Two Questions.

I was asked two questions today
By an old man with a scruffy beard.
"Why do you write words?" He asked.
And the wrinkles around his eyes smiled.

"I write words because they are more than words."
I said. My polished writer's answer.
"Words are more than just ink on a page, or letters lined up in rows.
They are representatives of ideas, Ambassadors of emotions."

"Words are powerful. They can lift someone's heart,
Or break it into a dozen pieces.
Words communicate thoughts and feelings,
And carry on their backs humanity."

The old man rubbed his scruffy beard.
"If words are so powerful,
Why aren't we more careful with them?"
I had no polished answer. And the wrinkles around his eyes smiled.

What I believe.

I don't do this often, but I am going to post someone else's words today. This is an incredible poem by Michael Blumenthal called "What I believe". Enjoy!

What I Believe

By Michael Blumenthal

I believe there is no justice,
but that cottongrass and bunchberry
grow on the mountain.

I believe that a scorpion's sting
will kill a man,
but that his wife will remarry.

I believe that, the older we get,
the weaker the body,
but the stronger the soul.

I believe that if you roll over at night
in an empty bed,
the air consoles you.

I believe that no one is spared
the darkness,
and no one gets all of it.

I believe we all drown eventually
in a sea of our making,
but that the land belongs to someone else.

I believe in destiny.
And I believe in free will.

I believe that, when all
the clocks break,
time goes on without them.

And I believe that whatever
pulls us under,
will do so gently.

so as not to disturb anyone,
so as not to interfere
with what we believe in.

Where the travelers meet.

The waves roll in from their horizontal wanderings
Lapping on the sand with a swishing melody.
Where have you been watery friends?
Have you seen distant shores?
Have you drifted along secret places
Dreamers dream to see?

The moon's luminous rays beam from their atmospheric residence,
And end their journey with a shining dance on the inky water.
Where have you traveled from enlightened companions?
Have you had your fill of the dark and cold places of space?
So now you decide to fall on the glistening sand,
Responding to the oceans song with quiet illumination?

This is where the travelers meet.
The wandering wind and its salty refreshment,
The sightseeing seagulls and their happy conversations.
Maybe I fit in here.
Roots are for plants,
Not people.

Words.

What do you say when all you feel
Is silence?
Where can words be found?
I want to write but my pen has grown silent.
Where do words take up residence?
Maybe on the same avenue as thoughts?
Oh well, i can't seem to find those either.

Outside my door.

The lake shimmers with the sunlight. Although, I am not sure you can call it sunlight, the sun is hiding. The fog settles down into its place like an old man in his hammock, quietly and slowly streching its hands to the corner of my window, tapping its fingers ever so gently and yawning with itself. The leaves on the ground lie discarded. Rejects of a tree who chose to let them go. The wind finds some amusement in them though, picking them up and dancing a swirling waltz or two before letting them fall back to their asphalt beds. Quietness screams loudly this morning.

2:1

My Beloved calls me beautiful.
Though I am only ordinary.
My flowering buds are exactly
Like all the other flowering buds.
Except, He chose mine as His
Satisfaction.

He takes my tendrils in His hand
He doesn't mind my thorns.
And I must say I only love Him
Because His love reached out first.
He is my effectual
Attraction.

The girl who changed.

She was,
Sweet and kind.
We loved her.
But now,
The sounds from her heart
have changed from a happy key,
to grating echoes.

Quietness.

Quietness is its own poem.

Searching for Rescue.

What are you searching for dear child?
You have searched long and hard already,
Down the endless hallways of your own self,
Following your heart you say.
Following your restless heart?
Your raging, wave-crashed heart?
Your  blind and broken heart?
Your chains still linger I see.
Your clanking, heavy chains still scream the reality of your imprisonment.
No matter how much you make them glimmer and shine
With the jewels of your own "ability"
They will always be chains.
They will always bring you pain.
They will never go away.
That is because I hold the key.
That is because I AM the key.
Why don't you just stop searching
And let me find you already?

Best Friend.

Do you remember when we listened to Chopin's Prelude together?
You know the one, in minor E?
A story emerged from the piano strains of sadness.
A story that was really from our minds and not the piano at all.
Or maybe the story was from our hearts.
Are our hearts tuned in minor E?
Well they must at least be in the same key,
the same rythmic number of beats.

