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| H2O | |
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| H2O You take your chances here, the hourglass tipped, time chasing ever after and already your feet entangled in sharp lures of bone and steel. You have returned to savagery with a yak-hat feathered to trick the sky into falling flat on its face. This is what you believe may deliver a sip of water for your swollen tongue. It'll never work, nor will your bracelets alert the headman to your loyalty, nor can you trust the blinded fish sailing through the palm branches - he's never seen a river and is as lost as you. That the pail is filling up behind you doesn't count - the tribal affectations have blinded you -- perhaps your loincloth is too tight. But …."let it be known there is a fountain." Turn around, turn back, the prophets ever sang. "Reach out your hand if your cup be empty," but you, you are stirring hot poison with a straw. Marc Harshman, (poet & children’s author), Wheeling, West Virginia H2O H2O It may be a sickness,not even for real but everything around breeds, spooky, unnatural:SURREAL. I remember deepest Africa where desert winds blow, heat that hot and without a glimpse of snow. The hot air dries my face,my tongue too big I knew that as I drink water it always bigger grew. My ribs are on display like strings to a bow, the drugs I sip from a cup capture my mind for 'Billabongo,' a mystic land I simply don't even know. Perhaps my mantra and the spirit world combine to show myself, I'm only too aware I'm here, forgotten ,discarded thing like a man without a wife. Pain hammers inside my head, to the tick of the weird hour glass chime. Dead fish snatch at my feet, hands grab me too. If I opened my eyes I 'd see more but would you? Would you? Would you? The splash of water into a pail, too bad to spare a look; it's like a grave inviting me. I daren't look as I'm not that tough or brave. Will the sea of sand, clouds so grand change my mind of splintered steel? I think ,I blink and ask again what is here? Here for me. Nothing except to dream like old men and the nostalgia breed a different spirit , of hope within, it's like that or so I'm told. Give me one glass of pure spring water and I'll sip it with glee,I'll savour ever moment , perhaps my last but with with the drink of Mother Nature it's serene I know I'll be. Water falls from heaven,dropping through the skies . I wish it would catch me .give me relief just before I die. R.I.P. -Cleveland W. Gibson, (Author of Billabongo) Faringdon, Oxon, United Kingdom |
