I Spoke of My Poems But No One wants to Hear Them

    They seem oblique or sad, but no one wants to know.

    That is my problem. No one cares.

    I know that God cares, and other audiences will care. Some day.

    Just not now.

    They care about remembering or lamenting six essays on silence from college, not the poems that I have written the last few days.

    Why should they care?

    Why do I?

    I like my thoughts on paper, as it were.

    A blog sounds blase to the regular folk.

    But art and magic lie therein.

    We shall see.

    Some day, others will say, thanks for your words.

    And that precept makes me happy.

    Tonight we have new full time missionary. 

    We love to see it, feel it, experience it.

    Excited and enthusiastic.

Alone, or solo, in solitude or lonely, even.

    The messages go boring through. Not boring, of ennui, but boring like a drill.

    A drill, like Makita or Milwaukee, that drills holes into the soothing or deep parts of our souls and makes us who we are.

    Networks and fibers of light, energy, fluids (of varying viscosity), and all those flows and passages re-connect to who we really are, what we shall be, what we are meant to be, and what is most meaningful.

    Even meaning, itself. Significance.

    Like the poems that I write.

    There for us and them, you, and me.

    

    My pronouns, as I told some soldiers Sunday, are me, you, us.

    Amen and pass the rock salt.