Black ripples

Black ripples

flower out from the center

of a splash.

Life is the stone and death

the wave propagating out,

kicking up black mud and slime

from the bottom of the murky pond.

Who could tell that water

is transparent?

Who ever sees past the dark

ripples of their reflection?

Reviews

[Gandré]

The human brain runs first-class simulation software. Our eyes don't present to our brains a faithful photograph of what is out there, or an accurate movie of what is going on through time. Our brains construct a continuously updated model: updated by coded arguments for God-seeking-pulses chattering along the optic nerve, but constructed nevertheless. Optical illusions are vivid reminders of this seeking. Then we look up to the sky, and we understand. I loved this poem, especially I liked, "who could tell that water is transparent". To me even, giving rise to controversy, for those ripples are life, too. Everything is living and dancing and the blackness is the unknown force. There is no death and no birth.

[Samuel Ferris]

i dont know what that means, splash as in crash, or splash as in jump in.

[Ed Hart]

I don't try to reason this out; I simply splash...

[Charles]

Bueno! And I think you're right, the stone is the life and death and many people never see beyond their image in the ripples. Lots said in a few words. Good work.
On the basis of this one quick look at your work and the insight in the review of one of my poems (At Every Turn), I'll subscribe to your writing and follow along for a while, see how it goes. :-)