It’s my birthday. Every year near my birthday, I try to create something. Write a song, take a photo, build a thing. Not because I like attention. Because I’m a complex character. When I make something, it’s my way of letting my soul take over my brain and hands. It’s how I know what I’m thinking and how I’m doing.
So, here’s this year’s “thing.”
What does it all mean? Growing older means adopting better heroes. Seems everyone wants to give two cents they can’t afford to the outrage du jour. I used to admire most those who could craft an artful turn of phrase. Now, I look up to those who speak and provide their own illustrations. Those who wear their convictions on their hands like work gloves and not on their sleeves like jewelry.
Call me old. I’m weary of disembodied words.
to the doers
Here’s to the doers.
The movers and shakers
the troublemakers
the no mistakers
who sift
and find the place
where truth meets grace
where knowing
is forged out
by going
through mists of doubt.
A blind blow made
the blade
rings true.
When words untested
first suggested it
indifference arrested it
’til unseen hands protested,
pulled them to their feet.
Wrists unbound
blindfold removed
toes twitched
fingers itched.
A gift too profound
to stand still.
The Wind rises
the Fire falls
to move and singe the mist
as free
they race the sun
to the line
and cross it.
While others post
and analyze
they metabolize
for it costs too much
to pay with words
alone.
Come with me,
you who hear.
Hand in mine
let’s cross that line
from seat
to feet
from knowing
to undergoing.
We’ll prove what’s true
when we
do.
Filed under: reflections Tagged: culture, featured, poem, reflections
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