Running Water

 

Water runs, why can’t I?

Running water can’t be caught.

Only cupped,

Held for a moment.

Bottled, it expires.

But free it runs.

You and I, we are made of water.

So we are told.

Like water, we must run.

Stored for later, we expire.

Water spilled out spreads out.

Water poured out, penetrates.

Water used to quench a thirst, quenches fire.

You and I, we are made of water.

We are made to run.

 

Keep it Real.

This has been a particularly difficult week for me. As Churchill says, “The Black Dog is back.” He may be back, he may bark, but his bark is much worse than his bite.

I am told that poetry is dead. If poetry is dead, that must mean The Poet is dead. I think that poetry is about Spirit and about all that gives us life and joy. Just spend a few minutes by a creek and you will hear The Poet. The Poet’s not dead, it’s just that we may too busy to listen?

 

 

I cannot say it any better than my one of my favorite bands, Rah Rah. “The poetry is in your head…”