Being The Word

His artistry in action serves notice on the word

For what are words without the follow-through

Receptacles for empty lest they do what they have said

And he does it all with minimum ado

From the carving of the wood to designing of the plot

Nurturing, as on he willing goes

From the service to all others, giving all he’s got

Actions speak with volume, we all know

From the being to the doing, negating passive voice

A willing man who gives and then gives more

An alphabet of loving, minus all the noise

He balances and then exceeds the score

To the doers who are doing while the thinkers think their thoughts

Vague luxury impressed when time stands still

While the hands sweep round the clocks, incessant in their tocks

He’s living life with effort and with will

While the words are taking wing in a vacuum lost in space

His actions fly and fill the greater void

Lending love around in the ways of active grace

Being usefully and truly well employed

Artistry in action serves notice on the word

For what are words without the follow-through

Receptacles for empty lest they do what they have said

We must be the words and do what doers do

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Birthing Words

I feel obliged to write you with my reasons,

though they wane and wax with time, there’s constancy,

nothing can surpass the words 

if, even sleeping,

they drift and drone and beg, oh, please, choose me!

I shush them when, in real-life mode, I’m enacting

fulfillment of the roles I must obey,

I try to shun them, tell them, wheesht! I’m working

Do they listen? Not a word that I can say.

They tease, torment and test me with their pullings,

This way, that, o’er here, oh, Anne-Marie, please look at me.

Dismissal doesn’t work, I’ve tried, they never listen,

I jot them down for my posterity.

I’ll come to you, I say, when I have finished, 

the workload that demands so much of my time,

I’ll hear you better when the pressure’s off me,

Like children, they just sulk then whine on constantly.

I must admit, I’d miss them if they left me,

They start my day and end it with their charm

And even though they tug, torment and taunt me,

They never really do me any harm.

I love them, they’re my children, 

Add to seven,

the words that birth themselves and beg me, please,

feed me, fill me, love me, never leave me.

I resign myself to mother of all these.

You’ve got to love this place. Even when I’m ignoring it as much as I can to do what I have to, it sneaks in. Checking through a bunch of emails that I’m also trying to ignore till I’ve, at least, wrapped the feckin’ presents, I come across this one, leading to this one that takes me back to this one and spawns this one.

I can be accused of many things – a tendency to leaving things to the last minute being chiefly noticeable at this particular time – next year I’ll start in September, like some of the folks in my school. Who wraps Christmas presents in October? Does this mean that they have Easter sorted too? Booked their summer holiday?

I seem to remember that my essays always got in on time. But usually after an all-nighter. Each to their own comes to mind. But this might be why I’m still shopping, haven’t wrapped a single present other than the lucky dip for school, will hit some stores tomorrow, god-help-me, and enlist the help of my fourteen-year-old wrapping elf.

I can’t, however, be accused of being short on words – check my posts. Haiku? I wish. I’m missing my writing time so badly that I’m dreaming the bloody words again. Noted for future reference. Driving to work has become a memory test. Repeat, repeat, repeat till I can note.

Ain’t it great though, that words demand of us? That’s kind of what Charles was talking about, I think. It’s like words are truly born – and I know what that’s like! Including one emergency caesarian with the last. Some are easy, some not so much so, some require intervention. But, after the birth, you look and say, I know you. I’ve always known you.

My kids – my real babes – are sorted for Christmas. I just have to make sure to take time to tend to the ones that keep on crying. Love takes many forms.

Merry Christmas all you lovely folk. I may be back before you know it. Or I might be burning the venison, cursing the carols (don’t you just get sick of the same ones?!)

Feck it! When my crew are all sated, from too much of me, I’ll be loving my orphans.

Won’t we all! Mothers and fathers to words.

Your words are a gift. I thank you for them.

They’re also your gift to yourself. Open them every day.

Christmas-gift-certificate-template a

Words are made flesh and live among us.

Second Revolution

Record Spinning on Turn Table

(Play It Again AM)

– the record is not broken –

– though rift in operation –

– jumps along –

– every groove –

– its own peculiar nuance –

– deny –

– to disbelievers –

– it was ever –

– just a piece of plastic –

– he sang my song –

– self-effacing –

– to newer models –

– deemed superior –

– to me ’twas special –

– he played my dreams –

– in words and rhythm –

– found my soulful heart –

– the record is not broken –

– though he’s quiet –

– residing on some shelf –

– time turns the tables –

– i play his tunes –

– sadly –

– nowadays –

– i play them for myself –

It appears I cannot resist the rhyme even after the free.

