Dear Rain
You soft nudge slumber
The day stretches arching cat
Delicous taffy
I have to touch you to know if you’re real.
Have you found God yet in these Catholic halls
adorned with saints and half melted candles?
In the alcove by Mother Mary, the priest speaks
and the tongues of the departed wag behind him.
Is he deaf to you who linger like the sharp point of a quill
without a pot of ink to make your message known?
I dreamed your father set my shoes out for me.
He polished and shined the brown leather,
gave them new laces and offered to slip them on my feet
if only I’d sit down and stay with you both.
How did he find me here, walking next to you
asking questions about your life,
asking why you had taken so long to come home.
rain falling straight downward
no wind, no slant
splatting onto the roof, ground, any surface between sky and land
my lunchtime walk will be muddy if it occurs at all
I do not mind the rain, the forecast
as come what may, I cannot change it
there is small comfort in knowing I am not missing anything
I could be experiencing in the sunshine
as I work the day away
there is great comfort in knowing the rain will cease
rain is always and forever temporary
light has a method
clearing clouds, breaking through
Humans might be gods—
at least for a moment,
in their minds, because they know
all and aspire to little more
than what their broken clay shells
Ever revealed. When
Those footprints in the sands
of time washed away,
The sphynx despairs of finding
his nose ever again,
The candle met in the middle
with a whimper and was not dynamite,
The captain went down with the ship,
knackered by a mutiny of knees,
numbness of spirit, this
Worm eaten vessel trending toward
A lack of sublime days.
Oh well. Tomorrow’s another day
Same verse, different tune
They arrived twice a year,
on a birthday and Christmas.
A delight to open the colorful folder,
carefully cut out and dress those thin cardboard dolls,
folding small rectangles like anchors
to hold the paper clothing in place.
Designed with flowers and ribbons,
polka dots, stripes, she moved the doll back and forth,
imagining where she would go to show off her outfit.
Prancing her doll proudly
across the living room floor crafting her destiny
In Hopes Of Being A Better Man
I live in a world
For which I don’t feel I was prepared,
If I think too much about it in fact,
I feel I’m often scared.
The future seems uncertain,
Not what I envisioned at all,
Would I go back if I could?
Would I change it all?
Well, the short answer to that question,
I’m sure you already know,
I wouldn’t go back if I could,
So the answer is definitely “no”.
That being said,
I don’t like what I see,
There’s only one solution though,
And that begins with me.
At the risk of being an ostrich,
With the proverbial head stuck in the sand,
A good knowledge of current events is useful,
But perhaps they should just be scanned.
I have enough in my life,
To fill for me each day,
I don’t really need distractions,
To pull my attention well away.
I could best apply myself,
To tending my own concerns,
With perhaps a balance,
Of the news I find I’ve learned.
When seeing friends and neighbors,
May I always be polite,
And those in my life whom I love,
May I be sure to hug them tight.
And let them know what they mean to me,
If tomorrow I’m not here,
Let me appreciate,
All the things that I hold dear.
Let me learn to take pleasure,
In the small delights in life,
Let me be not hasty,
To go in search of strife.
May I do my best to be free of worry,
And be prepared as best I can,
For anything that comes my way,
Or what in my way may land.
May I learn to know contentment,
In who I know I am,
May I not give in to gossip,
Or believe someone else’s sham.
May I greet each morning,
With wonder and delight,
May I sleep in peaceful dreams,
When I lie down at night.
For I mostly believe,
To be of service to anyone else,
First I must learn,
To be of honest service to myself.
She walks the ridge,
barefoot, bold,
crowned in flame.
Folks says she ain’t born
of woman’s womb or man’s delight.
She rose from the roots, and blood, and thorn,
when old Gods called her in the night.
She hums the tongue the old pines sing
‘fore the cross came to stake its claim.
The men who took, and beat, and lied—
who saved their seed and let them die—
they’ll find her where the women cried,
and wish the Gods had just forgot.
She don’t forgive, she don’t baptize,
she’s got wild justice in her eyes.
With staff and blade,
she carves their names,
for every girl they beat or shamed.
So hide your name,
and keep your breath-
and kiss your saint
if you can.
But reckon this:
she ain’t your death.
She’s the truth you tried to erase.
