with my outstretched hand i make a symbol;

a peace, a release from what might be expected.

a tap on a palm, and with the other hand,

open it, like a Book,

to engage what's been so long rejected.

but the open page is a blank space;

it has no words yet;

it has no rhyme.

that is for you to fill, an autobiography,

of the story you'd like to unfold,

in time.

it can be anything you wish for.

you don't even have to write.

for the book is there,

like it or not;

you can use it to include,

or use it to fight.

either way, you are the sole winner

of what ever it is you say.

for the blank space before you is always there,

the prediction of outcome;

no one ever leaves,

without a trace.

it's as indelible as what you are made of;

each bone, brow, and eye,

just as each fingerprint,

perception, and output

writes everything that occurs within,

throughout your life.

the world just outside the tip of your nose

holds your Spirit-Space,

the one to be aware of.

encircling you by an arms' length,

is where Life begins and ends;

the one you are in care of.

so pages fill in just as you direct,

tit-for-tat, this-or-that,

either said, or cast aside.

use them as you like, or not at all;

who'd want a blank book anyway?,

unless they've regard for the Time of their Life?

and books get softer by the fine Cotton they're made of;

all Good Books become pliant with age.

the oils from your hands,

the way you refer to it,

again and again,

bear the marks of the old friend that you make.

a journal, a diary, a notebook;

call it anything you please.

writings are ephemeral now too,

you may have noted ~

but they get written any way,

and that's what you give, and receive.

write out what you are afraid of;

write down what color you dislike.

diminish or enhance your palette

by darkness, or by what you see as Light.

it's always there, like it or not;

it's just something everyone has in their life.

so have respect for the way you create it,

and know every leaf can be illustrated, too.

it's fabric is indelible,

absorbing all your pictures and words,

and how you're also included, or not,

by how Others write in their books, about you.

the page can take it; it's durable, it's pleasurable.

the Symbol's for how we all write our own books,

over time.

we can compare, and share,

learn inclusion by difference;

instead of insisting that yours isn't mine.

and there are always blank pages remaining;

seems once you fill one, another pops up!

you can hoard them to yourself,

or give them over to another;

but there's always another page to write,

when they're written with Love.

all it takes is a gesture,

a tap to the palm,

then, open-handedly,

say Hello.

and when you open that imaginary page in greeting,

you will receive what you wanted to know.


February, 2018

Graphic: The Recording Angel,

Bronze Sculpture, 14' Tall

by Audrey Flack

Schermerhorn Symphony Center, Nashville, TN.

Views: 63

Comment by TG DE VORE on March 1, 2018 at 11:39pm

Well there's so much in here where do I start. This is so inspirational..."there's always another page to write when they're written with love", so yes the work must go on for inclusion. I accept my words on the page and hope for the best outcome in everything I put out for the world to read. Your words are incredible and I cherish them, thank you Peg.

Comment by The Songbird on March 2, 2018 at 12:05am

Oh, thank you, TG.  I have wondered on you lately, and feel the same of your work, and inspiration.  It's so good to see you again!  


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