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her word's journey into my heart
by Charlie Morgan
it crept into my pen, probably from a woodsman;
and a woodsman dressed in crinoline and lace
rouge piled high onto the palate of Rembrandt
and given a master's touch, a dimple divine.
a word, the first one read exists as itself;
not remembered but as the beginning of a string.
a string to her soul, and if drowning,
she can be pulled to safety by her curls,
her stength lies in her loving capacity.
a sunrise's glisten is lit for her pen.
she's human, spews words of matter,
that matter, sometimes shatters
one who hears disdain, or pain.
one who hears one hand clapping.
in the forest, she is heard.
for this i want to be a tree;
even the one Buber hugged.
hear the word as it is sent.
04/30/2008 Author's Note: you know who you are.
Posted on 04/30/2008
Copyright © 2026 Charlie Morgan
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by A. Paige White on 04/30/08 at 06:27 PM This is so sweet! Come on now, tell! Who is she? She's a lucky one, to have this dedicated to her, that's for sure. Beautiful and downy soft as a gliding swan, Chaz! |
| Posted by Alison McKenzie on 07/07/08 at 03:21 PM I think I know who she is, and she IS lucky. To be heard. To be understood by you. This is a precious gift, Charlie. |
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