Sticky Words

Pull a little word from out your pocket,

The one that’s tucked away that you can’t say,

The sticky one, the one with fuzz bits on it,

The one you kept and snuck it well away,

The one that when you see it, on appraisal,

Looks a lot like rubbish to your mind,

Rinse it off and look again, might notice,

It’s the one you lost and tried so hard to find.

That sticky word, adrift in secret places,

Diamond in the rough, a gem concealed,

Searched for, sought and needed, once unheeded,

That’s the one that could be, should be, new revealed.

Sticky words, I know them, they spell trouble,

Trouble while they’re lost in tiny holes,

Found, they are a gift, a grace regranted,

Sticky words can unstick word-stuck souls.

Logophile

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.

Scorched With A Giggle

From your eyes the scorch of an angel

Words, feathered, pronounced on my skin

Caressed more lightly than fingertips could

Sexed without trace of a sin

Eyed by two green and a soul search

Two hazel stared in return

Glint upon glint sparking arrows

That’s where our love-life began

Voice bathed my flesh and it shivered

Washed me in words welcomed, warm

Filled up my core and delivered

Heat from a new-risen sun

Irises reached, enlarged pupils,

Signs of what still had to come

First look, first words, were the herald

Of a sex life that’s been second to none!

I was tagged by Jessica to write a sexy poem for Sexy Poetry Day.  But I’m obviously still a fourteen year old when it comes to talking about sex – I can’t help giggling.

Regardless, I dedicate this poem to my better half who, despite life’s marital ups and downs, still rocks my boat and makes me giggle. I was nineteen when we first met, he with my oldest brother, me with my mum. Sparks flew from the get-go, which was a tad embarrassing all round. He was warned off by my brother, me by my mum! But love will out. Sparks will fly. And sex requires some giggling, I’ve always felt. Think about it. Heaven sure has a sense of humour. You couldn’t make it up yourself!

Sounds Apt

One there was that danced upon the surface

Seeking honoured place to rest and let it be

Dedicated to communication

Prepared to work alone or company

To singular intention caught in heartbeat

Rhythm born intrinsic in its sound

Worked its way along the lines of empty

Espied its niche and settled right way round

Others clambered to be party to this

Festive wake where all sounds go to lie

Rejoicing in the mini death from random

Found a better place to conjure why

Purpose to existence in their being

Favoured by the one who may not know

Whether each and every grapheme chosen

Will do their job well, meaning to bestow

Rest ye well all phonics torn from alpha

Through omega, all that serve between

Many are there waiting, be not ill-used

Repose, post work, to know that you have been

Picked before all others still awaiting

Skill by some more gifted, all must wait

Practise while you work upon the forming

Perhaps some day may praise at well-placed state

 

Characters that haunt with saddest weeping

Shadows of the words they could have been

Spectred to ill-chosen, used and destined

To roam forever dwelling might have beens

Words evasive, parted soul from symbol

Vacant shells now cast adrift to face

The artifice of empty, this their fate flawed

Selected, misappropriated waste

In phrases, chosen chasms that despoil them

How can any cast thus find in name

Any sound or timbre worth their purpose

Poor letters, never stamped but sent the same

No one ever will recall their passing

Too many of their siblings chosen best

Selected by a wisdom quite elusive

While shallow markings never etched true worth.

Still the sounds browse up and down for tempo

Seeking yet their place upon the map

Desire for destination in their searching

Union with all others for sounds apt.

 

Diligence

Come, silence not the words when words are needing,

Nor empty self into the dark abyss,

Void of comfort, empty of all meaning,

Why throw away all chances by remiss.

Come fill, at spring, your cup to overflowing,

Chilled, refreshed by waters from on high,

Crystal bounty, clarity in knowing

Source at summit, worthy risk to try.

Come see the lights that shine upon not under,

Bask in starlight, beauteous to behold,

Feet to path, hands breaking rocks asunder,

Words may be the actions of some bold.

Who can know the value of the footsteps

Or words, as water, falling from your lips.

 

 

Retained

There are people I remember who have gone,

Memory retains,

They’re alive inside my heartbeat,

They remain.

There are voices I still hear, though they’re silent,

Ears still hear,

Words, once spoken, unforgotten,

Keep their presence near.

There was lostness and confusion in their parting

When they left,

More than sadness, sorrow,

Never seen again, bereft,

But hope remains, reunion,

Though the parting of the ways,

In loving words and thoughts they live,

Retained, connection stays.