one night, we sat under the stars and Samuel (Radiant) spoke of dream and possibility
each line leapt from his throat with a precision that caught me breathless
wordsmith; verbsmith, how you have bewitched me with the movement of your lips.
stitching verse to earth, turning rebirth between your tongue and teeth
this memory is with me when I ask myself
how do I write alive what I live?
transcribe the clarity that opens me,
relay the wisdom that informs my heart?
how do I find the words?
make myself a beacon so the words find me?
we have always been close;
my whole life I have courted words
now, what is yet unwritten?
can I commit to form what passes before my mind’s eye?
my pens are full of ink and I intend to use them.
I want the story of my stories to unravel me,
propel me into a state of grace, and leave me panting from our unrelenting passion
two selves sprout from me.
one lives silent and spontaneously celebrant near the river’s edge, walks barefoot
gathers plants, sings. listens
doing no thing but be for as long as it takes, then everything else at my own pace.
there is nothing but spaciousness here.
one is driven, active in our urban maze, navigating our social systems
to unite vision and productivity,
mature and spread our gifts in hopes of a healthy planet.
there is something of an urgency here.
I want to live both these lives.
make real my dreams
and I think writing is the way
I am leaning out so far I almost fall overboard to pull in the nets, heavy with the bounty of adjectives and nouns, phrases and exclamations from the salty and deep sea of consciousness. I stumble backwards, and they all come spilling out onto the deck.
they flop and flutter around my body, bumping against my shins and hips, and I smile.
tonight, there will be a magnificent feast.
I have been calling them, and they have been calling me, for as long as we know.
