You and I did not drink the same water,
even though we drink at the same well,
nor have you experienced my nomadic thirst,
in summers heat looking for water
and drinking water from an earthen pitcher,
that samaritans filled daily in a traveler’s hut.
This well when I came upon it was dry,
a drought descending with greed and war,
the curse of innocent bloodshed upon the plains,
caused heaven to shut its eyes in horror.
When the rains came after times time, time,
as the Well filled slowly,
from silent underground springs flowing,
filled this well and we drank,
no longer wandering, we spent time in quiet,
pondering our life and our souls.
You and I ate the same fruit of forbidden trees,
knowledge, wisdom, life, and death we learned,
as we ate and spat pits to see how far they’d go,
but you did not know the tree, once barren,
green, growing taller, nesting birds came and went,
for it bore no fruit, no flowers, just shade,
and we were grateful for its comfort in summer.
Jesus cursed the tree, for it bore no fruit,
then at midnight, we heard the tree being beaten,
and whispered moanings of a shaken accursed tree,
afraid that it would be uprooted, and burnt
as firewood, and none know of its existence,
next spring it began to flower and bear fruit,
Jesus sat in its shade and ate walnuts and figs
and we sat beneath it, writing poetry.
The world abroad will never know
that the well was almost filled with dirt
or the tree shriveled and died accursed,
that poets abandoned and heartbroken,
almost deserted their muse, parchment, and quill,
determination borne in struggles for existence,
in deserts of betrayals and fortune’s fickle whims,
writing with pigments dissolved in tears
on the vellum of living skin and beating hearts,
poets enduring all within
write of beauty, they have never seen,
and a love that has never been, theirs,
they see with blind eyes,
sing with muted voices,
and write without hands,
for what was given was never theirs,
but what they give will be yours,
for we did not drink at the same well
you and I, nor eat the same fruits,
for you, chose and plucked them from the tree,
while we poets picked up only
the fruits that fell at our feet.
Poets cast Petals in the Pool
poems written on petals
torn in storms, and in gentle winds,
for the flowers are turning to fruits.
Let these fragrances remind you
of this moment in time,
of the flower’s existence,
its beauty and its perfumed song,
that butterflies and bees danced to,
and kissed the flower for its kindness,
for being their hope and their source,
and for its gifts to their progeny to come.
Each petal encapsulates the poet’s breath,
their dreams flow down Time’s slow-moving streams
gently floating like petals in the pool towards you.
Charlie Bottle's passion is poetry. He has lived on three continents, speaks five languages and loves different cultures, people, music and food. He believes that "Poetry uses the economy of words to express the essence of our humanity." It is this magical use of brevity to express the profound that drew him to poetry. While his professional and personal life has pulled him in different directions, He continues in his discipleship of the craft and writes whenever the muse moves him. While English is his second language it is the language in which he lives, breathes, thinks and writes poetry.