Happy am I for a song to sing
A small song
Caught upon the wings of the air
To be heard by anyone,
Everyone, or no one but myself.
That I thrust into the open air-
Let the air take it and make of it what it will.
A bit of laughter,
A streak of tears,
A dark smudge of fear,
A weight of regret;
So it’s my song. It is me. It is my past, my hopes of what may be.
A passing ditty perhaps:
pulsing frail, screaming hilarity,
the soft repose of purging fullness
that otherwise had it not been released
possessed the strength to strangle the insides that gave it birth.
Sing! Little bird-
The Wind whispered in my ear
Becoming stormclouds beneath my wings
Shuddering, gathering up,
and the expanse of blue to call Home.
I wrote this about a year ago. I want to thank you, my friends who listen to my knotted notes, this song set free.
This poem has been hanging out, all alone on an abandoned blog of mine, so I thought I’d bring it over here to flock with the rest of us.
I want to bless you with this: Your song is meant to be sung, your story told, with passion, joy and the harmony of hope through Jesus, your song can reach in and touch another’s life with gift and song and grace. Your song can sing truth.