Poems, Life, Being

What use have we of
Which can only describe,
But cannot bring life
To any desolate space
Or without our hearts.
Is it the beauty
In our language, the word,
Which compels writing
Or is it more
How creation fulfills us?
None of us is wed
To syllable expression,
Formed in meter,
Words cast in settings of rhyme,
Still, poets reach for the
We root among those
Sentiments, some
From bygone times when
We were loved, happy, and
To be the selves we wanted.
Often we glory
In what wonders discovered
Or actions achieved
A lyric of love,
However we may find it.
The poem is not
Necessary but neither
Perhaps are such as we.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

2020.05.23 Paradise Plant

Reading Grammars of Creation by George Steiner has set me thinking. Such brilliance in print. Do you have a favorite book at this time? Would you share it?

I went out into the world today. So much change in how we as people relate to one another. Such discomfort wearing a mask. I felt like I had entered a science fiction horror tale. One of my long time close acquaintances gave me a hug. He said he just had a birthday. I asked how old he said 36; I said oh, I am 56, 20 years older. The sweetheart said, no, you can only be 40. Made my day, even if it was only flattery.

I hope life is treating you well. Please create something. With all the world running amok, what you make could be a lifeline for you or someone else. Remember, in whatever you do that kindness is a salve for those who are hurting, Love, Love, Love!

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