If my words do not convey what I mean
fail to say what they seem
when I write of mystery, joy, or death
then what of me or you or we?

When I write of beauty, faith, or the green hills
I wish my words to bestow these –
their vision, hope, their fecundity
to another. They hold, as a pitcher,
my essential gift to the world.

Alas, the contract of words is failing
falling down around us, flung into despair.
When words of government or commerce
are without care or the desire for truth –
then the land is overcome by an evil design.

If their essence is not held by poets –
each word having something to say –
words will lose their sense altogether
and we will forage for understanding
in a rotting linguistic land
where those who lie are held in esteem
they who manipulate, defame, excoriate
are deemed the conscience of the king.

I will write by the lights I see
forgo dim and shadowy flickers
try to say what my heart, in its silence,
knows. Or, I’ll wander onto a sinister path
to join the long and damned procession
of souls wandering mad in a word sick land.

Portland, Oregon – December 19, 2017