“Poetry is an emotion that has found its thought and the thought has found words.” — Robert Frost
“A word of encouragement from a teacher to a child can
change a life. A word of encouragement from a spouse can save a marriage. A
word of encouragement from a leader can inspire a person to reach her
potential.”— John C. maxwell
Midweek Motif ~ Word
Word is like air for wordsmiths to breathe. It is their
voice, their world. It gives them a wonderful path, assures a magical journey
and destination.
While Kipling emphasizes that words are the most powerful
drug used by mankind, to Aldous Huxley words are like X-rays if used properly
can go through anything.
Who can deny the huge power of words in slogans,
speeches, songs, stories and poetry?
Today’s motif is Word. We would love to see Words
with wings, stings and whatever you wish to have with it.
Words
by Edward Thomas
Out
of us all
That make rhymes
Will you choose
Sometimes -
As the winds use
A crack in a wall
Or a drain,
Their joy or their pain
To whistle through -
Choose me,
You English words?
I know you:
You are light as dreams,
Tough as oak,
Precious as gold,
As poppies and corn,
Or an old cloak:
Sweet as our birds
To the ear,
As the burnet rose
In the heat
Of Midsummer:
Strange as the races
Of dead and unborn:
Strange and sweet
Equally,
And familiar,
To the eye,
As the dearest faces
That a man knows,
And as lost homes are:
But though older far
Than oldest yew, -
As our hills are, old, -
Worn new
Again and again:
Young as our streams
After rain:
And as dear
As the earth which you prove
That we love.
Make me content
With some sweetness
From Wales
Whose nightingales
Have no wings, -
From Wiltshire and Kent
And Herefordshire, -
And the villages there, -
From the names, and the things
No less.
Let me sometimes dance
With you,
Or climb
Or stand perchance
In ecstasy,
Fixed and free
In a rhyme,
As poets do.
That make rhymes
Will you choose
Sometimes -
As the winds use
A crack in a wall
Or a drain,
Their joy or their pain
To whistle through -
Choose me,
You English words?
I know you:
You are light as dreams,
Tough as oak,
Precious as gold,
As poppies and corn,
Or an old cloak:
Sweet as our birds
To the ear,
As the burnet rose
In the heat
Of Midsummer:
Strange as the races
Of dead and unborn:
Strange and sweet
Equally,
And familiar,
To the eye,
As the dearest faces
That a man knows,
And as lost homes are:
But though older far
Than oldest yew, -
As our hills are, old, -
Worn new
Again and again:
Young as our streams
After rain:
And as dear
As the earth which you prove
That we love.
Make me content
With some sweetness
From Wales
Whose nightingales
Have no wings, -
From Wiltshire and Kent
And Herefordshire, -
And the villages there, -
From the names, and the things
No less.
Let me sometimes dance
With you,
Or climb
Or stand perchance
In ecstasy,
Fixed and free
In a rhyme,
As poets do.
A Word
by Emily Dickinson
A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day.
Our Words
by Ruby Archer
Our words are clouds, and fleeting shadow cast
Upon the landscape of a life. Sometimes
One rests above a hillside like a blush,
And sometimes darkens more a deep ravine:
For sunny hill—a needful, pensive charm,
For dark ravine—one more degree of gloom.
Please share your
new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community—
(Next week Susan’s Midweek
Motif will be ~ Voice)
