Language of the heart

poetry 3This outlandish flow of words.
This gushing stream.

It serves no purpose
in the tight, rational world
of bonds and debentures,
fast-food take-out,
hostile takeovers,
paying down the mortgage,
boardroom economics….

There are no squared-off edges,
no perfect geometric shapes.
Instead, it squirms and kicks
and refuses to lie still
and play dead;
tramps mud on the bedspread;

belches in polite company
without so much as
a genteel hand to the lips;
is sometimes superfluous,
sometimes grotesque:  a wart
on a Mr. Potato Head nose.

And sometimes too, it rises
on the breeze like mist at sunrise,
cries breathless in wonder
at the beauty it tries to capture
in its flimsy butterfly net;

3rd eyethrows itself on wings
of shouted laughter into the sky
in wild paroxysms of joy;
tells the soul’s burdens
like the beads of a rosary.

It sees through the third eye
and speaks in tongues,
the language of the heart
and of the deep tidepools
where tears are born.

Like dreaming,
it wanders the mysteries,
the terrors and enchantments,
the disappointments and the joys
of the everyday heart.