Precious Possessions

Poems belong to foreign languages where understanding falters beneath the rise and fall of stress and fret. How carefully the consonants caress the vowels to cradle sound in their arms and rock them to the drum of meter.

My son told me once, when he was young, how sleep was.

“You go to bed and you are there, then you are not there, and then you are there again.”

That is my most precious possession.

And the next morning to be there again, the resounding resurrection of vitality,
the one high holy song of morning in all the throats of birds.

It is a poem in a language that I do not understand but I know it as surely as the lap of tide against the shore, licking at my footprints. No, I am not erased by the waves of time but rather swallowed up to become a part of that vast and wondrous ocean.

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  • Richard G Witham
    Richard G Withamalmost 4 years ago

    Chris: to say you have a ‘Way with words’ would be a serious understatement. Your line, “…consonants caress the vowels to cradle sound in their arms and rock them to the drum of meter” sparks an immediate smile of acknowledgment in me as well as wonderful imagery. It also brings to mind a line from one of Paul Simon’s songs, “Words that tear and strain to rhyme” and the image of poets wrangling words to convey their message. I love the last verse and the idea of being swallowed up in that vast ocean, which in my mind also wipes the sand clean before me.

  • Ah, Kathy’s Song (I woke early one morning at the Isle of Wight festival an someone was playing it in the dawn). I am twice flattered twice by your words. Once because they are such fine words and twice because they come from you

    – Chris1249

  • Vesna *
    Vesna *almost 4 years ago

    this is so nice Chris
    to hear the music of the wonderful mind like yours, what a privilege, a precious posession

  • Vesna, thank you… The music is in your heart my words only tap a baton on the music stand

    – Chris1249

  • Arco Iris  R
    Arco Iris Ralmost 4 years ago

    Ahhh, what a beautiful way to describe poetry. It is a different language which sometimes only you could understand and other times, you don’t for it is only the quill of your ink flows by itself. Yet there are others, like poets themselves, know and speak it.
    An instant favorite.

  • Thanks Iris,yes its that moment that you just can’t catch or when you catch it dissolves. A moment’s clarity lost in the swash of becoming

    – Chris1249

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