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Poems Fall Softly
by JJ Johnson
Often it feels as though poems are works of futility
Spilled on the pure white page like blood from open wounds
To convey our deepest sorrow,
Our living pain and breathtaking love
but who really is listening?
Perhaps only lovers who enter the darkness
Falling like shadows in the depths of the underground
but even if our silent eyes are not the open windows
We long to lay upon the verse singing in our souls
Still we are a chorus crooning to the deaf preacher
in invisible ink
01/04/2016 Posted on 01/04/2016
Copyright © 2026 JJ Johnson
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 01/04/16 at 12:43 PM writing a poem is in the same league with a guy or a girl down on their luck with their hand out expecting alms to be up in that hand. some put their two cents, most don't cause they don't see the real need of the poem needing alms of any kind. this is how it seems to me. poetry is no big deal to the deaf dumb and blind masses, save to the little and hugely sensitive bird peeking o'er your shoulder. |
| Posted by Kris Mara on 01/04/16 at 10:57 PM ...and still we write...and open those wounds...
I don't know what more I can say other than that I'm glad I had a chance to stop in and read this today. I love your phrasing throughout and directly pointed final line...if that makes any sense... |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 01/08/16 at 12:49 AM Silence does not mean something is not read and appreciated. Sometimes silence is a savoring in private when words do not express what the mind marvels at and slowly absorbs.One of the wonders of reading books or poems these days is I'm not required by any teacher to write a book report and with many readings I see more or differently than the readings before. |
| Posted by Rhiannon Jones on 01/08/16 at 01:16 AM I like this. Very much. |
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