Saturday, August 27, 2011

A poem ...


In the beginning

There weren’t any words,

Only sounds and smells,

Shapes and colors,
In motion or at rest,
Weaving a pattern,

Woven into one.

Grunts and sighs prevailed,

Murmurs, cries, until

The flexible tongue warbled

A name, syllables

Designating a wonder

In a world of wonders.

Syllables begot syllables,

Wonder after wonder. Soon

There were as many

Words as wonders

And the world was cast

In doubt. Words should be

Exceptional. In the beginning …

1 comment:

  1. Wonderful Frank,it got me thinking. My love for words since childhood has its foundations in certainty of some kind, a certainty about the abundance of security in my life, the security of love, of knowledge. Most of that knowledge has been conventional, I know, so when I start doubting some of what science tells, about climate change and evolution, I also lose a bit of the magic of that security. You know what I mean? Thanks for the poem!