A Poem of Life

By Ken Woodley

In the beginning

I was a soul

on the sheer vertical side 

of forever

and never,

of infinity

and nothing,

of symphony

and silence,

of Alpha

and Omega.

I felt a vision pulling me

into the first crying breath

of a newborn child.

And I breathed with them.

The child.

The vision.

And me.

We breathed as one.

There were rainbows all around

and thunder nowhere to be heard.

Just the beating of a heart

that was now mine.

“It’s a boy,” someone said,

pulling me out by the head

with forceps that marked me

with its signs and intentions.

“Yes, a boy,” someone else said

before performing the last rites

because there was no hope

of visions and souls and little boys

surviving in a world

that reveled in target practice.

Some hearts are filled with hammers.

Others with nails.

But the rainbows 

wrapped me in their swaddling prism

and threw away the key.

I fell silent and listened

as if my life depended on it

and discovered that the streaks of lightning

were only prayers

looking for the sky to see them.

And I heard the sound of flowers

speaking to the darkness

with their petal tongues,

promising gardens filled with light.

Love then surrounded me with itself.

Wrapped me up with itself.

Filled me up with itself.

And so began my lifetime

of trying to understand

what it all means,

following echoes that haven’t spoken,

except inside me.

By Ken Woodley


In the beginning
I was a soul
on the sheer vertical side
of forever
and never,
of infinity
and nothing,
of symphony
and silence,
of Alpha
and Omega.
I felt a vision pulling me
into the first crying breath
of a newborn child.
And I breathed with them.
The child.
The vision.
And me.
We breathed as one.
There were rainbows all around
and thunder nowhere to be heard.
Just the beating of a heart
that was now mine.
“It’s a boy,” someone said,
pulling me out by the head
with forceps that marked me
with its signs and intentions.
“Yes, a boy,” someone else said
before performing the last rites
because there was no hope
of visions and souls and little boys
surviving in a world
that reveled in target practice.
Some hearts are filled with hammers.
Others with nails.
But the rainbows
wrapped me in their swaddling prism
and threw away the key.
I fell silent and listened
as if my life depended on it
and discovered that the streaks of lightning
were only prayers
looking for the sky to see them.
And I heard the sound of flowers
speaking to the darkness
with their petal tongues,
promising gardens filled with light.
Love then surrounded me with itself.
Wrapped me up with itself.
Filled me up with itself.
And so began my lifetime
of trying to understand
what it all means,
following echoes that haven’t spoken,
except inside me.