Willy's first poem

Willy wrote this after seeing my childhood home post Hurricane Katrina. Willy says the power of water was a new concept to him. Gentle, necessary, yet fierce. Kind of like God, herself. Willy is shy about sharing his words but I tell him it's about the process, not the product. He has listened to too many high school english teachers. Most of us can relate, Willy.

WATER MYTH



W
A
T
E
R
is
not
blue.
Scoop up
Caribbean Sea
In your palm; clear to
The exposed eye. Illusion.
Wars fought over water; bottled
And given French names—a commodity.

Tender holy drops of baby’s baptism churn through my
Home that sheltered my past, exiling memories beyond once
Well-known margins. Water is . . . is not life. Flesh is yielding
And supple less we crack and split like an aged and desiccated cross.

Stagnant pool transformed takes a thousand lives. Water is ostensibly tame
Until low pressures give it rise. Veins of God’s hands full of stream fierce
And mild or perhaps exists in whole. Neither mild nor obedient yet surely
Sought. Most fierce of nature’s trinity not only in force but in the soak.

Profound source and organic desire, uncontained, not to our liking.
Surprised. Water is not blue. Nor is it mine—or only mine.
Briefly contained by myth then propagated by fools,
Truly wild like . . . nothing. Will always be.
Wild, but never blue.