More than words

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“Use your words Jerry!” admonished a cartoon quasi-evil scientist to one of his creations.

“Ouch! No biting!” a response, without words, and yet very clearly communicating!

Talking heads talk and talk and talk it becomes “blah blah blah” and blank spots.

sawêyihtowak ᓴᐁᐧᔨᐦᑐᐊᐧᐠ V they bless one another; they love one another

Bless and love. More than words, becoming the bridge when the words fail.

They are the balm when words wound. They move and live word-free.

 

Maybe words should fail and more often. What if poets wove their words to fail?

If a picture is worth a 1000 words, what could our actions speak then? Millions?

We stare at screens. Books. Images. And freeze. Unable to act or move. Still.

We think because someone saw it they did something. We observe and are

removed from the mud, the blood, the tears and the pain. We are stone.

 

Our empathy mocks, and our “shares” and “Likes” and “Tweets” buy some peace.

“Well I DID do SOMETHING!” and yet we know, down in that dark place below.

We know there is more to do. Not across the ocean. Or even across the street.

Across the room. A hand or breath away. Our words should fail us then. 

We should be unable to be poetic without action, without touch or voice.

 

Poetry – a call to action. A place for words to fail because we should not. Cannot.

Poetry – the memorial, the eulogy, the celebration. A place for failed words.

I wrote today about time healing all wounds, and scars still there to ache.

Scars are where the words failed and action struck. Ragged poetry seen.

Dug into skin. Aching and remembering the wounding. The wordless

time when there was nothing but getting out, away, being gone.

 

Words should fail when we fail to hear their call to act. To speak. To reach out.

To them. Especially to them. To walk away. From them. YES THEM! Go.

My words bubble and boil to the surface. Banging against lips and teeth.

Knowing their acid and bile won’t wound anyone but me I chew them.

Swallow deep and plan my exit steps. Silent prayer for grace. Again.

Words meant to wound when I need to feel better need to fail.

 

“You shoulda gave her a piece of your mind!” and “Why do you take that from them?”

And I can’t help but see their words as bait, hiding a sharp deadly hook inside.

Their words fail as I walk away, poetry in motion, leaving the scene before a

crime happens against poetry, against words and against self and life.

My words failed. And I”m glad. My actions were loud enough.

And my prayer for grace, instead of repentance, was healing.

 

Brian has us thinking about when words fail for Meeting at the Bar tonight. I’ve had lots of opportunity to see when words do fail – in good and bad ways. And in ways that turned around unexpectedly from one thing into something else entirely. As I get older I am learning the wisdom of poetry in motion, of walking away. Sometimes it is good for words to fail, it leaves room for action. And then sometimes we make them carry too much instead of doing it ourselves.  Not sure where I am going with this but deep thoughts are rambling around, so thanks Brian!  Stop by dVerse and see how the other poetic people are responding! Share your own thoughts and leave love.

 

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Real Toads Renga

For Real Toads: a group poem

Some claim April rain                            (Grace of Words like Foam on the Waves)
brings the blossoms of May, but
trees here are hasty

like youth, ardor unrestrained               ( Margaret – Art Happens 365)
eager for springs first sweet kiss


Sakura blossoms                                    (Kerry O’Connor of Skylover)
In the arms of old man tree
Drops of moonlit milk

showgirls will perform a dance             Ella’s Edge
inspired by Moon light’s embrace


her graceful waves in                            Laurie Kolp Poetry
a risque spring ballet, legs
kick the darkened sky


stars wink at rainbow feathers              Susie Clevenger of Confessions of A L. G.
that tease with each fluttering


My full heart flutters,                           Mary of Writing in the Bachs
I become dancer and dance
under April’s moon


and a blossoming cherry
in the sweet, full warmth of May          Kay, an Unfittie
And we, resting far                                    Sunflower Shan (Shanyn)
north where snow still flies and melts
await midnight sun.
Grace has challenged members and contributors at the writers group Imaginary Garden with Real Toads to write a group poem with alternating stanzas, 5/7/5 and 7/7.
I have been reading the others, and have been certain I had nothing to contribute, but finally decided to try.  (I totally stole this right from Kay 🙂 Forgive me girl!)