History’s Trickle of Art

How precise the heart’s drip

From on high

To the echo of its landing

Hopefully beside a willing recipient

Sadly…

Too many seek such reward through

The heroin mind-drip

Forever falling

Never finding a grounding

Forever in suspension

The cheap white-drip

From straw to nose

How annoying the nasal drip

How escapist the effect

The cold-glass in a hot-bar drip

The kind most drinkers discover

Some time

Or

Another.

Then there’s…

Nature’s everyday-drip

Available outside any bivouac’s enclosure

Beneath the edges of an umbrella

A child’s open-mouth patience

Waiting for the winter icicle to melt

Such it the time…

When nature delivers the essence

Of moisture pure

Without pretense

Without demands

Without expectations

One’s natural entitlement

Needing not the straw

The careful lining up

The sense of one’s head blowing off

Or the fall down inebriation of that hot-bar

How poignant…

Such unfortunate imitations

For this natural of all naturals

Nature’s grounding

Unabashed in its nakedness

As sentients

We should aspire to be

As simple and as appreciated

As the trickle of one man’s history

Left upon a canvas

Viva la Pollock