Children of whispers

God,
if you were to gift me a child,
don't let her be born 
from the quiet of the sea.
Don't make her 
run deep and silent
with the crash of waves 
only coming in a passing storm.
Make her a brook, a stream.
Running and gurgling under
dancing sun rays golden.
Make her sing with abandon.
Make her noise, make her din.
Make her foolish, let her sin.
Make not the purity of reason
run incessantly through
her peacock blue veins.
Don't make her quiet dew drops
that fall unnoticed into the night
and lie like silent pearls
on the world's naked body.
Make her rain and thunder.
And wind and tempest.
Raging through the sky with
freedom as stark as lightning bolts.
Let her speak her mind.
Put no chains, build no walls
around my child.
For the children of whispers
might find their place in a poem.
But they never become a song.

Children of whispers

God,
if you were to gift me a child,
don't let her be born 
from the quiet of the sea.
Don't make her 
run deep and silent
with the crash of waves 
only coming in a passing storm.
Make her a brook, a stream.
Running and gurgling under
dancing sun rays golden.
Make her sing with abandon.
Make her noise, make her din.
Make her foolish, let her sin.
Make not the purity of reason
run incessantly through
her peacock blue veins.
Don't make her quiet dew drops
that fall unnoticed into the night
and lie like silent pearls
on the world's naked body.
Make her rain and thunder.
And wind and tempest.
Raging through the sky with
freedom as stark as lightning bolts.
Let her speak her mind.
Put no chains, build no walls
around my child.
For the children of whispers
might find their place in a poem.
But they never become a song.

Of poets

No rhymes, no verses.
I could write in words
plain and simple.
In words that
don't hide in themselves
any unseen meanings.

I could still call it poetry, perhaps.
Even without the cloaks of metaphors
unfurling in the blizzard of feelings.
All expressions would lay bare
and letters would shiver naked
on pages white as a stark bulb.
And the words they formed
would define, not allude.

Yes, sure I could do that.
Like you say,
what is the need for
layers upon layers
of unnecessary veils?

But then I could nothing deny.
And behind the duality of
undecipherable meaning
I could not hide, could I?

Of poets

No rhymes, no verses.
I could write in words
plain and simple.
In words that
don't hide in themselves
any unseen meanings.

I could still call it poetry, perhaps.
Even without the cloaks of metaphors
unfurling in the blizzard of feelings.
All expressions would lay bare
and letters would shiver naked
on pages white as a stark bulb.
And the words they formed
would define, not allude.

Yes, sure I could do that.
Like you say,
what is the need for
layers upon layers
of unnecessary veils?

But then I could nothing deny.
And behind the duality of
undecipherable meaning
I could not hide, could I?

Habit

Among the spidery trees of the
forest of wants and needs
I roam in the shadows of habit.
And sometimes maybe you wonder
if you ever wanted me at all.
Or was it just the lonlinesses of
a dark forest's smothering silence
that needed my presence.
Just so that my feet could
make a crisp, crackling music
as they trampled over a few old twigs
and a few brittle hearts.