I have a solitary place
where I spend my morning hours
pondering what is important.
Like an insane man I talk to myself.
I let my thoughts flow freely
stirring emotions that lie silently dormant.
I listen to myself with my heart and soul
and answer with my inner voice.
I tell my mind that we are okay
and today is a gift, a fruit of the vine,
to be tasted and savored.
And then I listen to another voice,
perhaps a third voice,
perhaps just the voice that I create
through the powers of my creative imagination.
It is the voice of my soul,
a voice that seems real,
a voice that says to listen with my heart.
The voice of my heart responds,
free at last to speak its truth
with words of love for myself,
words of love for life,
words of love for all
who share this life with me.
There is yet another voice that delves deeper
a consistent voice, a persistent voice,
that comes from outside me but yet in me,
a voice that speaks sometimes with an image,
sometimes with a feeling,
sometimes with spoken words,
sometimes abounding with power,
sometimes a soft whisper,
the voice of the universal intelligence,
the source, a name without a name,
God, Allah, Yahweh.
But the voice is always the same.
The voice always responds only to the heart.
The voice is the voice of love and life.
The voice is always there waiting to let love flow,
through me, through my words,
no conditions, always a perfect love,
like a father’s perfect love for an imperfect son.