If I could speak as a poet
All of the Time.
I would speak with words that flow with the rhythms of the universe.
I would capture the pulse of distant nebulas…the beat of my heart…and the vibration of atoms.
I would find the soul of life distant and within.
For, I have glimpsed this ethereal presence throughout my life.
A fifth birthday, standing on a deep-forest cliff, looking down at the great god-forms in the canyon and out at a blue-bright distance. And I was infinite.
I spent time with thunderstorms rolling in off of the mountains, my young body watching from the top of a cottonwood — so many times — and I danced the tops of the clouds and was one with the lightning and its thunder.
Many sunrises and sunsets, windstorms — for the wind is my brother. And cold nights that warmed me. Things so moving that the body cannot contain me.
We contain ourselves, as we grow, into the knowledge and dangers of the world. We lose contact with these rhythms that surround us.
I would speak as a poet. The infinite of the material is but a backdrop for the soul to play before. Is this religion? Spirituality? or just a Truth? or, itself, a madness?
I would speak as a poet to capture the flow of that which is and know beyond it. To feel beyond the pains and understand beyond the madness.
The poets, the mystics, the artists, the creators use something beyond the brush, the pen, the voice, or the movement to create their visions. Each image or sound is a doorway that opens to something else.
What is imagination? Is it the firing of synapses? Or is it a knowledge that exists across the universes? Perhaps it is non-dimensional.
I would speak as a poet. A poet feels the world in delight or trouble and opens a curtain.
