It is known that I have a love affair with words and that I have an even deeper love for the written word. Yet in the written word things can be missed, misunderstood, misinterpreted and misconstrued. (today seems to be a day for words starting with mis…) This can happen because the inflection of the voice is missing and the intent viewed behind the eyes cannot be witnessed. Forming thoughts is hard enough and writing them out can be even harder; the act of interaction and direct dialog can often let me find a path to form thoughts that might elude me otherwise. I have found that the simple act of direct contact is elementally necessary to understanding the human condition. In my past I had let myself be relegated to a realm of existing almost solely in written form. (I know that sounds strange but it is true.) That acquiescence was a mistake. I let my voice and my intent be silenced and contained. It was at that time that I tried to really find an avenue to a voice for myself with writing. I have always written, kept a ragtag journal trying to form thoughts into coherent sentences. I have no idea if I have made any great strides in this effort but I do feel that I have gained something. This last year of writing has given me a greater insight into myself and re-reading my words at times has let me see a thread that I may have missed otherwise. I have found my words hard to come by as of late. Maybe this is the start to seeing that thread again.
Be careful of words,
even the miraculous ones.
For the miraculous we do our best,
sometimes they swarm like insects
and leave not a sting but a kiss.
They can be as good as fingers.
They can be as trusty as the rock
you stick your bottom on.
But they can be both daisies and bruises.
Yet I am in love with words.
They are doves falling out of the ceiling.
They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap.
They are the trees, the legs of summer,
and the sun, its passionate face.
Yet often they fail me.
I have so much I want to say,
so many stories, images, proverbs, etc.
But the words aren't good enough,
the wrong ones kiss me.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle
but with the wings of a wren.
But I try to take care
and be gentle to them.
Words and eggs must be handled with care.
Once broken they are impossible
things to repair.