Poetry
The loneliest poem in the world
There is the wind in the trees
and the ripples in the river
and I am
the loneliest poem in the world.
How I long to be spoken
on gilded tongues
the kind that whisper mellifluously on the open air
yet carry to the furthest corner.
How I long to fill your mind’s eye
with the wonder of dappled sunlight
and fill your sight with visions
of eternity unbroken,
O, how I long to be read.
But I am hidden in these dark pages,
shelved and forgotten
and remembered only when the fancy
comes upon my master –
that shiver of remembrance of me.
And then the light…
How glorious to be:
spoken on open air,
read in open mind,
freed from the binding
of my spirit
to echo in eternity.
But always I return
unto the page, the dark, the shelf
and I am
the loneliest poem in the world.
They walked with Her too
She found me in the wilderness.
I was not looking for her; she was not looking for me.
She had dolphin’s eyes and the weight of a beached whale.
She was more like the trees than me.
So we walked.
She showed me the world: its straight roads and round-a-bouts;
its cul-de-sacs,
and we walked.
Valleys led to ridges, ridges to mountain tops
and, when on high, I circled Her
like sparrows round seed,
like stars around the southern sky –
beneath which we lie –
and what She knew, I knew;
and i forgot.
We walked long into the night;
she cast peace upon the waters.
The moon and stars were hooked fish she drew
across the glassy surface.
Rivers flowed where rivers flow
and an ocean did receive –
at last –
the bodies of my ancestors.
They walked here too.
They who knew the hardness of the rock;
who slept among soft fragrant grasses;
who yearned, as I yearn, for another world;
for they had forgotten:
They walked with Her too.