  Keeping warm and staying dry as well.
Even if just in spirit alone, remember they are there.
You must find them and share the love you still have in your heart.  Reach out and touch them in small ways that transcend our mere flesh and preoccupations, remind them of the heart's softest points.
The path is possible although dark at times.
The right way, the right light will return to you as you need it, just when it grows darkest.
For you too, hold a light that others will seek when they remember that what they need is out there, waiting patiently.

3/11/11 Written by Danya Mosgofian

Sunday, March 6, 2011

Iron Breath

The lungs weigh heavy, bearing down upon the torso and spine like sacks of clay. Motionless and full of soot and somber.  Like abandoned, ill-treated children.

Skin pulls in and tears in tiny places unseen but felt, piercing outwards into limbs.
Sinew becomes fatigued with the burden of holding carriage all on it's own.
Breasts ladened with, sit like dead stones atop a mountain of defeat.
And the neck burns with a memory of regret and humility that won't die.

Sitting upright becomes a chore that feels unfamiliar and new, as if one has not already done this an entire lifetime?
Grief, like an illness, permeates the body in strange ways, taking one asunder as it tries to itself lift up and walk forward.

Sitting with this body, watching it sway and alter to find that place of peace, while notes sift into the air, I feel the blood grow quieter, the heart begins to listen.  A quiet mood falls over the night, taking one deeper into a solemn place of contemplation and sadness.
Acceptance at a point, is inevitable albeit painfully difficult.

What is it like to walk without toppling over from one side to another?
How does the owl sit so calmly while seeing everything?

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Too Deep

Too deep the well.  I sink below the surface and bleed into bone and marrow, invading the cells of everything around me.  Drowning sorrow and symptom into thought and processes of abstraction and words too heady to witness.  I suck life and oxygen from the air for more, more...breathing in short wisps that sustain only for small moments.
Enough is never.
Sorry is not.

I only want what will sustain me and yet grasping outward like a blind child at what could be, I drain and tire those around me in my attempts at life. My own life is drained in the process.  Like a tub constantly filled and emptied over and over until it is a constant flow of energy.  Filling and done, filling and done.
Yet the tub never stays full.  Not allowed to ever sit in the comfort of finished long enough to soak up the sustenance I receive and be full.  Damned well.

My heart is cracked open and bleeds freely, all over the ground below.  Feet sopping wet with blood I stumble through gravity into others. The heart is full and tender, foolish at best, wanting only to love but sloppily drunk with confusion as it turns in blindness; whirling like a toy searching in hopes of a truth that will fulfill this bored empty depth.

Stealing grace from one moment to the next, hoping to carry the burden of a permanent drought so that no one else has to, I bury deeper into the ground for balance.  Feet sink deeper into earth, searching for moisture only to hit rock and bone, a sharp reminder that growth happens upwards not behind.

The sustenance I receive still leaves me dry and brittle, yet I am drowning in something? Waterlogged, stuck and sullen unsure of what direction to move into, I grab to hold on desperately, like tree leaves shooting out in all directions madly looking for sunlight. A frantic motion to sustain life and yet one that  sucks the life from me.  Sorry is not enough as regret seeps into the ground cementing my feet.

Teetering between worlds, I give and get and give and get, exhausted and not for the better. I sit solemnly in a pool of muck and dirt alone with no water to wash away to clean.   Perhaps I have given it all away? It no longer remains precious.  Maybe what I receive, is not sustenance?

A bead of consciousness breaks through and one small drop of light pierces into my heart painfully, releasing a tiny sliver of space to set freedom aloft and reset a new course to allow for movement into sky once again.

New freedom for a moment.  Fragile, uncertain clarity seeps in that stings like soap on a wound.
I move forward into light so blinding that I recoil as if light is the enemy and not an old friend.  Triumphantly I realize that I have been here before and will rise up and out of this mire knowing a bit more and seeing truth for what it is.
I will take these bloody, cut feet with me, trailing behind to remind me of the roots I've laid.  Unwashed and sore, they stay with me like a talisman of what lies behind.  Not completely cutting myself off from the deep well below but slinking onward truthfully.

©3/5/11 photo and words by Danya Mosgofian

Thursday, March 3, 2011

Dream or Die

We are but dreamers, holding out for what we want.  Starving in our lust for perfection of being.  Passing on just enough to get by....
Stealing pieces of our soul to feed our flesh when there is no more food to fill our bellies.
We say if...we can find the right...if we can just,
hold out for the right thing, hold out for the right job, hold out for the right lover...and so on.
Everything will come together and be just right.
Because we believe we can.
We believe we deserve better than to simply toil the long day,
to create blood for another day to toil another long day for this life. 
That very idea strangles at bare mention the ability to breathe full breaths at times.
Not out of vanity or delusion but out of hope.
Some might say spoiled or arrogant, deluded or lazy. 
But in pursuit of the dream, we simply trudge on holding the hope tightly against our hearts that some day it will bear fruit and flourish.  A triumph of future design, a winning against the odds, against ordinary.
Rising up and out of the mire of ourselves into the ether and into form.
Dreams are what keep us alive.
Perhaps we haven't lost enough to want to simply survive anymore?
Or perhaps we know that if don't feed our souls the flesh of what it desires most, hope and the fantasy of what could be,  it won't matter how grand the design, how large the house or how full the bank. Enough will never be enough.
Settling for enough won't be.  It will not satisfy the larger scheme.
If we don't hold out, and stay on hoping and dreaming....then we will have lost everything anyways ending up as empty vessels taking up space from others to bloom.

©3/3/11 Written with photo by Danya Mosgofian