Let Nature speak –
in syllables untypable,
nuances not uttered in
words so much as living
letters which etch life into the
living. Let Nature
write – phrases
one breeze-breadth
long, one sunset soliloquy
wide, one pollen-laced
paragraph high.
She prints her poem
onto recycled papyrus,
onto hearts grown green –
who will read it to our
children? Who will
translate her manuscript
without editing out her soul?
You let it all hang out,
nouns, idioms,
dangling participles,
taking a chance on
.
the conventions of language
to underscore your point.
Your openness spills ink
onto life’s crumpled
.
pages. Your transparency
builds a story line,
romantic innuendoes
of historical significance
.
which weave complexities,
nuances of tone and metaphor,
smudges of graphite
on lines yet un-penned.
Master Linguist, conjugate
A metaphor on Nature’s slate,
String Your Words like diadems,
Loose Your lexiconic gems.
Idioms, Creation’s cloak,
(Accents for the simpler folk)
Speak in volumes , tell in prose,
In every dialect disclose
The glory of Your Living Word.
Among the wonders I have heard,
I hear Your discourse in the breeze,
Syntax in the whispering leaves;
Alphabets in Milky Way,
Grammar at each breaking day.
Master Linguist, breathe in me
Words that shape my prosody.
As leaves of life are pages turned
each sunrise and each setting eve,
so Time requires accounting earned
of heart, and what heart has achieved;
what ink was etched in living light
upon those souls within arm’s reach;
what words with honey sweetened plight,
or actions wrote with keener speech?
*
What one thing can you do this day to make the world around you a better place? We need to stand together against evil, or peace on earth will remain a distant dream…
Nightcap,
frothed with steamed milk,
dream-weaver of hushed dialogue;
foam ebullition, substance suspended,
bulbous discourse of ephemeral proportion.
Whisper sweet nothings into spurious
ears; lend your lather, spume’s
spatter, contrive, spawn
Nightcap.
Calligraphic nibs
etch meaning in an empty sky,
fingernails scratching glass,
scribes recording ticks and tocks.
Abacus counting season’s syllables,
limbs leaking language
in a thousand tongues –
branches baring all.
Tender limes on spiny stems
Bravely push to journey’s end;
Seeking sun and studious growth,
Learning how to balance both
As factories of sugar sweet
Begin to pulse in hands and feet.
Opening hearth for nests of birds,
You scream Spring, but use no words.
This is a miniature ‘Bird’s Nest Spruce’. I somehow missed publishing this one this spring. Now, with autumn’s approach, here is a quick peek back to the beginning of the growing season!
