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.