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My Babies
Yes, I must concede
I’m obsessive/compulsive
when it comes to words.
But they are my babies
and I must care for them.
I feed them and bath them,
then we play: let’s pretend,
peek-a-boo, hide-and-seek;
sometimes I sing with them.
I love them unconditionally,
even their vexing ambiguity
and their paradoxical nature;
even if they don’t come to me,
or always tell me the truth.
I can’t really blame them.
They seem so innocent.
And so with all my heart,
until death do us part,
we are bound together
and learn from each other.
After all I give rise to them,
and I am their redeemer.
It’s what I’m compelled to do.
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When I point my finger at the moon...
http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTwh5rODaKpT8vfigh3CPszRjoZ0PRci...
what am I placing my attention on?
The moon that I'm a pointing to?
Or the finger that is doing the pointing?
Our words make up our finger.
And how we treat them will depend on where we place our attention on.
Am I looking at the moon as I point to it with my words?
Or am I looking at the words which point to the moon?
How we treat our finger can also reveal what we are placing our attention on.
The moon, or the finger (words) that we're using to point to it.
It is not unusual, at all, to become enamored with the finger that points at the moon instead of the moon.
It may, in fact, be more common than not.
Words are important, up to a point. Your inner drive needs no apology, nor praise. It sings of singing. Poetry evokes
music, and the oral traditions long preceded the visual
lock-down of text. It helps if the pond is still to see
the reflection of the moon. Ultimately I feel all
communication to be telepathic.
About the "death do you part" reference;I have always said
I am married to painting, and poetry is my sister. Not
quite what you're saying, but in the family.
Thanks,
ed