The river

the river of my life

runs through my hand

total documentation

is on evidential display

from bread crumbs falling

into blood stained pools

from tides of the brain

washing over emotional chords

from historical momentum

forming expectation’s thirst

from body as stylus

professing movement as release

from protection’s tension

curbing desire’s needs

in every stroke

as if ink were a river of confessions

and hand were tongue on board

and writings as watery writhings

were scripted sighs of the soul

my hand across this paper marsh

provide a medium of wet to dry

to smear as living across this page

to lucidly scrawl my liquid being

over this ever drying swamp

and by the wake I leave

marking waves of abstract art

with subtly of pressure

creating highs and lows

with broads and narrows

my life contained and exposed

space and scale disguise my acts

deduction steals my secret life

viscosity as intimacy strikes a pose

focus as unconsciousness into frame

for we are not all storytellers

but we are all telling the stories

who among the all of us

has these perceptive ears to see?

empathy may be our vocation

who of us who features discernment

may have compassion as our need

what is this method

without a calling from within?

when is our passion a pouring out

and not a frenzy feed?

take my hand as yours

and know me well

take your hand as mine

and know me more thoroughly

for the river of life

runs through us all . . .

and this is not done invisibly