Mystical dialogue beginning here. How can words and feelings be honest if they are not freely given and received? I tell you we must SING! The power of it restores us All, exorcising our demons, voicing our hope and fears, reflecting what it is to be human and feel so alone and cry out to the Void of Voids hoping for an answer. And then you look back, and the answer is all around us and The words of the Spirit are everywhere and they are singing together. I love your words and feelings. You humble me.
Poets acquire humanity
In their undoing, this
Dangerous self-destructive art
Who dares be ridiculed a poet these days?
This secret subversive pleasure
Isn’t it so, that we are the houses
Of art that try to be haunted
To feel what others dare not!?
Painting they say is silent poetry
Poetry is painting that speaks
But for whom does it speak?
These echoes asking shadows
To dance, that communicates
Without or before understanding
To sit in the dark and sing
To cheer its own solitude
With sweet sounds, where O where
Are the sweet sounds of old?
Poets die trying to be poets
I’ve seen it with my own eyes
Poetry is an escape from emotion
An instinct to tell stories
Like a seer or a prophet in hard times.