Writing Down the Bones

Something has been said about 

"writing down the bones"

which sounds like a good practice

if you're learning anatomy.

But the first time I heard the phrase,

I thought it was 

"writing down the poems,"

So I am.

Writing down the poems

moving my bones, 

the ligaments lightly holding the pen--

black on paper, blue, too,

re-living the washing of water

by their words,

like taking a bath in beauty

that leaves me breathless.

If I bathe with this cleansing flood,

soak in the senses,

sounds of someone else's heart

in my soul,

I'm sure the echo will ring out

true on the other side--

wash and rinse cycle of syllables,

leaving a residue 

of beauty, grace, truth

pouring out on this side of eternity

with my pen,

writing down the poems.

~~~~~~~~

It has been said if you want to BE a good poet,  you should READ some great poetry, 

so I've been soaking (and scribing) Gerard Manley Hopkins and George Herbert, 

glorious wordsmiths of earth and eternity.

I Meant to Thank You**

I thought I had tomorrow-
more than one, like petals
from an infinite flower
held in my hand.
I thought I had tomorrow
foolishly thinking the chances
would arise in infinite number
rolling in like waves
again and again on the shore.
But the words-writ at my feet,
stayed there, washing away
like silken sand,
crumbling in liquid lines--
the words I never said.
I meant to say "Thank you."

**

This poem is from a line prompt in The Mischief Cafe, a traveling sort of poetry party book published by Tweetspeak Poetry.  If you're shy about writing poetry, The Mischief Cafe is a good place to start.