Come out, come out! It’s only rain;
the world has not dissolved as yet.
The clouds will loose the sun again.
It sometimes seems hard to forget
that darkness does not rule all things;
the world has not dissolved as yet.
And after all, rain showers bring
new growth, and wash away the grime
so darkness does not rule all things.
To waste away seems such a crime;
use these slow hours to energize.
New growth will wash away the grime.
Do not despair the stormy skies!
Come out! come out! it’s only rain.
Use these slow hours to energize;
the clouds will loose the sun again.
06 JUN 2017
Every fire begins with just a spark.
Yes, every fire it starts with just a spark;
comes out of nothing, somewhere in the dark.
Every morning starts before the dawn.
Each morning has its start long before dawn;
it stops its sleeping, has to ramble on.
Everybody’s got their cross to bear.
It’s true, each one has got their cross to bear;
no use in crying out, “It just ain’t fair.”
Every flood starts with just one drop of rain.
Every flood starts with just one drop of rain;
wets the rich and poor man just the same.
Every storm begins from a small cloud;
Tornados sure must make their mamas proud.
17 NOV 2010
Would that this night provide some small respite,
sweet sleep instead of wisps of restless dream;
but like a spring o’er-wound and pulled too tight,
my mind finds no repose. Each small sound seems
a thunderclap that echoes in the dark
and leaves behind a wake that does not fade,
while every thought like striking flint brings sparks
that catch in flame acts due from plans unmade.
In restless times as these, creative souls
are said to find stray inspiration loosed,
and in somnambulence descry the whole,
that waking, they may put to greater use;
but I find not epiphany, just ache
that grows with each new moment still awake.
27 JAN 2006
It matters not how much the wind may blow,
nor if the seas should rise up through the floor;
the anchor of my craft is sunk below,
and I am to this spot moored evermore.
Should this fierce season flail its storms at me
and seek to wrest my hold from this small spot,
to face the torrent is my destiny;
what comes, if good or bad, shall be my lot.
‘Tis not an act of courage, or last stand,
but simply put, I’ve realized to run
is just as futile; what good are new plans
that rest on such foundations? I’ve begun
to realize the import of a place:
it rests not in its grand design or sport,
but rather in the nature of its space,
that finds in such small things such great import.
What if the ship is wretched loose from its chain,
its timber torn asunder in the fray?
Despite the great destruction, what remains
is greater than what’s lost. And so, I stay.
27 AUG 2005
The streets are filled with idle, itching hands,
their owners on the prowl in vain pursuit
of some pastime to fill the vacant hours
in darkened rooms enswamped with summer heat.
Without their cellphones, TV sets and games,
and fast-food fare likewise beyond their grasp,
how will the city’s folk be entertained?
On what diversions will they spend their cash?
Driveways are strewn with fallen trees and wires;
on front lawns, baking in the noon-day sun,
we sit in wrought iron chairs, and just perspire.
And wait. There’s not much else that can be done.
Who wants to light a flame to cook a meal,
and add the stove’s hell-fire to this malaise?
It’s better to go hungry than to broil;
besides, the food’s gone bad. It’s been two days.
Tonight, the house is hotter in than out;
by candlelight, perhaps I’ll read a while.
I miss the air conditioner’s white noise;
Too bad such silence has gone out of style.
11 JUL 2005
Last night a storm rolled slowly in
the thunder muffled by the air
so heavy, like a mortar’s crack
or heavy rifle silenced with
a potato at its barrel end,
wrapped in layers of gauze;
it could only slowly make
its way along the pea-soup night
and felt that it was far away
instead of at our doorstep.
The rain was more like sour sky-sweat
that leaked from cloud-pores; it did not fall
but oozed out in the still air like
the world had run a marathon,
the moisture dripped along its brow
and heaving chest, coating hot and salty
the gasping, overheated ground.
10 AUG 2004
Awake by chance,
I watched a flicker
in the dark clouds
Drawn, I watched this
the dull sound of
the dreamlike build
of slow suspense
in too calm air
still warm and dense;
the dry leaves’ dance
along the street,
on the concrete;
the slow advance
of mist and rain
that gently fogged
the window pane;
the sudden spark
of jarring bright
as lightning cracked
the grey-black night;
the numbing taste
of ions churned
that caused my throat
and eyes to burn;
the sudden gusts
of storm-pushed wind
that hissed and moaned
through the tree limbs;
and then, the whip
of sleet and wind
that chilled my bones
and soaked my skin.
It raged an hour
and then was gone,
leaving small pools
that dried with dawn.
11 APR 2004