Writer’s Circle

You come to me with a wrinkled brow, concern
dripping from the corners of your eyes.

You say: I am mute.
I hear: my whispers of truth have been strangled.

You say: I cannot build stories or poems with
so little know how.
I hear: the dam of “I told you not to’s” cracking, about
to burst upon pages with inky recollections of childish
dreams, boogey men and daddies, mommies and teachers
well-meaning mortaring brick by brick helpful rules
stoppering your natural channel.

Listen to yourself.

You say: tell me what I am doing wrong.
I hear: love my words as my offspring they are, heads
sometimes misshapen from a hard birth
but toes always ten, and smiles waiting
to be grown into.

I tell you: Inhale courage,
dive
deep,
plunge past
your thumping heart.

Down here
in the high pitch of underneath
the surface you must be ready
to be overwhelmed by your own wet glory
as your words gush out.