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.