I’ve touched those words before now,

They reached and asked me to,

Tongued with tenderness their tone,

Words command of you,

Turned the pages where they live,

Leafed and loved them too,

When joy they’ve given, I give back,

The least that I can do.


Kissed some pages, slept with them,

They’ve warmed me when I’m cold,

Comforted or made me cross,

Even made me bold,

Bent o’er backwards when they’ve asked,

Given birth when told,

Filled in blanks and filled the blank,

A love that can’t grow old.


Books I’ve fingered stand the test,

Some I must let go,

A library that needs thinned down,

Released to let them sow,

Off to others, bid adieu,

True loves I can’t let go,

Logophiles know what I mean,

Words desire it so.



Friday Fiction. http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/2013/10/09/11-october-2013/




Ghosts of ancient days linger, harkening to words long ago spoken. Poets and philosophers shaped the world then and delivered truths in Epidaurian splendour, extolling creation’s wonders. Restorative treatment for unsupported hearts that questioned our same beginnings. Spirits weep silent tears, unheard by those whose hearts are cold to musings.

With healing touch, new words are formed and man’s ailments find an echo in undiminished souls from theatrical beginnings.

A hush descends and even spectres bow to the new. One voice begins and lyrics swell poetically. No dissonant chords to haunt. Phantoms silenced by poetry, personified in the singer.