We write of summer meadows and of dewdrops,
Of circles caught in circles in our mind,
Of senses’ fantasies that beg releasing, in
Images that seep on page to find
Recognition in the land of journey
Of imagination played before our fluttered eyes,
Of colours bright or muted, freed from prism,
Of right or wrong, of truth, of evil lies.
We write of winter howling in bare treetops,
Of geometric tangents linked with space,
Of god and gifts and sad laments of knowing
Revealed inside the gifs behind our face,
Of politics and grace and favour owing,
Of how, by nature, owls seek out and track their prey
While, through the night, their silent wings stir currents,
Nocturnal voice, soft breathing held at bay.
We write at dawn and in night’s tiptoed torment
Of tales and thoughts, common to us all,
Of worlds within the world we all are sharing,
We write, in honesty, must be the greatest call
Of those drawn to the world of language,
In letter’d form, placed hesitantly, upon page,
Hit ‘publish’ while our hearts on white are crafted,
Daring reciprocity or rage.
Of ballerinas twirling in their jewel box,
When opened to reveal our trinkets there,
We write and dare our eyes to endless wonder,
We write, we risk our souls to honest bare.
We write because not doing is no option,
Words bedevil, haunt with no regret,
Spectral forms hover oe’r us, in cloud lexicon,
Begging exorcism on the net.
We write in music, pictures and prose poetry,
In art, in forms all risen from the pyre
Of ashen phoenix, from a long tradition
Of pigments mixed in charcoal from the fire.
In black and white, in colours that suffuse us,
Permeate the gases of our form,
Our nebula of knowing that what moves us,
Communication, as the human norm.
We write when tears are forming on our eyelids,
Smudging ink that proves our hearts still feel,
In anger, too, spilled blood from ancient consciousness,
We write to justify our thoughts are real.
We write because we see all souls are hurting,
As mine does too, from time to time, no less,
We write as union with the great unknowing,
One cell from shared communion that we bless
In knowing that no trouble that we carry
Need be borne alone no matter where we are,
Our words are missiles, more powerful than nuclear,
They are the love that nurtures near or far.
The word is flesh, the word is souls abiding
In light, its form, its earthless, weightless mass,
In silence and in photonic dark room,
One word may mean more than all the rest.
We write of dreams succumbed to when we’re sleeping,
Of daydreams caught in shower’s gentle sting,
Of justice, truth, of pain, of deep depression,
Of cloud release ascended on the wing.
Of tender-hearted moments that we’ve nourished,
Of visions seen in skies, on mountain peaks,
We write of all that’s conjured in our musings,
We write because some words are hard to speak.
scottishmomus 