Water's Words

Let’s move. Or let’s sit still.
Let’s hurry. Or take it slow.
Let’s rush like there is no tomorrow, fumbling, rustling, stilling.
Let’s give and take both.
Let’s feed. Let’s search. Let’s flow to the deepest of sources.
Let’s be, without doubt or choice.
Let’s create.
Let’s wait for the visitors of our shores.

Today

I am a bathtub without any water.

For a Certain Someone

"The crown of literature is poetry. It is its end and aim. It is the sublimest activity of the human mind. It is the achievement of beauty and delicacy. The writer of prose can only step aside when the poet passes."

W. Somerset Maugham

Seaweed

On a beautiful summer's afternoon, I was out for a walk by the sea. There was a light breeze and a subtle smell of salt. Just enough to make me crave barbecued sardines. It's moments like these when I knew the world was magnificent and all was right. The waves were calm but steady. And as if it were an inevitability, I dipped my right foot into the water. Yes, all was definitely right with the world. So I entered with both feet. Slowly, my body acclimated to the water. And further and further I went. Fully immersed, I began to float. Weightlessness and surrender hand in hand. The sky met the water and the water met me. And it seemed we were getting along fine but for the momentary distraction. A seagull flew by. Pointless I thought. My body began to teeter and my balance was lost. Weightless no longer, I searched for the sea floor but instead the sea floor found me. It found me like an old friend who you cannot remember; wanting to chat about times gone by. I tried to explain that I had to go, lying about a previous engagement for which I was running late. But the friend would not relinquish its hold. The sky met the water and the water met me.

Not Here At All

I have a friend who’s here, but not. Who’s clear. Who’s near. Who’s dear. But not.
I think of this friend every now and again. His words, his thoughts, his work permeates my world. But not.
I know he is happy. So I do not wish him more, in words. But in my heart, I wish him more than he knows.
We once had an argument over a tea cup. But not.
And the shattered pieces of that tea cup scattered our hearts.
Strewn, though I meagerly attempt to pluck the pieces, they seem hidden beyond my grasp. But not.