Ears hear, eyes read, mind processes, heart feels, tongue speaks and/or hands type/sign or motion.
The cycle was set in place with creation.
In a forum such as this, people share and those of us in this cyber coffee shop read.
A miracle is communication, and the degree to which the speaker/writer/artist needs to be seen and appreciated varies.
To some, the need for recognition trumps his perceived need to create.
To others, the appreciation seems the icing on the cake of their heart's musings.
Others may be embarrassed in the spotlight, but still appreciate the attention.
Nevertheless, the miracle of communication, the cycle and mechanism through which man can share his art, as well as the wonderful freedom to connect and respond as freely as one chooses is often overlooked.
Taken for granted...abused, neglected, uncelebrated.
We can appreciate simply or we can use this communication to receive, process and question and learn things about other people, their experiences, thoughts and beliefs.
Their input serves to stimulate our thinking and either shut us down and turn us away, or send us on adventure of mind and spirit.
Words have the power to excite the soul and find reason for existence.
They can also hurt, stemming from situation, temperament, past hurts internalized, or out of misunderstanding.
Our own vulnerabilities/sensitivities from past violation of our boundaries leave us open for hurt. Lack of boundaries...a cause for so many problems in communication, and yet....poetry seems to invite us in for tea, to make us feel understood . Comments welcome. We hope people are nice. I hope people are nice. ( steps aside from podium) You all seem nice. I close with these words.
I truly appreciate communication, especially through this comment feature and the channel ( my laptop) through which it exists, not simply the internet.
I direct all thanks to my parents and ultimately my husband, my lord and my maker, the one and only Supernatural Jesus Christ. ( nod to guy in the plaid shirt over there, who also goes by Jesus). Almost done. The following a poem I wrote about what I had thought to be a bully, but truly my own bullheadedness.
" Shooting The Bull"
Once owned a Ford Taurus though often it's said
a Ford on the roadside is probably dead.
I never let stuff like that go to my head
I know how it is to be down.
Ran my hand over the gun metal grey
if it was a horse we'd have galloped away
but the oil was blackened and so that fine day
I decided to take it to town.
My husband was known for mechanical skill
took pride in his work, though I battled his will
I knew he was right about everything, still
I wanted to have my own way.
It was his contention that I was a pain
he often made comments that seemed so inane
I knew that he thought I was lacking a brain
at the technical end of the day.
He said he would change it the next Saturday
still I thought to myself, "There's a much better way
at Jiffy **** service is good, and they say
that it takes them no more than ten minutes".
Five minutes to get there and five minutes in
they offered to clean up my ***** engine
I gladly accepted, and paid for the gin
or whatever that mixture had in it.
Back at the house, feeling quite satisfied
a little bit nervous on account of his pride
but the Taurus can't wait, 'cause what if it died?
and think of the money we saved!
Well he wasn't at home, so then I could relax
I got dressed for work, while rehearsing the facts
then drove to my work, and in one hour max
the Taurus it bucked, then it caved.
Squeaked into the place where my money was earned
I called him and naturally he was concerned
we had it towed out, I felt angry and burned
now I needed a brand new transmission.
I try not to dwell on the past or road ****
we all have our issues, they bother me still
I'm often quite stubborn, and always a pill
but once in a while now, I listen.