Random Chance of Rain July 29, 2013

Sunday,
   It may be a while before I post another poem. So, my reader(s) you'll have to do with this last one. Again, this a few short poems that were written first as posts on Facebook. They also revolve around a central theme, rain. It's late July and we here in Oklahoma have had a LOT more rain than we are use to. It was a pleasant surprise.

Random Chance of Rain

1

… AND it's still raining
a steady, light rain
like sparrows cry
not like crows do
who thunder
far too loud
who linger
far too long
on their own
sorrows

 

2

Shall I sing of shadows
pounding out the dents
the summer worked
so hard to print
to layout in fire and stone
only to be
washed away
by a sandpaper storm

that smooth the edges

of a rainy thought

from a deluge

to a soft shower

that spring could wear

leisurely around

her shoulders

 

3

I wish the rain would stay
not wander off

from place to place
like it always does
like you always do
when your sun
comes up

 

4

Thick, wondrous clouds

black and white

afloat upon a greying sky.

I've hoped all day that they

won't go away until they drain

us, repeat that gentle rap

of wet, cool rain that beat

against the windowsill last night

 

5

Clouds hang like paintings
in God's gallery... I wonder
will He serve hors d'oeuvres,
will the artist make an appearance?
And if He does what do I say?
"Yes, very nice, although you might
add a tiny bit of rain."

6       

I seldom think of you, but if I must

I think of you as rain stomping on

the roof inside my head like tiny

hooves of reindeer would, or like

butterflies that have lost their way

and smashed themselves to death

upon the windowpane of the only

window in the house that  isn’t blind.

Yes, I think of you as rain, the kind

that whistles while it jerks my mind

around, splatters its memories against

my memory until I fear remembering

at all. How you came into my life

wet with life and left muddy prints

upon the carpet when you finally

said goodbye and evaporated

into sun… yeah, if I must, I think

of you as rain that comes and goes

when it pleases, when you  need

to be thought  about, when you

need someone to remember your

ever changing weather patterns.

—rrw o7-28-13

 



SWEAT July 27, 2o13

Saturday,
   Been working on this for about three or four days. Still not totally satisfied with the beginning but in good enough shape to post, I think.

SWEAT

 

Not sure the sky is blue today,

it seems to me a muddy Chevrolet
slow dragging on a cloudy day.
And I myself am feeling jazzy-lazy, ragtime crazy
as the summer broils my brain, heats up my veins,
forces me to growl a melancholy song
that Billie might have sung  way back in ’41 while high on heroin.
Her ivory horse adrift from dirty bathroom to the kitchen sink,
down the corridor where the pasty coroner gets you ready
for the grave, then crawling low into that deep, dark hole and
through the swinging doors of the local jook where thick cigar
and cigarette smoke and those shady men in overcoats
claw at that sweet, tight ass as she struts past the wobbly chairs
and splintered tabletops. She slides across the barroom floor
that’s stained with beer and blood, where coat-tail waiters shrug
and shuffle ‘bout in wingtip shoes and holey dungarees still damp
from slaving in the fields. They mutter to themselves, “It’s hot as hell!”
And God, He laughs out loud, “You think it’s hot, huh?!  
Boys, come live up here inside the sun!”
‘Cause even He-On-Top sometimes must stop
to grumble to Himself  while changing into linen robes,
“Because them silky ones will lick you up like jellyroll!” 
And me and He and Billie all agree,
this mean ol’ life, no matter where you be,
or who you be just makes you wanna die,
makes you sweat, makes you scream.
—rrw o7-27-13

 

 

Mother, July 24, 2o13

Wednesday,
   This has been on my mind awhile. You know there are those "events" that go on in the world that really have little to do with you personally... and yet they touch you in some way... you need to write something... you don't know what exactly... you just need to get it out onto the page... hope it says something worthwhile.

Mother

 

What strength it takes to stand like wind.

Early morning rain has forced your head
to slightly bow. A sudden thunder
rumbling behind your eyes. You voice soft,
but strong like iron leaves burning
in an open fire place. Not a hint of smile.

