Who I Am Talking To

I don’t know who I am talking to.
I imagine you to be someone
Who can read.
Well, that narrows it down a little.
And someone who would 
Read a poem.
Having culled out a majority
Of the human race,
I imagine the remaining few of you
To be interested in text
That is less sensational than thoughtful,
Less active than contemplative,
Less redundant than this sentence 
Was going to be,
More interested in my thoughts
Than wives tend to be,
More curious about twenty-five lines
Than I would be, if they weren't mine,
More interested in a view of the world
Through the peepholes of someone else's eyes,
Than anyone without the patience of a saint or a mother.
That's it then. I am talking to my mother,
The saint who listens to her babbling child
Because, after all, listening
Is the language of love.

Reflection
1.Who listens to you the way you long to be listened to? How do you feel about that person?
2.Who do you listen to with the “patience of a saint or a mother?” 
3.How might your life be different if you were listened to more and if you listened more?

Drum Corps

A far away drum corps,
Muted by wind,
Uniformed in gray,
Beats in random cadence
All around me,
Speckling window panes
With moving prisms
That catch night lights
And spin them dancing 
To heavenly rhythms.

Reflection
1. How often do you stop to observe what is going on around you? What happens inside you when you do?
2. Close your eyes for a quiet minute or two, and listen to the sounds around you. What do you hear? Do the sounds make you think or feel anything?
3. How long can you listen before other thoughts start to intrude? Try to extend that time by listening more intently.