not spoken words
not hidden words
not hearded words
dug words
fished words
sifted words
surfed words
combed words
well travelled words
free words on
the sidewalk
skipped by
letters spewed
like weed seeds
across a manicured
lawn as solid green
as the village scene
where words score
sales counts
remaindered words
recycled words
composted words
buried words
words love lost
lost and found
words washed
up on a beach
words gargled
words swallowed
words repurposed
words typed
words scratched
words fallen
from the sky
like manna
made into beer
words loaded
words emptied
words cooked
words eaten
words wiped
clean
as tables
freshly set
with white tablecloths
words waiting
aside
words walking
whispered remarks
“Shall I hear no more?”
utterly.
(note: written while reading
noT wriTTen words
by Xi Xi, trans. Jennifer Feeley,
Zephyr Press, 2016.)
The Coming of the Toads 
come on little words
get in line or you’ll fall off
the cliff into the ocean
… but we long to swim
the words drown laughing
… fish us out again
when we’ll rise with the next swell
then track your new song
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In the beginning was the fish.
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From a prayer by Hazrat Inayat Khan.
… Let thy wish become my desire
Let thy will become my deed
Let thy word become my speech beloved
Let thy love become my creed …
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Words on the wind….
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Words like rain. Eords rords.
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