David Dephy is an award-winning American poet, novelist, multimedia artist with a Master of Fine Arts degree. The founder of Poetry Orchestra and American Poetry Intersection, as well as the Poet-in-Residence for Brownstone Poets for 2024-2025. His poem, “A Sense of Purpose,” has been sent to the Moon in 2025 by NASA, Lunar Codex, and Brick Street Poetry. Dephy was exiled from his native country of Georgia, and was granted indefinite political asylum in the U.S. His wife and son joined him in the U.S. in 2023, after seven years of exile. He lives and works in New York City.

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The Moonlight in January

A moonlight hits the window,
a little ray in January slides
on the wall tenderly touching
our hands. Is this the way of
saying something very precious
to each other without the words?
The phone rings, we, hypnotized
by light, don’t answer, we both
watch that ray on our hands.

Is this the way the heart behaves when it’s alone?
It wants to be alone, for this reason we can feel
the happenings miles away, knowing that if I were you,
I’d listen to my loneliness making myself more aware.
After centuries of quietness we agree with the truth,
that’s the way of listening, yet some evenings we don’t
answer the phones, someone else will answer,
please speak to me, kiss me in silence, your kiss will say
more, the moonlights in January, tell me about your
expectations, we are detached with the memories finally.

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The Post-War Revelation

Do you really want to see the big picture?
You’ll be surprised. Can you see behind the light?
Can you see yourself in your enemy’s eyes, 
across the skies covered by the black smoke
reside the revealed wishes of those who died?

Can you feel those who knew that their tears
had not been vainly cried? The big picture
of the post-war revelation looks like your hope,
or your nightmare, it depends, when darkness falls
across our souls, our hopes, our faces,

we can’t erase the memories of our lone selves,
we know what’s inside us, we are the puzzle,
our stories go like many who have gone before, 
nameless, forgotten, or crowned, doesn’t matter,
winds still carry forth the soldiers’ trumpet’s call.

Archangels all around the skies, with the hands
reaching out to break the fall, every leaf,
every second of time, but who knows
what’s possible with our only hope,
and only wish to move time backward,

the breath of innocents must become our guide, 
our only guide through deaths and life’s uncertain
tides, breath leads us to the places afar, to wonder
at the rolling skies where the mystery of our heart lies. 
Can your enemies see themselves in your eyes?