Seventeen Syllables

Whole stories to tell,

And seventeen syllables

Are more than I need.

When it comes to communication, I lack brevity.  A sentence, were I able to form it, might say as much as three of my paragraphs.  It is this concise writing quality that I find myself practicing when I scribble in my book of counted blessings.  With only three inches to ramble, I have to say what I mean immediately.  Yesterday, considering this, my eye fell on some old Chopin preludes.

317. delicate notes their own language

A single line of small letters can contain a great deal, I thought.  Inspiration seized me.

These delicate notes

Like their very only language

Music on a page.

There is something refreshingly simple and sweet about a form of poetry as short as the haiku.  I write more.

319. nearly ten years of life in pages

A row of journals,

Ten years of life on pages,

Looks into my past.

320. poetry spilling

Counting my blessings

A door into stronger life

Poetry spilling.

Like oil from the widow's jars, poetry spills out of thanksgiving.  Out of blessing.  Out of the grace I choose to behold.  I look at Miriam, after the Israelites crossed the Red Sea on dry ground--or at Hannah when Samuel was born.  I listen to how Mary sang of her promised child.

My own poetry is humble, imitating the short lines of my 3x4 notebook.

"Jesus wept," it says,

Sadness of the Son of God.

Two words, much meaning.

Whole stories can be known in three short lines.  If I want to write to touch lives, perhaps I must first learn to thank, fully.  If I want to write to touch lives, perhaps I must first learn to put my own life into three verses.  Seventeen syllables may be just short enough to do it properly.

Thanksgiving calls forth

Words from my pen to sparkle

Grateful, the heart sings.