<for my friends>
Poets, let us examine this friendship thing, again.
This is a poem of humans, regardless of our natural multi- flavored striations, that tend to over-define us, thus separating, instead of celebrating commonalities.
Like most things we enjoy, our five senses are the gateway to pleasure, even the pleasure of friendships. They act in concert, a symphonic interplay that reenforces and heightens so that in combination they create a whole greater than a single sense could provide singly.
This is on my mind this week, as I wrestle to understand the meaningful possibilities, the limits of friendship.
Poets form bonds without hearing each other’s voices.
Poets connect despite geographic distances that makes grasping each others sinewed arms, caressing the softness of hard cheekbones, without ever having been granted the unique, all encompassing satisfaction of embrace, hugging.
Poets sometimes can hear but not see each other’s words.
Poets sometimes can see/read each other’s words, but never hear them voiced aloud in the authors own, true voice.
Poets sometimes cannot smell or taste each other’s words, though it can take a poem to another, higher sensory level of coloration.
And yet, a bond so strong forms that defies the conventional limitations of the physical. Should we share such a bond, them you know it, no need to ask for confirmation.
Words, can be gifted, without teleportation, even when and if the bridge of a shared spoken language is not extant.
This is nothing short of miraculous.
Just like friendship.
All my wrestling to true comprehend this state, for naught, for the miracle of words is like the color of water. Universal, invisible, but so varied, that it too bridges and is shared by every ! human body regardless of any human shape, color, form of the billions conceivable.
But wrestle I do nonetheless, for the pleasure of this (non?)soluble problem that both creates queries & quenches simultaneously, so I break off this thinnest wafer to share with you, offering this notional:
All humans are poems.
All poems are human.
Solve this poem for human.
(And ignore the wet spots of my watery, clear tears staining this poem).
