The first poem

In the beginning was the Word,
a poet, who created with words,
and the world became the first poem.
A narrative, filled with
growing things, baby lambs,
and cotton filled skies.
An epic, with roaring seas
and ravenous mountains eating
their way towards the heavens.
A lyrical tale with shy glances,
moons, Junes, first and last loves,
and a baby’s laugh.

The beginning wasn’t just a poem,
but a harmonious song,
with major and minor melodies,
counterparts and funny intervals.
It was the bird’s last autumnal song,
wine glasses clinking in the evening,
cicadas crabby after 17 years of sleep,
and the gentle lap as water meets sand.
This song spanned eons, age after age,
each new movement a new twist
upon the same familiar notes.

We ache for words of the Word spoken
in language we understand,
and long for evidence of things not seen.
But see. Look around at the dialects
of stars, testaments spoken by their Master.
The world was created out of nothing, yes,
but it is still being created,
each day, by the words of the Word.
Each flower is grown by this magic,
just seeds and sunlight and air,
and voila, a million species of beautiful.
The Word became a tiny speck
in a womb, and grew and emerged
to speak to the wind and the waves.
This earthly orb spins recklessly
into the cosmos, moved by a breath.
A word.

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One thought on “The first poem

  1. Some really lovely imagery here. “Ravenous mountains eating their way towards the heavens,” I think, is the most original phrase in the poem. Oh and the breathing of the line(s) ” . . . and long for evidence of things not seen. / But see.”

    You have a curious method here of couching grand expansive ideas and imagery in very matter-of-fact language. Which is intentional, I assume. The way articles and prepositions are used gives it that feel. As well as the word choices like “viola” or “crabby,” and phrases like “wasn’t just a poem.” Phrases like “but it is still being created” have a conversational tone and rhythm to them.

    Oh, yes. And wonderful ending: “This earthly orb spins recklessly / into the cosmos, moved by a breath. / A word.

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