Water

Rain slowly drips from the clouds like a leaky faucet, a light mist fogs the windows as a small grouping of droplets form into a community. Together they slowly conform to one single unit, one mind, one soul, one spirit. Yet each droplet is its own being. Its own personality. Its own consciousness. One individual thought in a sea of flowing rain. As one they are nothing but a drop, a speck in the large scaled existence of the universe. As a unit they comprise a driving force capable of causing the untold tragedy of entire planets. We need it for survival. It sustains the erratic system of life on which we cling and is the very fabric of our being. The majesty of its beauty holds spectators breathless as it dances through nature a holy trinity three in one. Immersion in its depths will awe those who brave it, many fall victim to its might. This deadly temptress of navy and gray may also heal those who thirst for its power. Then all at once the time will come when the sun breaks through the clouds and everything will fade into nothingness.

The Waiting Room

By, Stuart Platt

Uncertain, walls stare blankly back into on lookers eyes
Thoughts reel through each mind leaving a trail of fear in its wake
Lead hearts await news ranging from mild to life shattering
The clock ticks away as if to prophesy some foreboding demise
Cold sterile greetings of employed cronies one’s only reassurance
Nervous gestures, worried glances, pointless busy-work are these our comfort
We throw away millions of dollars of our hard earned income
Only to pay some worthless quack to give us drugs and send us home
Our own personal professionally trained drug dealers
The television drags on in a monotonous attempt to distract our apprehension
As if to say, “bright colors and sounds will calm your fears!”
A generation so addicted to noise we drown out all emotion
Other evidences of our addictions sit affront of me in cylinder
We use temporary stimulation to ease our permanent problems
What are we waiting for…

A Mother's labor of Love

By Stuart Platt
As I peered up from the kitchen table, I saw her. There she stood with the sun shining through the small kitchen window. On her face was simple determination; her lower lip rolled over her teeth as if it were a wave breaking over the top before it crashes against the sand. Her hands move swiftly over the dishes as a small cascade of water pours over them. Finally, the mountain of dishes is finished. She leans over and wipes the sink with a small sense of triumph and accomplishment.  As she closes the door to the dishwasher, she inspects her work. Now she turns to yet another task at hand. But as I see her walk away, do I hear a moan of despair? Does a scowl of endless drudgery come across her face? No, only a sense of responsibility and love for those for which she toils.