The words I speak or write
do they really matter
beneath the waterfall of life,
the tragedy and loss
and wandering in the dark.
I have so much fear
I don’t acknowledge,
so much I once hoped for,
wanting to be unique,
wanting the world
to reflect my longing.
But when I listen
I find the old voice
within the roar,
a plodding slow paced
faltering reminder
of the ancient
spoken through sand
and broken monuments,
the rise and fall
and dreams of glory
like fallen leaves
and moldering earth,
a filament reaching
back through time
threading me
into the weave
of all who’ve lived
and left a mark
on the endless page
of this flowing river.
Thank you, Don. Your wisdom nourishes me.
YES! I have faced death in the past, and it now casts its shadow again, and again I respond, “Death, where is thy sting?” I have learned that it is a blessed messenger–only that. So, I yield in wisdom of the ages. Wherever, whenever, it may take me, will just be the next adventure. Thank you with deep heart for your articulation of this creative process.
thanks again Don……..this one rings so true for me, as the pages and days unfold, and somehow keep returning and turning back to page one (or two or three)………
Don, a true thought and sweetly expressed. Thanks.
Poignant reminder that all is temporary. Thank you.
Thank you Don! Great bit of roaring … 😀
Thanks, Don. Lovely poem.
Timely, Don. What we do, think, or say on this plane of existence seems so much less enduring than what we write the hearts of those we leave behind.
Yes.Don…your voice DOES matter…to me and to the world…..
Your forage for great shreds of dreams and time inspires me. Thank you, Don, for keeping us all real.