Old Stuff - The Last Say

Ok, to kick things off, I went through some old stuff I'd written as a reminder of how far I've come.  This is an old poem I wrote back in college.  Yes, they had word processors back then.  Only we called it WordPerfect (is that even a thing anymore?).  I promise, I'll get some new stuff up here soon.

The Last Say

A rock tends not to talk too much
and a stone, being simple, says very little.
other than this they are thoroughly the same.
small stones are older than boulders.
But mountains, much more aged than rocks,
simply scream their slow thoughts to the sky.



All of the trees I have known,
excepting the Willow, who is without doubt,
Different, try to catch clouds with their twigs.
They could care less what lies beneath their leaves.
But the willow will whisper secrets to the wind,
Secrets, learned from stones which don't speak often.

The breeze, hearing words from the trees
often conveys them to the clouds.
This mist silently says nothing, ever.
They always keep secrets to themselves.
This earthly wisdom means less to them than the tress.
But often clouds drop rain on the rocks.

Born with the rain are the secrets of the sky
falling water calls out to all
this is why the rain is the voice of the mist.
But being just born, no one listens to rain.
So though the air is filled with sound
No one hears a thing till it hits the ground

Water never listens to what is being said.
But the soil listens so hard it soaks up rain.
Ponds, pools, and rivers form from what has fallen.
Every one listens to water,
for from it they're watered and fed.
Rocks say very little, but what is heard, They've said.

Ben - Circa 1990