Callings
The light house signals boats
and when light houses cannot be seen
The fog horn calls out
Ships bells sing their presence.
Walt Whitman sang a song of himself.
Phone calls, emails, voice mails, text messages,
Bells and gongs to signal beginnings and endings
car horns, alarm clocks, whistles, sirens, buzzers
all with something to say.
Streams trickle, rivers rush, oceans roar
winds howl. Grouse drum in the bushes.
Even God is always speaking to us,
they say.
So much noise
Callings abound –
but there is only one voice my sleeping ears crave
That is the voice calling to tell me where to stand
when the kaleidoscope turns.
How to fall into place, to be aright in the chaotic template,
in the symmetrical rotation of the prism
where my own spot is
in the spin of the universe.
© photo and poem by Carole Fults
Inside-out Art and Writing 