Ask A Poet Why and He May Say


Why do you tell the world just so,
Why do you speak unplain?
What is the push and pull within
That wraps the word along
In patterns, rythme and weaving, or a  threading?
If you can write in paragraph and line and write as plain as day
As others speak.
Why do you say these things just so, that beg some time
To sit and think,
And pull apart like child at play.
Like dough in hand, forms and shapes,
Flexing and extending.
To see
Just see what shapes and forms, what beauty
Will come from void?

Why do you tell the world just so?
Why do you speak unplain?
What is there in subtle hiding or buried hidden thought?
Why tuck inspiration or creation in words
That speak like puzzle piece?
Why does a child sit on the floor, hours spent
With block in hand or lego piles, to see what he can make
From void, from nothing, make something beautiful, wild or wooly
When on the shelf sit hundreds of toys to grab in seconds flat.


Why do you tell the world just so?
Why do you speak unplain?
Why do fields hold wonders and whimsy and skies and seas
Do too.
A lifetime is spent in discovering these
That lay in the world He made.
What joy in telling of all He does and makes and gives, in
The world and in a life, as seen by eyes inside a heart.
Can we see the mystery in the hidden hummingbird nest
So small, so buried in the limb
Or see the cross which cotton bears when burst open right at  harvest time?
I knew not
They were there.

Until I look still, closer, still
And listen with my heart
For small and subtle, nearly lost in a frenzied,
Shouting, clamoring,high octane world.
When some are screaming, writing tomes
Is there a place for poet’s voice, a home?
It takes a moment longer, you linger or
You’ll leave, impatient with the telling.
Many say, say what you mean and say it fast
And some say simply short is sweet.
But the poet winds and rambles leaving crumbs to gather
On a page.Saying rest awhile and seek the deep.
A world is rushing by, but you
May slow your pace and rest your eyes with me
Let’s talk of life upon these lines.

And seek the hidden things.
Let’s look together at this life, find beauty
And amazing, the wondrous and the plain, lying in the shadows.
The world made mysterious by His hand, the smallest  subtle intrigue
Try to understand the intricate, He’s artist Creative God.
He’s buried complex things, they’re hidden in the deep.
Let’s hold our breath and hold up time  to find, to truly see.
Come explore with patient eyes.
The deep, the hidden marvels in the space
That lies between you and me, us and them.
And hold on traveller, pilgrim friend
Just ask the poet why and he may say
There is simple beauty in the hidden things.

Joining Emily, Duane, Jennifer.

Be Still Sweet Soul

Sometimes the dull, dropped, dark dank, leaves of fall

Lie broken under foot,

Like death,

Busted like dry bones crackle.

And sometimes

The path through canopy of trees,

The wood’s own trail of life

Seems paved with aged confetti,

Strewn from spring’s gay party on the path.

The leaves the same, the framing changed.

It is both and it is nature’s way,

A cycle of seasons

Under foot and heavenward

And all around.

The woods tell stories, whispered

Stories. Listen and

Be still sweet soul,

In all and know that He is

God.

While you wonder,

While you wander,

And while you still sit

In weathered chair, of life,

Be still sweet one

And know.

Joining Deidra for her lovely Sunday Community.

Women At The Farm

In the sharing of this place

We gather by reflective pond.

And share the past, the hurt and pain.

While cobb webs break by hand with broom,

Not knowing what tomorrow brings.

We curl beside the waters edge

And wrestle with a gentle breath,

The unknown places yet to come.

Smoke fills the air from grill and burn pile

And all the while

Grief shared is grief diminished

On the lips, of the women at the farm.

No ride of whimsy on the road

With men in search of folly in the wood.

A vigil held by weathered chair

As if the words can heal a soul.

The weathered chair bears  burdens well

Of words flung through crisp fall air.

Words of women woven on the porch,

A tapestry of trials.

Worn grease coat feels but  feather like

When compared

To the heaviness of the words,

That fall as jet-propelled autumn acorns on tin roof,

Like heart bombs dropping from azure blue

Heavens.

And won’t His Words heal our souls?

Proclaim the women at the farm.

This is the very best way to love. Put your life on the line for your friends.

John 15:11-15

I am joining my friends Sandra, Deidra and L.L. Barkat.

Have you discovered the beauty of wordcandy.me? Its delicious. Courtesy of the folks at Tweetspeak Poetry.