#fourth - Hello Poetry

Call to the wind when words must travel, call to the sea when they must drown. Call to fire when they must burn, and to the heavens when you need a god’s ear turned toward your trembling fear. Write them down. Sing them loud. Lift them like banners to the swollen clouds. Speak them wide with outstretched joy, or fold them small and whisper them into all that you employ. Cast them upon the pleins; let them dance in the pouring rain. Let syllables soak into your skin, let them rinse you clean within, undo the hurt stitched tight you own, unfasten grief you’ve never shown. Let them crack and break the walls, let old defenses crumble, fall. Let them polish worn-out floors inside the rooms you’ve locked with doors. Let them guide you toward the stars, hold you steady near and far. Hold the words of those who love you dear. Remember them when doubt draws near. And all the bitter tongues that try to net your worth and pin your sky cast them off into the blue, so they lose their claim on you. For words are spikes and words are nails; they move like knives, like barbed-tipped hail. They pierce the fence, they bruise the air, and once pulled out, still linger there. Yet words can paint forgotten shores, open rusted, hidden doors, carry you where soft tides gleam and memory moves like a silver stream. They can arch your dreams across the sky and let you see through kinder eyes, until you stand in steady light, held in love, made whole by what you write.

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Feb 8

Feb 8, 2026 at 12:38 PM UTC

MalcolmG

Call Them Forth

Call to the wind when words must travel, call to the sea when they must drown. Call to fire when they must burn, and to the heavens when you need a god’s ear turned toward your trembling fear. Write them down. Sing them loud. Lift them like banners to the swollen clouds. Speak them wide with outstretched joy, or fold them small and whisper them into all that you employ. Cast them upon the pleins; let them dance in the pouring rain. Let syllables soak into your skin, let them rinse you clean within, undo the hurt stitched tight you own, unfasten grief you’ve never shown. Let them crack and break the walls, let old defenses crumble, fall. Let them polish worn-out floors inside the rooms you’ve locked with doors. Let them guide you toward the stars, hold you steady near and far. Hold the words of those who love you dear. Remember them when doubt draws near. And all the bitter tongues that try to net your worth and pin your sky cast them off into the blue, so they lose their claim on you. For words are spikes and words are nails; they move like knives, like barbed-tipped hail. They pierce the fence, they bruise the air, and once pulled out, still linger there. Yet words can paint forgotten shores, open rusted, hidden doors, carry you where soft tides gleam and memory moves like a silver stream. They can arch your dreams across the sky and let you see through kinder eyes, until you stand in steady light, held in love, made whole by what you write.