Most of what I write is meant mto be read by strangers, so strangers everywhere I salute you. Maybe after you read or listen to a poem I wrote, we are not strangers anymore. I am letting you in my inner world, to a place I share with very few people I know. Therefore, you might be closer to me than most people I know. The bond we have may be stronger. So strangers everywhere, I salute you. I honor you and I know that without you, none of what I write matter. Without readers, I could never call myself a writer. Strangers everywhere, I salute you.
The Poem | To A Stranger
To a stranger, to a reader, I write—
The honor of not being known,
Yet heard like the roaring thunder
clipping the face of truth with pure
unknown tunes loved before sung;
mere words on paper have long
covered an iron bar with rust—
you keep reaching up outside your door
waiting for a keen eye to see beyond
the smeared surface right into the core.
All it takes to sow a field is one seed;
one from me and one from you—
voices doubling like horns and bassoons
reaching the ether beyond the cozy air;
to walk the mile that nobody walked,
never a second worry if you’ll be there;
you are already ahead of everyone,
you are already ahead of yourself—
the finish line is the reach of your arm,
and every day a new race, one more time.
They say that words are dead
the very moment they are said,
but to be dead, first, you have to be alive;
not waiting in fear in a dark cocoon
for the world to tell you who you are—
you are conducting this very orchestra;
a symphony that beats the very heart
of people’s gears and numbers and null;
you write today, take a seed and sow—
in your own tree are the seeds of tomorrow.