Born

These are the ones that write themselves,
That write themselves in racks as black as ink 
On pages whiter than the white of sterile pain;
Down boulevards of shadows, shallow lanes
And corridors and alleyways that hold the rain;
Across the universe of astral skies and solar plains
And continents of fields and fields of grain
Into the stories they have yet to tell, they write themselves –

They write themselves in meanings meant to be,
In earnest measures borne from sea to sea they're aching to be free;
Through eyes and hearts and souls that manifest their destiny
They reach and grow and live and breathe
For us to feel for us to see
The promise that they hold, the music that they sing,
And we are humbled by the song and by the wisdom that they bring

                    —-

And these, these are the hands that wield the pen that gives them life,
Whose fingers plunk the keys that spell the words
That write the stories on the canvas they are meant to tell –

And it is well, for they have learned from forests and from forest spells,
From hollow trees and barren wells and empty shells;
From midnight flights and midnight morns
They dare to be set free, as surely as do we,
Though we are shredded, we are torn
And the stories we have yet to bear are yet unborn 

                    —-

These are the words that tell the lives that write themselves alive,
That rises to their image, rises high
As paintings painted with the colors of the wind will paint the sky –
And the stories they construct about themselves are ever borne
In formulas pre-scripted and pre-formed,
Created as a dancer forms the dance it wants to see itself perform –

And they are mighty, mighty as the redwood on its own
For now they have been written
For now they have been born –

birthimagelifewordsfree verse

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