Water Words

When I write, the poetry finds its own course
As running water would.
Sometimes,
It begins with the waves, breathing and breaking with gentleness,
Whispering their way up the beach, filling and depleting old seashells
In these lines of equal length, as the sea climbs to the mark of dry
Sand in its own time, crawling to the bathers and tanned strongmen
Before it deflates and retreats back towards the glistening horizon.
And then,
Sometimes,
Lines
Become
Short
Like
Drips.
Rhymes
And
Sounds
Drip
-Drop
Their
Way
Down,
Echoing
The
Fall
Before,
Words
Spending
Themselves
Against
The
Skin
Of
A
Drum
In
Soft
Conga
Heartbeats.
And sometimes
They rush, the words are suddenly carried in a gushing current and are channelled and spewed across long lines and race over the flat plains of the page pulled by gravity’s swell as these words spill without pause for breath because there’s no time to stop for air as every sound is poured into the boiling flow and our pulse quickens to the rising crescendo as the orchestra bellows its flooding roar and we’re rising with it more and more and our emotions bloom in heavy tides and our senses tense as there’s no room for notes or thoughts or sentiments in this waterfall of jetting brine which cascades without a sign of ending until one fell swoop from the conductor is delivered with a flick and a swish and a bow
And then
It stops.
The water
Hits the rocks
And disperses into
Fragmented teardrops
For the finish, leaving me
With the afterthought of poetry.

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4 thoughts on “Water Words

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