Silence.

My walls stare back at me
Empty, like my ears.
The song of Silence bounces off of one wall
And on to another.
Is silence happy or sad?
Or something in between?
An orchestra, or a single note?
Or maybe a category all to itself.

Golgotha's Song.

The soldiers jeer.
Harsh, Loud, Grating.
Their hearts and voices are as hard,
As their breastplates and helmets shining.

The whip cracks.
The soldier's silent eyes watch, enjoying
The pain He is feeling, the agony, the tears,
The sadness of His heart crying.

The hammer pounds.
Cold, insensitive. A tool of death and sorrow.
While He is silent, giving away his blood,
Pure and sweet, to freely flow.

The sad and painful sounds are not
Sad and painful.
They are beautiful
Notes of liberty.

This is the solemn scale of security.
Refuge through refusal.
The notes that dance from the cold, hard, tools of rejection
Sing to my ear the song of acceptance.

The Cross was my Valentine.

My dearest, my darling, the love of my life,
I came and I died,
To break those chains you're embracing tonight.
I gave my life's blood, I gave my hearts love,
To write you a love song for all time.

The Cross was my valentine,
I took your nails, and your spear in my side.
I carried your burdens, and bore all your stripes.
Now I'm begging you, pleading with you, won't you be mine?
Forever and always, a love for all time,
I'm begging you darling, won't you be mine?

My dearest, my darling, the love of my life,
I want you to be my lovely bride,
Sparkling, beautiful, immaculate, and white;
Bought with my blood, bought with my life.
I'm begging you darling, won't you be mine?

So here I stand, my arms open wide.
I want all your tumults, I want all your strife.
I want all the secrets you've harbored inside.
I stepped down from my throne, and I fought your fight,
I fought and I won, with my precious life,
To draw you. I love you. Won't you be mine?

Rest in my shadow.

Do you know how to speak the language of silence?
Or have you grown so accustomed to the babble
The unimportant, rambling, babble
That you have forgotten what it means to be
Peaceful, calm, and quiet?

Do you know how to feel stillness?
Or have you grown so callused, callused by an endless
Everything? Running, moving, stressing, calling, talking, writing
So often that you have forgotten what it means to be
Peaceful, calm, and quiet.

"Come unto me" He says "And rest I will give to you"
"No more laden carts, laden hearts, you're free because I am the truth."
My back was strong enough for your rugged cross, your cares can be lost
In the sea of my forgetfulness, and then you will remember, joyfully remember how to be
Peaceful, calm, and quiet."

Library.

The air is quiet, deathly quiet.
The books sit lined up there
in neat little rows.
Lonely, cold, and silent.

The walls are white, deathly white.
A sterilized prison,
For the thoughts that writers chose to write.
Lonely, cold, and silent.

These were meant to be read!
They were meant to bring a smile.
But I guess we have new things now,
to demand our attention, our hearts for awhile.

Who needs these yellowing pages,
Upon which are written the very souls of men?
Men with ideas, men with a story,
Men who just want to make you laugh awhile.

Oh well, let the past be silent.
We don't need the love of Romeo, beautiful in its tragedy.
And we don't need the story of Ulysses passionate, love driven journey.
We have our own words.

Amber.

Maybe I am what you say I am,
A dreamer, not a planner, but at least my vision hasn't died.
Maybe I am what you say I am,
A romantic, unrealistic, but at least my love has not grown dry.

Who are you? A sculpture drawn by
Everybody, anybody, whoever chooses to tell you what they think you should change?
You change your body because you are overweight.
You change your clothes because it's not the style they say.
Your smile should be straighter, your hair should be longer, your eyes should be blue instead of blue-gray.

Maybe I am what you say I am.
But at least I am.
Not shifty, changing,
A canvas for each broken, fragranced hand.

Why?

Why do we need another blog? Well, we don't. I don't claim to have any special words of wisdom, or the cure for world hunger, only words. But then again, words are powerful things. Words can start a movement. Words can lift up the heart, words can bring a smile. A sword may be able to pierce the flesh, but a pen, (or in my case a keyboard) can pierce the soul. So here are my words. You may or may not find them important, but they are here nonetheless. I hope they bring a smile, a laugh, or at least a silent chuckle to your heart.