soundofmanywaters

  Not another poem about writing poems... When poems were engraved on stones You’d hope some palaeontologist might engage To trace the leachings of once living bones - Your furious monsters and their fossil rage. When poems were made from paper marked with ink You might fold them, hurl them, point first, dart At the heavens, hoping they might sink To find an answer in some human heart. Now poems are made of whispering bits Fizzing around the world - somewhere, you long, There must be a secret somebody who hits Your link and, for a moment, shares your song. But poems are made for an in between, for here The beat of Spirit’s brooding echoing sings In the space between words and worlds, and you are near To an endless mind that thought and thinks all things…