:-)

If poetry is the art of saying

The unsayable;

And if that which is most worth saying

Is least amenable to being said;

Then perhaps poetry is the most necessary of arts.

An education in sheer humanity,

For mere humans and conversation with them,

Silent resonant conversations, when what is hinted,

Is greater than what is said.

The threatening implication buried in innuendo

Is not the less threatening for all that.

Indeed, it is the more insidious

For being hidden,

For being human.

Nothing is more threatening than love

The Eucatastrophe that comes on fiercely

Immensely,

Intensely,

Inevitably.

It also comes on slowly,

Gently,

Patiently,

Consensually.

For fear of blinding sightless eyes,

And deafening the stoppered ears,

The joy is hidden in words

Forever falling short

As words must always do.

Even "I love you," leaves everything unsaid.

Do others often hear

In your words

That which you never meant to say?

I say what I most need to hear,

While he hears what he most needs to say,

And we get on swimmingly.

At my very, very best I can sometimes manage

(For half a minute, perhaps,

Certainly no more)

To share my emptiness.

It is my best quality.

It is, in fact, my only quality.

I have never said what I truly thought

For I do not know what that is.

I have never shared who I truly am

For I do not know who that is.

I have never truly loved,

For, despite my efforts, 

I do not know how.

It is enough to know the One who Truly Is

Thought

Being

Love.