Truth

Final word count from last week was over 16,000, or about 32 pages. And the good news is that now I'm done.
Some reflections about the blog are still upcoming. I have a draft sketched out, but some serious revising is called for. Also, I'm still considering Christine's Invitation to Poetry this week. We'll see.
So, until then, here's a poem about truth, which is almost always appropriate.

Truth

truth
words that strip bare
my heart, my soul
full of fear and doubt
fear of how my
weakness will be met
doubt that I can ever be
whole or strong

truth
words that rattle in my mind
challenging how I know my world,
my self
seeking out the fire
in my bones
sounding out the skeleton
that compels me to act

truth
words I let fall reluctantly
words of pain and fear
words of joy and hope
words grounded somewhere else
words that must be spoken
passing between
you and I

Written 12/5/07

thinking

This is a week of a lot of writing for me. Over the last 7 days I've written over 11,000 words and I'm not done yet. Which means that this week's post is not going to be long or overly theological or heavy or deep. This week is also not going to be the reflection on 7 months of blogging here. I will write that post because there are things I want to share, but not this week. Sorry.
This week is going to be about words, and thinking, and creating. Specifically about how much I appreciate your comments. I know what I think about my work and there seems to be a small, but (amazingly) a growing, group of people who enjoy what I write. However, your comments give me different insight to what I have written and help me appreciate and think about things in new ways. Thank you.

building

word
word
concept
idea
building blocks of thought
come together with another

two
thoughts
complex-
ity born
then we meet people
complexity sprung to the world

talk
Wait
By turns
each other
Exchanges new though
friction rubs new patterns in us

new
strange
springing
communion
forward through us both
creation in old wineskins

written 11-19-07

fingerpainting words

This is one of the joys of this blog. I never expected to be someone with a blog. Ever. But then I was. Really, that's all there is to that story. But this week I was reading Tandaina and Sophia (who has recently taken what I hope will be a break from her blog)'s commments about Flimsy Words. And then I wrote this.

Finger-painting words
spreading them around
feeling their consistency
between my fingers
watery
chalky
lumpy
smooth
thick dark words
watery rich words
lumpy bright words that won't flow together
smooth crystalline words
color
viscosity
free to feel
to soak them through myself
until my fingers are dyed and
I need water
water that I may start again

written 11/28/07
With thanks to both Tandaina and Sophia.

Flimsy Words

You know those times when what is being said in the conversation goes right past the other person?
The break-through moments when you realize that the friend you thought you were arguing with was just using a different word?
All of the words we have are amazing, and powerful, and tricky. Because they are also flimsy and tough to hold on to or pass around.

Flimsy Words
These flimsy words,
struggling to create pale imitations
at best
of the truth we know and love
truth of who I am
of who you are
truth of the world around us both
truth of Truth itself

These flimsy words,
created, imbued with meaning
barely able to hold together
building blocks of smoke and mist
paints of mist
but we have so little choice

These flimsy words
the only bridge
which may yet bind
you and I, mind to mind

Written 6/17/07

A Good Place to Start

This is probably the poem that started to convince me to do this whole blog thing, so it seemed like a good first post.

On Writing
I Write
and in this act of putting pen to paper,
of spreading ink across a void
I do that which is irreversible
My words, once written
cannot be unwritten, undone
They are from me but no longer of me
In making them into ink
I give them fleeting permanence--
bound as they are to physicality
and eternal difference.
Once written
I too must enter into dialogue with them
changing, not remaking
Once done
They stand
for my eyes and those of others
forever speaking from the moment of their separation
To the millions of moments that follow
They were mine to make--
a natural mating of my thoughts and my ink
mine to alter
mine to destroy
But their unmaking is beyond me
They become written and separate
I can not write
But I cannot unwrite

written 4/21/07