Category: words

A Burning Word

image courtesy of https://www.pickpik.com/

The words, the words--
They rattle in my head,
louder than 
the tail of a snake,
louder than 
the breaking of stacked billiard balls,
louder than 
the concussing jack hammer on a city street--
too much noise to hear distinctly
what must be written,
what must be said, screamed
into the foul fiery smoke-filled air

One word, one.
Just one, larger than the others,
louder— 
settles against my skin,
a lash of fiery noise,
burning, burning deep--
betrayal--
burning away tiny scars 
of other betrayals
a lifetime ago

This wildfire of betrayal
burns away
soul held beliefs
of common good.

Words of No Might

I

“The pen is mightier than the sword,”
Bulwer-Lytton wrote long ago.

Words, with strength enough
to repel the bullets violently vomited
by rapid fire weapons of wars
not being fought on this soil, in this land,
in these schools,
abandon me.

My words have no power.
I cannot weave a bulletproof shield 
of words to protect my grandchildren
from this earth they will inherit: 
where four-year-old preschoolers 
practice active shooter drills,
beginning their journey of learning
of how to live without innocence:
We created a skin of fear
into which they are born,
and now, we teach them to live
inside that skin of fear
with lockdown drills, metal detectors, and
lessons in barricading classroom doors,
as we wait for the hollowness
of thoughts and prayers
and good guys with guns
to save us all.

With what voices,
with what words
will we speak
in answer--
when our ghost children rise
to ask us why
we did not save them.



Ink, Time, Books

image courtesy of dreamtime.com
A few minutes every day,
at times, stretching into hours,
I write to you
in this book,
writing words
whispering mysteries
of the winds in the mountains.

At times, my words still,
shifting, settling then sighing
as moonstone white clouds rest,
caressing the tops of mountains.

I have burned hundreds
of ink filled books
over these many years
when disgusted with
the imperfection
of my scribbled pages.
The heat of their fires
never offered much warmth.
Now, I save my scribble filled books
though you may never see them.


Forty-five years,
I have written words to you,
yet you never knew,
and neither did I
until this moment.

Orchid

Image courtesy of Orchidresourcecenter.com

My militant mind reels,

victorious over sleep,

now warring with the words—

I grapple, attempting to find

the right ones,

the ones I left behind in dreams

or at war with other chores,

so in these early hours,

during a brief cease fire,

I stop

watch the sky

begin to pink

in the east.

I do not want to wish

yet it is easy,

to think

to want

to believe

I have Samson’s strength

to break this encasement

of fear of longing,

this fear of loss.

Others say

nothing ventured

nothing gained —

I used to think that way

before the drought

came and withered

hope away before

any intercession

could be made

and that thing

inside became like

the stalks of an orchid

shedding the petals of spent,

exhausted blossoms,

thin and dry as parchment paper,

falling, drifiting to the floor,

leaving the stalk empty.

I may wish to reach my hand,

twitching with something

resembling longing,

to the eastern horizon,

where I imagine you

warm and dreaming still

but fear cements me still,

fear of longing

fear of loss

for that place inside

cradles no hope

for green stalks

holding buds

yielding blossoms.

 

The Smoothness of Ink

Image Courtesy of The Irish Times

https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2021/06/26/weekend-writing-prompt-215-ink/

Its flow

From the tip of my fountain pen—

Not smooth enough–

Fails capturing anything

Within this labyrinth of senses

Now alive

The Words Rebel

I had an argument with all my words today. 

For they would not stay 

in their delightfully organized spots.

Seems, if you will, 

they wanted to jump around and play, 

ignoring the sense of my color coded dots.



I must admit I lost my patience, yelling, 

“We will never accomplish 

anything useful if you play 

In this most rambunctious way.”



To this, they in unison whined,  

“Why must we be serious all the damn time?”



And to that, I could not provide argument.

Thus, we decided to play

And took a vacation today.

The Chase of Words

Image courtesy of Windows Report

VJ’s Weekly Challenge: The Chase – One Woman’s Quest II

 

The words—

It is the always—the words—

I have always been

Searching the sidewalks, paths, trails, highways, the sky outside

     For the words—

Combing gently through those I love

     For the words—

Hunting the faces of strangers, my own face, my dogs, my friends

     For the words—

Scouring the hearts, the souls of those I observe

     For the words—

Ransacking restful, peace giving nature

     For the words—

Scourging even, in the chase, my faith

     For the words—

And they are never perfect.

Words for You

image courtesy opmat.org.au

VJ’s Weekly Challenge #96: circling

 

Circle through the years of youth

Find the gems along the streams

Of your years, my love.

Collect them in a basket,

Keep them close.

When the time comes

Give each away to your

Young ones.

Make each a gift,

Tied with ribbons

Of what you dream

And all of your

Wishes

For them.

As I have given

All my words

As a gift

Tied with ribbons

Of my dream

Of love

And my wish

Of happiness

For you,

My love,

My gift,

My daughter.

The Words

                                             image from Dreamtime.com

I
Words scattered across the page.
Words littering the soul.

All these words
Piled upon the table,
A hoarder’s table of words.

Words left unsaid,
Unwritten,
A bouquet of words
Wilting in the heart and mind.

Words twisted in contortionist meaning
Of manipulations,
Weaponized for destruction,
Yet leaving victims living.
II
Words of things that can’t be said.
Words of things that should have been.
Words of things we could not speak out of fears too deep.
Words of things we could not begin to understand
Of ourselves, of each other.
Words of things we wanted so to believe
Of others, of the world.
Words of hope
Of love
Of charity
Of peace.
Words of what we have lost.
Words of what we may never again find.
III
Words, words, words
Slipping through the fingers
Like water in a desert,
Dripping away, evaporating
Before they can be used.

Words, words, words
Twisting round the wrists,
Writhing up the arms,
Biting the face and neck,
Killing before they can be used.

Words, words, words
Left unread by faded ink,
Left unwritten by a tired mind,
Left unsaid by a fear filled mouth.

 

A Word

Remember whispered intimations

In the time before sleep.

Having faced down the hours

Of another day of what must be done,

How long will it take before

Forgetfulness wipes the whispers away

Of well-intentioned comfort

Along with any memory

Of facades presented but to a few

Who knew the truth?

Until then, stumble onward

Facing the intimidation

Of a blank page,

Smash a soul against it.

Read the splatters left

And know time is the matter.

Time, neither too fast, nor too slow

Can it pass before realizing

Nothing really mattered,

But the kindness

In forgetfulness.