Everyone I talk to always does all the talking
I never answer questions because they never ask me any
It would seem selfish to suddenly change the topic to my self
But how else will they know who I am?
How will they learn to listen?
Is it my job to do all the listening
I'm told I'm good at it
But maybe it's just that they're good at talking
To read is to breathe
To write is to drink
To listen is to eat and
To wonder is to believe
Literature is energy for the soul
The builders let me visit here
free to roam the halls.
They’ve built some walls
to upper floors with streaming light
and to a darkened basement.
I’m honored to be allowed here
to write words on the wood
to see pages posted that could
render me speechless if I let them.
But instead, these writings of pain
these revelations of shame
are like knives that pierce my heart
and I pour it out on the floor
and ceiling and dark corners
through the windows
into the night
into the light.
The builders nail their dreams
and desperation and beams
of hope, desire and grief
and lattice of love and belief
trying to do their part to complete
the work of this edifice rising
each day each hour
we builders immigrants
looking for home.
Dedicated to the poets here on this site, other fellow writers, and to my wonderful wife.
Sometimes I don’t care if you’re listening
But I at least want to be heard
Working martyrs of the boulevard un-ring bells
Over bleachers in heaven and box seats in hell
While the simple saints with time to serve
Just hold their hands up on all the curves
My blue Jesus take a look at me
And whisper to me what you see
Bind me up and draw me near
Make me strong enough to hear
There must be an entity that dictates the hubris. Life consists of wandering through the known and unknown, waiting to see witch gets us first.
not talking anymore
who aren’t listening
thoughts, ideas and love
are ready to share and bare
to the receptive
to those who can receive
and respond with mindful critique
it has to be a two way street
for a conversation
to survive and go
to where ideas grow
i am silent and waiting for a sign
don’t leave me hanging
i want to find my way home
written in frustration with those who only hear themselves
I’ve disappointed heaven
and I can tell you why -
I angered a silver angel
who came down from the sky.
She said, “I'm just a messenger
sent to share the word.”
I stood stone-still and waited
and this is what I heard:
“The coming Judgement will fulfil
- the rightful verdict of the Lord.”
“OK…” I answered, shyly -
in an effort to prompt for more.
But the seraphim started fading away
as if the message finished her chore..
I said, “Wait! I need a message I understand
- you have to give me more.”
The angel's face turned angry
and her tone became unkind -
she flipped her hair like a mean
girl and muttered “NEVERMIND”.
So if you’re messaged by an angel,
I hope you fare better than me
- I couldn’t decipher the message
- and she flew off angrily.
"Angels" have tried to help me but I far too frequently miss the point.
My ears used to cry for peace and quiet,
but now they yearn
for the sweet caress of your voice.
Your words are a soft blanket,
and when they reach my ears
I am covered in warmth and comfort.
Your laugh is cheerful music
and when it reaches my ears
my spirits are gently lifted.
Your affectionate tone of voice calms my soul,
and I gladly listen to anything you say.
There we sit in our partial darkness
her in her soft and easy chair
me in mine so I can see her face
and the smile or frown residing there
for these brief moments of grace
her reading from our spiritual book
me listening, waiting for angels to arrive
in a story or words that’ll become a sacred hook
into my soul or life’s burgeoning archive.
Evening after evening sometimes so tired
we can barely hold on and avoid sleeping
right there, each old body in its easy chair
sometimes laughing sometimes weeping
she my wife, partner in this long life
both of us gathering our souls
in this splendid crucible of light.
One of the things that has allowed us to stay married for more than 50 years is these moments of intimacy on a spiritual plain where we talk and read and re-member our marriage.
Dry blooms have purpose
Beautiful fading flowers
Knowledge is their seed
I know I have been doing a lot of these recently. This one is done to the traditional format. Each line should stand independently and yet work as a whole.