the Creative: language lost?

seed womb

the Creative: language lost?
by Lindsay Wilson

a dream inside the womb.
a seed,
a spark.
a coil deep inside the shell.

yesterday’s breaths
echo in chambers
as the tail
of an exhale
slips into deep quietude
reappearing in the swell
of the inhale,
sending out filaments
of fairy tales from
my gently parted lips.

dream catchers,
vision riders,
and sensate story-tellers
tend fires
of inner wisdom ~

flashing eyes
flickering with story-lines,
imagining in rhyme.

what are books
but words that enter
empty stages,
reciting prescribed sentences ~
curtains closing on our imagination?

words are preserved in formaldehyde,
floating on paper pulp
that was…forest.

who wants to keep a caged bird
and never see it fly?
just to ensure
its song is heard?
just to make sure
it’s alive?

at night this bird
dreams in flight.
a smuggled jungle bird
sings in crimson red, blues, and yellows,

its smuggled song torn from
the rainforest symphony.
as such, printed words are only a thread
in the tapestry of language.

i admit,
i crack open books
to remember
the wild
in my own mind:

a watershed of whispers
of a forgotten past.

a riparian ecosystem
of possibilities.

a dreamtime tune
so interlaced with
time and space
that the rocks
still hum the notes.

i ask of language:

crack open my heart,
vibrate my lungs with soul spark,

so that pages can be unwritten;
curse the day
that letters
divorced mind from being
and body from place.

and what of knowing!?

where stones told stories,
and foxes knew riddles…
where leaves dropped their wisdom,
and soil sharpened the mind?

whole mind.
whole experience.
wisdom smells something sweet,
(just like the roots of trees),
and my vision becomes clear
when I remember
where body and soul meet.

a dream inside the womb.
a seed.
a spark.
a coil deep inside the shell…


September 22, 2013 ~ a contemplation on language, imagination, creativity and the mind…


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