The slow pulling of air
into the still small space
of the heart, brings a
dropping of all the world
save breathing. Let it fall
to the wayside, to the path
of our own existence. In.
Out. In, again. Mark your
life in inhalations, count
your joy in the departure
of what you just brought
in. Let it go, let it go,
again, just let it go. Ahhh.
I have seen the birches
just over the hill, as they
line themselves up to
talk among the copse.
They whisper a song on
the morning, and one
again on the setting of
the sun. A song that we
would do well to learn.
Listen closely and you may
pick up the cadence, strain
to make out the meaning
of their lullaby. The secret
of our own future may be
woven within the words.
Listen. Listen. Listen.
I’ve been bathed in words.
Surrounded and covered
with all their meaning,
fed and nourished on sound.
From my earliest days
I have escaped into pages
which have led me out of
the chaos and turmoil of
what we called home.
Words have always lifted
me above the fray of human
suffering and angst and into
a world of adventure and
delight. The Scholastic
Book Fairs and the Weekly
Readers were in league
with the library to form
the essential cartographic
tools I would need to craft
the maps and take to flight.
Words are the key for any
one individual to gain the
understanding to be set free;
if not in truth than in point
of fact for their own self.
I am broken by the cheapening
of words I see afoot these days.
Words use to malign and destroy
and not to open us to grandeur.
The silence of the Meetinghouse
has burned the worth of words
into the cells I bear each day. “I
hear an echo in my soul, how can
I keep from singing”, or speaking,
signing, or gesturing to those near
by who need a word of comfort
and repair. Words. Words. Words.
Such a cascade of loveliness and
kismet is possible on opening each
new book; such a hope and exhilaration
with each new journal. “Moby Dick”
the first novel I read in third grade still
portends the rise of hairs on my neck
at the sound of “Call me Ishmael.”
The names De Soto, De Leon, Crockett,
and Boone presage a richness of desire
for new lands and exploration.
I’ve been bathed in words and “THAT
HAS MADE ALL THE DIFFERENCE.”
I saw it
in your eyes,
mostly.
That you didn’t
understand
exactly what
I was saying.
And then,
all of the sudden
you emerged again,
like you were all
those years ago.
The silent tear
running down
your cheek
let me see
you remembered.
Find the place
where one word
snuggles in and
next to another
word; the place
where the sound
they create in
such close proximity
is full of hunch
and wonder. The
place where the
heart intrudes its
shadowy impressions
over what the
mind thinks it knows.
In that space
let simplicity and
grandeur swap
spit and become
a new one-thing
that is just
out of reach.
But yet,
so very near.
The tall, dark green walls
of cornstalks line the road.
A luge through the farmland
and countryside of Lancaster.
The geese fly overhead, some
this way and some that, trading
places for this new season
coming our way; honking.
Protected by the familiar in
the ambient nature all about,
my aging is made bearable
with simple touches of beauty.
Someday,
the sky will drop
a poem right onto
your lap, or maybe
into your pocket.
So be sure to check
them; and check often.
It may not be
the sky itself that
drops the poem;
maybe it’ll be a poetic
archangel or a god.
But a poem will drop
down to you; sometimes
wholly formed and ready
to be sounded out; and
other times in need of work.
It may begin
with a color like
aquamarine or gray.
Or it may launch right
into an anapest.
I wouldn’t be at
all surprised if it was
about a fugue or a
even a delicate flower
like a Spring Beauty.
It will probably have
an aroma like a gardenia or
a rose; and, a hushed and
muffled sound like an owl
flying low in a snow squall.
It will feel full in your
mouth as you begin to
give the words vocalization.
Rolling around and out
with an ease and solemnity.
Wait for it. I have seen it
happen again and again.
When it does it is up to you
whether you act surprised
or as if you knew it all along.
But, it’ll be yours. Your poem
full of your favorite things and
all sorts of personal innuendoes
and ash. Things coming up
and out of you as if they knew.
As if they knew that this poem
of yours was sent to you, from
you and meant to set you free
to become more the you you
are. Free to be you; you alone.
So get ready for it; wait and
watch and wait some more.
Imagine how it will arrive and
what the full measure of its cloth
will look and feel like. It’s yours.
Someday.
