The poetry of bells speaks in rich tongues of summoning. A pealing appealing, designed to interrupt our tendency to stand and graze. Because life was not meant to be chewed moodily like cud. A ringing stretched taut across the sky hauls us up like bucket out of the deep well of our forgetfulness. Wakes us gently from the mossy stupor of misplaced priorities. Returns us to the central tasks we have grown so gifted at putting off: Breathe. Listen. Love. Again… yes now Again.
Category Archives: Thingishness
The poetry of thumbprints is poetry of our worlds too various to be identical. Tell me Friend, there is One but are there two who can claim they have seen the same God? Newcomers who hear me sing use strange words to echo my song. The tune is still Love. You are upset but only because you are not really listening. Now tell me sweet Friend will you sit in a corner and sulk — or will you come dance the difference?
The poetry of knots is troublesome when found in morning hair. Or as lead butterflies in stomach not to mention roadblocks in throat no word shall pass. And please, lets be clear on our favorite things. Brown paper packages tied up in string can break fingernails. But not all things are meant to come undone. Like pretzels and French horns. Some parts of our lives must remain forever intricate, shiny & unstraightend.
The poetry of muted colors is the composure of rainbow walking through library. Colors that wear hush like a dim scarf & rimmed glasses. Attractive in a stylish, unsentimental way, careless of attention. Content to bury its face in a dusty book, to speak only when spoken too, and only in measured out whisper. A muted color expertly sidesteps the shrill of saturation, far too well-bred to publicly raise its voice.
The poetry of windows addresses the trouble with walls. The trouble with walls is that they are often implacable (which in a more logical world would mean resistant to plaque). Walls are opaque, unyielding, stern and something there is that does not love them. Windows like bright, fluent diplomats override that stony reticence, flutter open like eyelids, issue a glad standing invitation to light.
The poetry of mustard seeds is measured out in tiny silver spoons. Fine black beads if spilled they scatter rapidly, desperados disbanding because the glamour of self-detonation in hot oil has worn off. They flee to dusty, unreachable places on the kitchen floor. Those who don’t make it meet their eventual fate with spluttering indignation. Determined to go out, not with a whimper but a bang.
The poetry of lit candle slips its flickering hand into wide palm of night like a trusting child. Its slight touch bravely domesticates the slouching darkness, turns it into an overgrown black Labrador pup. Newly housetrained but still excitable, recklessly friendly and everywhere all at once. The shadows stand wagging their tails and panting a little. As if to say, “We are here. There is absolutely nothing to be afraid of.”
The poetry of feather is weightless whisper smooth against cheek. A singular sleek caress. Feather sings of bird and all that flies beyond the deciduous particulars of plumage. Wingspan dawnsong glittereyes sharpbeak lightbone and swiftness. Which of these alone is bird? Love is a coalescing defying dissection. Transcendent assembly of bewitching detail that conjures up more than the sum of its feathers every time.