Words
I am a word, a simple scribble -
ink arranged on empty page;
I'm voiced with passion from a preacher's
pulpit, or the actor's stage.
I'm sprayed in hate on subway walls
or whispered in a lover's ear,
I am the poet's knife, his lyric
few will sing, and fewer hear.
There is a bridge across a bay;
a golden gate of south and north,
though deep the gulf and far the span,
it carries countless travelers forth.
And I have been that bridge to some,
who span the gorge at any cost
between the thought and understanding
that might otherwise be lost.
Recall a wall inside berlin;
a harsh divorce of east and west,
patrolled by dogs and steel-hard men
and cold barbed wires that never rest.
And yet I've seen a similar
blockade in every border town;
two languages of words distinct
that keep each side to mind its own.
A frenchman and a spaniard, who
perhaps live just across the street;
they know each other's faces well
though naught is spoken should they meet.
I've built my bridges and my walls
and yet two things transcend me still:
the music of an artist's hands,
and love that spreads a heart's good will.
written Feb 1985
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment