the Creative: language lost?

seed womb

the Creative: language lost?
by Lindsay Kolasa

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.

they once knew all the stories.
their stories were alive
and had a pulse
that you could put your finger on.

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

written words
seem to be preserved in formaldehyde,
floating on paper pulp
that was once…forest…

printed words are held captive.
they have forgotten where they came from
and rest there, unchanging.

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.

and sometimes,
a writer evokes
a dreamtime tune
so interlaced with
time and space
that the rocks
begin to hum the notes again.

i continue to ask of language:

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

so that pages can be unwritten
and spells can be broken.

did letters
divorce mind from being
and body from place?

will we ever know a time, again,
where stones told stories,
and foxes knew riddles…
where leaves dropped their wisdom,
and soil sharpened the mind?

whole mind.

i think 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…

and what shall we spell?


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

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