Words

I am a word, a simple scribble - ink arranged on empty page; I'm voiced with passion from a preacher's pulpit, or the actor's stage. I'm sprayed in hate on subway walls or whispered in a lover's ear, I am the poet's knife, his lyric few will sing, and fewer hear. There is a bridge across a bay; a golden gate of south and north, though deep the gulf and far the span, it carries countless travelers forth. And I have been that bridge to some, who span the gorge at any cost between the thought and understanding that might otherwise be lost. Recall a wall inside berlin; a harsh divorce of east and west, patrolled by dogs and steel-hard men and cold barbed wires that never rest. And yet I've seen a similar blockade in every border town; two languages of words distinct that keep each side to mind its own. A frenchman and a spaniard, who perhaps live just across the street; they know each other's faces well though naught is spoken should they meet. I've built my bridges and my walls and yet two things transcend me still: the music of an artist's hands, and love that spreads a heart's good will. written Feb 1985