Poetry: series, clouds: love for words and song

A Love for Words, and Song

I'm proud of this baby.

I am constantly humbled by the play-craft of words 
forming music to a rhythm enchanted with verse. 

When I first discovered this phonic fascination,
I truly savored the fire that christens every carpal gesture.
I became a wordsmith at play with pen to page.
I began oft to scribble down thoughts in early day, or late, across spellbound canvases.
These products became voluminous, bursting their seams with audacity.
They still sting like a bandage torn off without warning.

And yet, I fostered a meager craft by feeding it crumbs.
While wading calmly, I cast repeatedly into the sleeping abyss to preserve my wild pieces.

Each expression nurtured a totem within.
And with time, I retreated into my own deeply cloistered sanctuary.
Like Kvothe in a story of a man becoming his own (Rothfuss),
A heart-like stone, cold but sacred, rose into relief at my center.
Within, resides a reservoir,
For reflection beyond plane.

And when I finally permit myself to be within its gloriousness,
And tune into the many streams of thought, dancing like seeds in a wind,
First, Brother Fire comes alive.
Mother Earth then directs their dance with Sister Water, 
And Father Air gives further character to all.

I chant there, like a drum,
And feed thine Alchemyst a rhythm
That forms any dream from a patchwork pattern of breath,
And still has qi enough to forge truthful wishes into bright life.

That’s when the words come.
Like children let out of school for the longest summer break,
Almost pandering to be manifest as if coy bobbing for kibble.
They then pour like rain into prophet’s pyre,
And begin to sparkle as the sun rests in our perspective.

I love their chorus.
When I can bear it,
I pick each one up, and hold it, and look into its eyes,
And cherish what it can give to all of us. 

I am constantly humbled by the play-craft of words 
forming music to a rhythm enchanted with verse. 

​Thus Spake Make
Nov. 4, 2020