There's a fire hose:
You drink it.


Well, you try to drink it.


You playfully examine it
For a few moments, then
You wrap your lips around the nozzle,
And pump up the pressure:


It blows you back
And pins you to a wall.


The spray stings your eyes,
But if it brings tears to them,
They are washed away by the flow,
Before you, or anyone else,
Can be sure they were there.


Your limbs ache,
You think that if only
You could rest them,
You could hold them stronger
But the time for rest rarely comes.


Some people, washed in despair
Or simply sanity, step out of the way
Never to look back and never to regret.


Some collapse or simply drown.


Others stand the force.
The mass of the waters accelerates,
But still they stand strong.
Wavering at times,
But never giving up.


And one day the flow slows
To a stream, to a trickle, to a drip
Then it stops.


You stand there:
Sudden and Sullen,
Dripping and Deflated,
Percolated, but Proud,
Wet, but Wise.


And you reach out,
Brass Rat rusted to your knuckle:
You grab a beaker and into it
You wring the waters of knowledge
From the clothes of your experience.


You take this drought and distill it.
You bottle it, you market it, or you give it away,
But, with luck, it takes the world by storm.


From the fire hose flow rises the rarefied results
Filtered through your hands,
Tested in your trials, Fortified in your failures,
Vivified in your victories.


You look back with mixed emotions:
Wondering if it was all really worth it.
Your prospective my grow,
It may never be clear,
But the fire hose flows on...


~D.B. Guy (March 6-12, 2010)