Tuesday, October 7, 2008

a poem, not prose

when i visited dan allender's class with you a couple of weeks ago, i was intrigued by something specific he said. he noted that often, things are not readily clear, like prose, but need a deeper dive into their mystery, like poetry.

so, to honor mystery, i'll share a poem that i wrote in 1996 for a man i would not meet until 1999 - figure that one out.

hands

they grip a book firm and then tight
his fingers turn pages night upon night

eyes filter the page, he reads and takes time
to render each word and unmarked sign

his mind is searching for meaning,
looking to find truth and understanding

fingers follow each sentence from start to end
his hands flip the page at the corner's bend

word tell stories that fill his cluttered head
and remind him of dreams he's left unsaid

of one day building his house in the sky
a house built by his own hands; a paradise

i want to know details of his hidden dreams
is it a house of stone? or of wooden beams

show me pictures, use a thousand words or more
tell me why your hands are now wounded and torn

his lips spoke an undeniable story
a voice rang strong, a tale of truth and beauty:

'i chose not beams, wood, or stone - instead,
i used my hands to make a house into a home.'

k.

1 comment:

Karl said...

I married such a wordsmith. Now I just have to figure out who this other guy is.