what poems know
i do not write
because words are beautiful…
beauty
has never been enough…
i write
because sometimes
memory slips…
names fade…
days unravel
like old thread…
yet somewhere
beneath the places
the mind forgets…
something remains…
a touch remembered…
the scent of rain
on stone…
the sound
of a voice
that still finds me
in dreams…
perhaps poems
are not made
of ink at all…
perhaps
they are small bridges…
laid one careful board
at a time…
across places
that otherwise
could never
be crossed…
and if,
one day,
my own words
become strangers
to me…
i hope
someone will read them aloud…
so my soul
can remember…
what my mind
no longer can…
the work of poems
people think
a poem begins
with words…
it doesn’t…
it begins
with listening…
to the silence
someone hides
behind “i’m fine…”
to mountains
that remember
earthquakes…
to storms
asking questions…
to old mirrors
that refuse
to lie…
to dogs
leaning quietly
against grief…
to laughter
returning
after years
of absence…
the poem
comes later…
it is only
the footprint
left behind…
by something
that asked
to be heard…
it’s also the ordinary moments which save us…
not miracles—
tea…
a hand…
rain…
a dog…
a kitchen…
a mountain…
someone staying…
maybe my ars poetica ends thus:
i have never believed
poems
change the world…
but i have watched
one sentence
keep someone alive
long enough
to see
tomorrow…
and somehow…
i think that’s exactly why i write…
not to impress…
not to explain…
but to sit beside another human being in the dark and whisper…
“You’re not alone. I’ve been here too.”
the light within…
there is a light in your chest
small
steady
waiting
for the right hands to cup it
for the right breath
to keep it burning
not with fire
but with knowing…
somewhere
love stirs in the hush
of an unopened door
in the space between
one step and the next
where the air
still hums with maybe
where fingertips brush
the edges of fate…
the most beautiful journeys
begin with hesitation
the breath before the word
the hand hovering
before the knock
the first small hope
that unravels
a thousand possibilities…
love is not found
it is recognized
it is met at the edge of longing
called forward by the quiet
that knows its name…
so walk love…take that first step…
step into the hush
of possibility
the wind at your back
and the door
just waiting
for your knock
or…
to be gently opened
- from the book “dreaming of dreaming of love”
in “the river of life”-below, the lines are meant as water…
the river of life
@
the sun
rises on a small lake
~ with tadpoles, fish
and beavers ~~
slowly
over
the
dam
the
stream
is born
tiny trickling
tripping over
stones 🪨🪨
littered
along its
🪨 journey
it murmurs
gently 🪨 along
its trail 🪨 following
where 🪨🪨 others
have gone
slowly it grows
~as other streams join
b 🪨🪨🪨 knowledge of
what has been along
their trek the stream becomes
🪨 a creek moving swiftly~along moving 🪨
pebbles along with it downstream as 🪨🪨🪨
~companions 🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨~beings with
two legs 🪨🪨 and four~
come to gaze at the dazzling ~~
water 🪨🪨🪨 they listen to the
song it sings 🪨🪨🪨 mixing with the
~~birds and wind ~🪨 over rocks 🪨 ~~a symphony
shared ~~ with all 🪨 who ~~ listen
deer and ~ squirrels 🪨🪨~ come to drink~~
hidden by~ 🪨🪨🪨 the brush ~~along the side~ more streams come~~to~~join~adding to
its being~~and its studies on the
🪨🪨🪨🪨 long journey~~
to the sea~~~ now a river that large ships
navigate~ ~~ the water deep and dark filled
with mysteries and wisdom ~ that few ever discern
within are the~ discards of~years washing onto the shore as~
treasures of the past collected by a few who know the value of
the history~of the river~~ that flows
slowly now~~it moves toward the~~sea
where it will~~soon cease to~~be a river as it joins the deep~ unknown~~waters~~of~eternity~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~
~~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~
- rattlingsoftly slowly she slides slithering along quietly in the soft leavings of leaves which litter the forest floor dotted with sunshine past the head of a pure white Indian Pipe just showing itself as it pushes through the damp peat along with a few others looking for light after a long winters sleep past and …
- who will lead me home -a pantoumi try to be brave and shining a lighthouse for others to see to shine light through lifes’ fog from darkness that hides hope from view a lighthouse for others to see that beacon of light in the dark from darkness that hides hope from view for those bobbing lost in confusion that beacon of …
- the mourning dovei heard the call of a mourning dove as it floated on the wind. its haunting tune so lonely in the silence of the dawn. oh why do you sound so forlorn i wondered, as i looked up at the bird, when all around you lies beauty and peace and tranquility? from the blooms of …
- westerly winds
painting and poem by jsburl westerly windsoh do blow stronglyfilling my sailsplease take me a-way push my bow faithfullyto part my sorrowslet me fly wheredolphins dance with delight keep my journey truewith lively zephyrswhere adversity fades asthe sea turns crimson at eventide take me to a place wherethe sea sparkles sapphiresleave behind my briny deep …