Talents

Talent
Needs nurturing
Words of wisdom
To grow
With the thoughts
And deeds one does
So

Word play
On words
Played
Upon
Out
Up
Over
+
over
again
by the players
at play
in the potter’s field
with words
of clay

Since the beginning

Of
Day
Unfurling with the dawn
Tipped fingers of the morn
Which follows in the wake
Of the word
Which breaks
The soil in verse
Upturning ideas
Which seed
Future generations
Nurturing the talents they need
To express
The beauty of life
And death
In the flow
Of the river of time
Where words grow
On the tree of knowledge
So
Peacefully slow
As they show
 The direction
Which the gods would have us go
Should we hark
To the word which we witness when we listen in the dark
Beneath the surface rippling waves
As we fish
In the silence of the wait
Which unburdens
As it lightens
The load
Shouldered in a nap sack
By the fool
Hunch-backed
Cracked
Since the fall
Of the day
When the word
Began to dawn
And the myths
Began to mourn
The loss
Of innocence
As genes were crossed
In the seeds
Of time’s need
To heed
The voices in the dark
Speak
The words of wisdom of the meek
Who observe
The beauty of the truth of the verb
To be
Come
Undone
In the play
On words
Voices say
As one trawls
To catch
The ideas to nurture
And grow
The word spun seed
Through time Man needs
To sew
In the garden
Where words of silent wisdom
Flow
One needs
To open one’s chakras
To absorb
The love
Of the Lord
In the light
Hearted music
Of the symphony of life
Which uplifts
Those who bear he burden
Of gifts
From afar
In the East
Following sun
And star
In search
Of a metaphor to transform
Water into wine
As a new era
Be borne
In the pod
Where seeds of Time
Were to flower
In the players’ mime
And jest
As the joker and fool
Heeded request
Was heard to echo
Throughout the silence
Of the word
Spun web
Cast in stone
Scribed scriptures
To adorn the throne
Of the sun-god who saw
Behind the veil
There was more
In the word store
In store
For future generations to feed
The children suffered to come
To the light
In deed

Creativity requires
Being
Close to the edge
Seeing
The word on the page
Being spoken
 By those on board
The ship of fools
Whose word hoard
In the hold
Is held
Under armed guard
Whilst the instant can be fished
From the ocean of time
In which the ship
Lists
The logic heard
In the creaking timbers
Spared

Ideas in bloom
Words in flower
Watered by wisdom
In an April shower
When Spring
Heralding cuckoos
Love sing in a fling
Stones
Fall
On the workers
Great and small
Who sew
Seeds of love
In the smiles
They show
For what is Man
Without wit
But a god
Without a throne
On which to sit?