Bathed In Words

 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

 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

 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.

Aging Self

  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

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.

Torn From the Cloth

They have joined

a larger cloth whose

whole escapes my

view. They have

been torn from one

side of life’s quilt 

and added to another.

This hand-sewn tapestry

of my days alights

with muted squares

of earthen tones.

The ochres bleed

with tawny hues and

darkening shades toward

mosses and decay.

Sometimes, I am given

to wonder why. Why the 

tearing must go on at all.

Why the ones who were at 

my side have been removed

and taken far away.  Away

to a shadowland of long

forgotten forms and of

lingering vaguenesses.  

The cloth of life is rent

by death and there is a 

numbness we hold dear

until the shock allows us

to pull out the pins and

reblock the squares in

a new pattern on the 

other side.  A pattern

that must hold until we 

might sew them all back 

together; back anew.

Perched As I Am

Perched as I am

on solid ground;

I am watching the

wind marshal her

forces and gather

her friends.

First, dust clouds.

Then, leaves.  And,

let us not forget 

pink petals.  All

going around and

up before the falling

down of each piece

of their whole.

Again, a whirl

picks up over there

and settles over

here, without so

much as a nod

to understanding why.

I feel the random

nature of these

flurries of motion

deep in my days.

Unsure if chaos

is meant to be

the way on.  Or,

if I am to keep 

searching for a respite

and having to pull

the pieces of my me

back together for

a time - settled.

Perched as I am

on solid ground;

I am watching the

wind marshal her

forces and gather

her friends.