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Open Poetry #27
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If I Could Talk About Anything I Wanted To
| Open Poetry #27 |
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If I Could Talk About Anything I Wanted To |
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OwlPoet Junior Member
since 2003-06-18
Posts 17Fullerton, California, Urantia |
If I Could Talk About Anything I Wanted To If I could talk about anything I wanted to... I'd first say a prayer of thanks for good friends, good music and good food. I'd talk about the sounds of dulcimers and guitars, and jug bands and harmonicas, and about closing our books and opening our hearts. I'd talk in a good, clear voice, and maybe gather my friends around a campfire or in some open valley where the sound could carry a long, long way. I'd talk in the evening so people could come out of their houses and gather around to listen after the day's work was done...and I'd talk about love, and mercy, and forgiveness, and the joy of worship and the power of prayer. I'd talk about the difference between living faith and mere beliefs. And I'd talk about common people, and rivers and waterfalls, and majestic mountain lakes where the trout bite on every cast, and about spring wildflowers and chipmunks, and children hunting for shards from obsidian arrowheads in ancient Indian campsites. I'd talk about pretty girls and memories of lost loves, and I'd read my poetry and talk about the way the stars wash the sky in brilliant diamonds on dark moonless nights as fiery meteors streak across the endless horizon. I'd talk about the seasons and the weather, and memories of magic moments in fern canyon. I'd talk about redwoods and serpentine, and opening geodes to find brilliant quartz crystals and agate inside. I'd tell about the ageless triumph of trust and hope, and the joy of realizing the first glimmer of truth I ever felt. I'd talk about Freedom Ranch and the goat man, and rattlesnakes hiding in rocky crevices. I talk about the smiling faces of old friends who hadn't seen each other since the 70's, and the tears of joy on children's faces at Christmas. And birthdays and graduations, and reunions, and marriages, and families and the death of loved ones. And I'd talk about ironworkers and shepherds, and sewer line cleaners and farmers, and about people with bodies that still know how to work, but can't do it any more. And I'd talk about compost and earthworms, and how working with the soil is the most human of all human activities. And I'd talk about lemonade stands, and sledding in the winter on tire‑packed snow on country roads, of flying kites in the cow pasture and hiking for miles following bluegill creeks through white oak forests. I'd talk about sandlot baseball and the one that got away, and my little brother and his imaginary friends. I'd talk about the rag man and horse-drawn milk trucks in the back alleyways of the south side of Chicago. I'd talk about baseball and earthquakes, and looking at minerals through microscopes in polarized light. I'd talk about deep-sea fishing and hooking into my first yellowtail, and the weathered necks of old men staring aimlessly on park benches with nowhere to call home. I'd talk about older men and women finding new love and new dreams and new families in their golden years. I'd tell about the friends I miss who have left this world, but whose memory shadows still linger in my heart and soul. I'd talk about Korea and Viet Nam, and my army days, before I conquered my fear of death and found my faith. And I'd talk about sunrises and sunsets, and cold raw winds that sweep across the land, and laughter and sorrow, and choirs singing hymns of praise during Sunday services. And I'd talk about the smell of coffee in the morning, and telephone calls from long lost friends, and of good men working on the family car trying to get it running again. And when I knew that everyone was listening, when I knew my voice reached every ear, I'd start talking about the Father, and the Son and the Infinite Spirit, and I'd tell about kindness, and the way that love feels when it replaces the darkness in a heart. I'd tell how forgiveness brings freedom, and I'd speak softly so the words could sink in. And I'd tell a story about Jesus, about the universe of universes, and the bestowal of the spirit of truth. And I talk about truth, beauty and goodness, and the indomitable will of the human spirit, and crowds listening to his talk of mercy with their feet buried in the hot desert sand. I'd tell about life on other planets where wars and famines are long gone, where the competition is for service, and every eye sees the light of truth. And I'd talk about hope and faith, and the eternal promise of the ages. And I'd talk about the keys to the kingdom of heaven and the mystery of revelation, and the reality of eternal life. And then I'd stop talking for a moment, and I'd listen to the sound of millions of voices singing softly and humming the harmonious hymns from hearts touched by God. And when the last pink border of twilight faded from the sky in the west, I'd put away my talk and be filled with feelings of thanksgiving, and that I was born a poet. That's what I'd say if I could talk about anything I wanted to. Will Patrick |
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| © Copyright 2003 Will Patrick - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
quote: From each stanza following this line, you have a poem in each of them. Thanks for sharing so much of yourself... Looking forward to reading more. |
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Midnitesun
since 2001-05-18
Posts 28647Gaia |
man, you talk more than me!  now that's a long long list, Mister Owlie, and you've touched upon enough subjects to last a couple of lifetimes, and then some |
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Ratleader
since 2003-01-23
Posts 7026Visiting Earth on a Guest Pass |
You're one of a kind, Will. Each thing in this piece stands separate, clear, though bound to all the rest, and each is a reason why I'm proud to have been your friend for a decade. ....and yes, Midnite, Will knows both the beauty of talk, and the expansive comfort of silent companionship -- and when each is best. ~~(¸¸¸¸ºº> ~~(¸¸¸¸ºº> ~~(¸¸ ¸¸ºº> ~~~(¸¸ER¸¸ºº> ______________Ratleader______________ [This message has been edited by Ratleader (06-22-2003 09:56 AM).] |
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OwlPoet Junior Member
since 2003-06-18
Posts 17Fullerton, California, Urantia |
"Only a poet can discern the poetry in the routine prose of common existence" ^>^>^>^>^>^>^>^>^>^>^>^>^>^>^>^>^> Poems are not poems simply because they are presented in stanzas and verse. Poems are not poems because they follow a form or a meter scheme. Poems are not poems simply because they are elegantly presented or, in our modern world, filled with HTML code that draws on software to create imagery. Poetry is the soul of humankind. It is more than thought, more than passion, more than romance. Poetry touches us because it speaks about the commonplace of shared experience in ways that speak to the greater shared part of all of us. As W.C. Williams said so simply... "So much depends on a red wheelbarrow glazed with rainwater beside the white chickens" Will Will Patrick |
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suthern
since 1999-07-29
Posts 20723Louisiana |
I'd like to be there for that talk... think I'd be better for the listening. *S* I enjoyed the read very much. *S* |
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Artic Wind Member Rara Avis
since 2007-09-16
Posts 8080Realm of Supernatural |
Enjoyed this Write!  ARCTIC WIND |
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