Effervescent bubbles
rising up and up
Burst of joy

Snow one foot deep
hungry birds on my feeder
chirping Thank You

“Soon I am going to die!”
I did not reply.
Just waited to hear what else he would say.
He was old but did not look like a man who was dying.
I finally replied:
“Tell me about life?
You must have a good idea by now.”
He looked at me for a minute and then said,
with a twinkle in his eye and a raised brow:
“Life is many things, not all of them pleasant,
but feeling alive bestows vision even to the blind.  
That’s the only part worth talking about.”
“Tell me about that”, if you do not mind.
Suddenly all gloom departed from his face,
and declared with much emotion and grace:
“Life is the sun rising from below the water.
It is the dew on flower petals on an early spring morning.
It is a beautiful woman’s lips ready to give you a kiss.
It is the taste of the first bite from an apple
after a long day of fasting.
It is the smell of the fields after the rain.
It is a bird bathing in a waterhole on a hot summer day.
It is coming to port after riding out a perfect storm,
with your clothes soaking wet and your mouth salty and dry.
It is waking up in your warm bed to the smell of coffee,
after a long absence from home.”
The old artist suddenly stopped, took a deep breath,
and said with a hint of regret:
“I have been around for eighty years,
but if I condensed all the moments I felt alive,
they would add up to days,  
maybe only hours, no more.”
A few months later the old artist passed away,
leaving me with not a word to say
but with a deep impression in my mind
that feeling alive bestows vision even to the blind.

Humans,

who are we?

What are we?

Habitats for microscopic life-forms?

Fertilizer for spring blooms?

Animals, incessantly foraging for sustenance?

Polluters of the Earth and its atmosphere?

Killing machines with insatiable appetite for war?

Yes…Yes, we are all that and more.

We are poets and dreamers,

truth seekers and love makers,

scientists and prophets,

heroes and villains.  

We are the ****** and the blessed  

inhabitants of a lonely planet.

A sea like no other sea.

Theater of the Odyssey,

and of Cleopatra and Anthony.

The sea  

of war and of peace.

Cradle of known civilizations,

and jealous keeper of secrets

of civilizations yet unknown.



To me, it is simply

the sea

where I took my first swim,

panicked and sunk like a stone,

pulled down by the wrath of Poseidon,  

that eternally angry god of the Greeks,

who, it was said, lived a thousand fathoms below.

But a strong hand quickly snatched me, lifted me up,

and at the surface I saw a reassuring face smiling at me.

My father was standing in chest deep water,  

and I heard him saying,

“son, you got to keep your legs and arms moving.”



To me, it is simply

the sea  

where I fell in love with the Mediterranean blue,

where I lingered long summer hours at the shore

lazily dreaming,

about people and lands  

beyond the faraway infinite line,

that elusive border  

separating two magical shades of the azure.

My imagination!

It’s a wormhole,

an escape hatch to the only dimension

where everything is as it should be.

All is fantastic there.

There, I dream of places of rare beauty,

I experience feelings of the greatest intensity,

I meet the most awe-inspiring people.

My imagination is

where time-travel is possible,

where astronomical distances shrink to nothing,

where immortality can be achieved.

My imagination,

where would I be without you?

What would I do without you?

How could I survive without you?