Letter’d Lives

Though we don’t write the endings to our stories,

We’re bound to tell the passages between,

Letters written, words too oft confounding,

On life’s parchment, scripted scene by scene.

Underlying themes and sub-plots merging,

Combined, refined, relate the years we’ve seen,

Central characters all pulled together,

Writing book of life and where we’ve been.

Sometimes story plot becomes confusing,

Characters won’t say and do all that they mean,

Deletions happen often though they hurt you,

No one likes to lose the plan they’ve weaned.

Conflict often rises though unplanned for,

Resolutions too, when hope it seemed

Had fled the prose and left an empty page there,

Tale renews and onward goes as schemed.

Standing back and viewing sometimes helps here,

Perspective on a scale too rarely seen,

Judgements made, a brand new tack is taken,

Weaving all perceptions that we’ve gleaned.

No, we don’t write the endings to our stories

But try to polish them to worthy sheen,

Chapters running, coming all together,

Life lines written, speaking volumes in between.

 

Bring Them Home

Reaching out to others is a burden I can’t half,

Though it’s laudable, it’s laughable,

As if my concern lasts

Way beyond the slightest

Of your needs,

As if I fit,

Laughable,

Truly,

Beyond, in fact,

Really,

Think of it.

That one such one

As me or you,

Such a tiny voice in all,

Should make the slightest difference.

Insignificant withal.

Yet the someone,

Maybe not me,

In fact, the chance is slim,

But someone,

Someone close or far,

Some she

Or maybe him,

Bequeaths the words,

That gust of air,

That treasured little drop,

That tiny, teensy something

That urges, do not stop.

Be the voice,

The shouting one,

The silent, but for tone,

The something

Just for someone

That may bring that someone home.

Sung of Trusting Hearts

Who do you trust with your heartbeat,

Your friend, your husband, your wife,

The one by your side, do you let them inside 

To caress and keep beats of your life.

Is their touch the soft hand of an angel,

The firm but the gentle with heart,

Can you trust that their love will secure it

And keep it from stopping with start.

Do their fingers pulse to your heartstrings

And strum all your worries away,

Kept alive by the touch of another

With heart massag’d lovingly each day.

So who do you trust with your heartbeats,

Be it woman or man of your choice,

Be it child or a friend or a lover,

Let them play you with touch of their voice

For the touch of an angel is spoken

In the words that fall from their lips,

Their blessing sustains all hearts broken

But, more, they protect it from this.

This feels like a song, it sounds like a song to me. The music is optional. Your own tune fits just as well as mine.

 

Impact

World keeps right on turning

In spite, not because

Of everything done and said,

Following natural laws.

Impact from external

May just change its course

Devastate, deviate,

Improve where none can force.

Rotational, cyclical,

Dizzying cyclone,

Spinning, spinning, spinning on

World no one may own.

 

Formatting

You can be right here,

where I am,

with words that barely censor

who we are,

Pictures wrought and writ

ensure a presence,

as eloquent as spoken,

though afar.

I can be there,

right where you are,

in a crazy coded heartbeat,

transmission of the vowels

caught in consonants, combined,

Transference of all thought

in letter’d format,

Bringing close together

hearts and minds.

 

No Maidens Nor Castles

Words and phrases, popping randomly into your brain, don’t you just love it?

Apparently, the etymology behind ‘faint heart never won fair lady’ is difficult to accredit to any precise source. So says googly world. The earliest date originally cited with any supportable evidence was around 1545. But another takes it back to around 1390 where a castle was drawn into the comparison. Anyway, from thinking to this.

Faint heart never won fair lady

Nor, lady faint, encaptured bravest knight,

Where courage lacks, all faint hearts fear and quiver,

Dragons roam, no heroes left to fight,

No damsels waiting fast within a tower,

No badge of honour, standards hoisted high,

Where faint heart lives all loss resides there,

No castle for the knaves who fear to try.

 

Perfect Play – Excess of Words

The stage was set, two actors to the fore,

No masks of tragedy or comic worn.

Parts were learned, as too, the orchestra and score,

Awaiting now crescendo for their turn.

Love was heard

in notes that spilled

and spiralled

and rose to rafters, to the gallery,

where eyes strained

to figures poised for action and their part,

to faces on the stage,

too distant,

too abstract,

too indeterminate for those vaulted there to clearly see.

The music fades,

a silence waits around in tones of hushed expectancy.

The one begins to speak.

And halts.

Love lingers in the air,

pulses,

settled on plush chairs,

in stalls,

in balconies.

Nothing can compare to rapture heard.

Say not a word.

He takes her hand and draws her closely to a kiss,

Deepens dulcet depth still lingering.

Only this.

To standing ovation.

No single word.

A bow.

Departing hand in hand.

Stage left.

A play enacted perfectly.

Ripple On Our Radius

In vast countries where a billion different voices

Murmur in their work and mull in thought

Are the seeds of revolution because choices

Lack the freedom, doing what we ought.

In the stitching of the garments and the ploughing

Fields we furrow for vague greater good

There are questions as we bow our heads to tasking

Asking if we’re doing all we should

To be the one, the only one, we’re born to,

To realise the goals, the greater aims,

To be the actions that may speak because we owe to

Selves and world, justice in our names.

In the factories and countries wide where souls ache,

Trammeled while we’re working for the man,

Eked existence slowly lived while hearts break,

Years swiftly bypass doing, as we think, the best we can.

In the motion of the moon and yearly tidings

Howls inside are rising, seeking sky,

Portents of a future, bands of wildness,

Growling in the question, why me, why.

Dare we risk, in idle speculation,

The what ifs, should I’s, didn’ts, not my job,

Plodding on, a controlled automation,

While frustrations muster, gathering in mob.

Can we be the changes in our lifetime,

The only voice we’re given for a while,

Can we work and think, still being active,

Ripple on a radius within our mile.