Consider essential breaths of air, and the expulsion of stale air caused by living tissue to vibrate outward through the mouth, twisted by the tongue, ultimately, effortlessly, sculpted into words quite literally expressed. Then, when heard, this mere turbulence of updraft and downdraft instinctively intertwined, innervates the cells of the brain and recreates the voice of what in man, we call the mind. It is astounding!

I have been fascinated with language my entire life.

I don't possess the imaginative, creative or intellectual prowess of those who have found success in writing. Whether I have special talent or ability to compose from mere fragments of sound something singularly meaningful or moving or enchanting or grand is candidly, beyond my innermost aspiration: it has never been a serious pursuit. I recognize great works of others and profess my awe and my lack of reach openly.

But, my study and reading and writing of poems emerged from that thrill I felt and still feel at the sound that is the very essence of each word, written or spoken. It is the power of language as a pattern of sound - the resonance of words however articulated, that has and will always give me special joy.

Language is taken for granted. We speak, communicate, read and write throughout our lives.  

We may speak of the meanings of words. We might study their origin, the evolution of language. Or we might focus only on the functional aspects of language: the organizational utility that letters and words and grammar and spelling and punctuation and composition and ultimately, pronunciation and articulation contribute constructionally to the primary aim which is communication.

We may cherish only the results - the great stories and novels, or spiritual and philosophic admonitions and inquiries, or favorite song lyrics or poetry that wondrously compresses language into some uniquely evocative mental, emotional and/or spiritual experience.

How impoverished would we be without the articulation of ideas and concepts and personal experience that language makes possible?

For some reason, in addition to respecting the power of language, I have always been compelled on impulse to hear the actual words and marvel at them - to play with them and study their tonal quality merely as fragments of sound heard actually or heard only echoing about in the silence of my mind.

It is the sounds of the words themselves, more than any image or sentiment a particular poem of mine might be constructed around, that I hope to offer in the form of this otherwise unremarkable collection of personal art. For each that might visit, I hope the few minutes spent are enjoyable and worthy and that your own words give you joy, too.

My mother collects things
Like a leopard collects its spots,
Like a moth gathers dust on its wings
and a poet collects his thoughts.

It just makes sense to insist
to not be dismissed
by you on the silly premise
that acceptance of you requires
tolerance of intolerable disrespect.

On this final walkabout, I'm not ashamed to say what friends and even strangers feign: "He grows old."

I do grow old. But I survived when too many left too early.

I feel I am being transformed, albeit, at times its seems an alarming rate that makes each new day a precious gift of gratitude I spin around me.

Despite the stooped, awkward gate and fragile skin and fondness for good friends and children and especially grandchildren I know how important it is to move over and let others have their fill as much or more than have I.

I see the white head of hair and bulging belly and bags under my eyes and note I'm not as sharp as I used to be - that last bit is frustrating - but I see no great loss to the world or even those around me. Secretly I think my former sharpness dulled on grins and nods and silence.

Oddly, I sometimes think the twinkle of an eye is a flashing beam warning those younger to steer clear of complacency and self-importance and most of all, shallow embrace.

I celebrate the release of all this - whatever life is - as this filament of joy. The memories and skills and learning and loving reforms around me. It will hold me and protect me and will ultimately be my shroud.

In a moment of hope, I wonder if only butterflies arrive at the gates of Heaven transporting back, hidden in the dust on their wings, a bit of the Soul, and then, in that special way butterflies fly, flap then glide into eternity.

Butterfly poised on
uprooted tree leaf. Sunrise
dries damp wings, dense air.
Initial condition blown
here by the storm it creates.

A tremor among flutters of the hand:
Excess vibration – it’s certain to involve a deeper rhythm –
Certain self images sent bent;
Light striking irregular glass.

Eyes contract, weight shifts, a
Break in conversation.
Caught in a moments maze
All obstacles avoided reconstruct,
All exits rearrange.

There are other signs:
Brood and singularity, thoughts
Perpendicular to sense,
Doubt challenging belief.
Perhaps another shuffling of the deck,

A steady murmur, a muttering,
A constant twang or certain slur of contradiction.
Mind insufficient, though desperate to respond:
“No more!  No urge!”
No self-recrimination to excuse the selfish stupor….

But there is silence in good scotch –
As when reverberations peak,
Then separate the sound from voice
And thought from all compassion.