Your lips have lost the memory of happier thoughts.

But I don't mind, I barely notice.
Nor does the crowd that's gathered here
to watch and hear you speak.
And when you finally do, the words... the words…
we can't imagine those words
spoken by anyone else but you.
—rrw o7-21-13

 

Boxing Day July 21, 2o13

Sunday,
   Had to wait to post this until 12:10 am. Another one of those poems that started as a post on Facebook and turned into something a little more.

Boxing Day

 

I have your shadow locked up in the closet,

strung up by its graying hair

on a stiff, wire hanger.

It swings back and forth

like a giant oak leaf

every time I open the door

to check on it.

I should pick it up

by its scrawny, black neck,

toss it out with the other memories

clinging to the wooden shelves,

hiding in the brown packing boxes

you cleverly marked, "MINE!"

But like all things you, I'm afraid

to throw ‘em away.

I might need ‘em someday.

For… what? I haven't a clue.

—rrw o7-2o-13

 

 

Art Americana, July 2o, 2o13

Saturday,
   It's been an extraordinary Friday. Very creative. My friend, Albert Bostick, created some wonderful paintings as tribute to the life and death of Tayvon Martin. Inspired me so much I sat down and composed my own tribute to the memory of TM. Not as straightforward as Al's paintings, but folk seem to be getting into it, understanding where I'm coming from. Hope you enjoy it.

Art Americana

 

We take that sharp biting pain

the boiling veins of outrage
infuse them into words
into swords that cut
thin slices of black ink
across the pale white face
of page after page after canvas
after sound after sound
that bludgeons its way through
the tortured cords of the voice
to the deaf ear to the blind eye
to the heart that no longer feels
its own blood pumping
its own thoughts
curdling and dying with every lie.

They strangle truth and honesty

steel-toed rail splitting logic
hatred pounding out  great
highways rising up and over
stomping out the life where once
God wept the open fields and
and forests dark and damp
and lakes filled with fishermen
and children playing on the banks.

 

And we can be the beaten down mud

or stand like stone or flash like thunder
in the darkest storm and we can force
the day to rise the sun to come forth
and shine on everyone with all the force
of our words the wet bristles of paint brushes
the rhythm of sounds woven into song.

 

Yes, we can change it all bring it all back

to where it belongs without raising one fist
without swinging the knife without drawing
a gun or spilling the blood.

 

We can give it all back to whom it belongs.

—rrw o7-19-13
 

(W)et and Random (W)Rites July 18, 2o13

Thursday,
   I've getting carried away with these collections of short poems. But it does give me an opportunity to pay close attention to phrasing and getting an idea across with few words. And I just enjoy the idea of short and (hopefully) witty poems that a person can read fast.

 


(W)et and Random (W)Rites

 

1

I don't care for the way the rain looks at me

suspicious of the way I dress, my smile,
the color of my eyes, the late hours
that I choose  for my sleepy walk-about
inside her soggy mouth.
Distressed I am by her flippant attitude.
It's me that's wet... not her.

 

2

I like the sound my shadow makes
rubbing up against the window plate
as it tries to touch the rain, the untamed
darkness that purrs like thunder.
What a romantic… my shadow is.

 

3

I couldn't fall asleep
because the sheep
were busy counting me

 

4

I often think about you
but never of you

 

5

It all depends
on your intent.
Do you want to get mad
and break something
or
do you want to get mad
and fix something?

 

6

I woke up to the steady blink of

 12:00 12:00 12:00

A stealthy thunderstorm had broken

into my apartment while I slept,
pickpocketed every clock in the house
that's powered by an electric socket.
I can't figure out what Nature does
with all the minutes she steals from me
each time her static cat like burglar strikes.
they’re of no use to her, she robs me
of my peace of mind. How can I ever
"sleep tight" again knowing that I'm destined
to be thrust into that limbo-land of

 12:00 12:00 12:00

 the very moment I open my eyes.

 

7

She was so beautiful
she told me so each morning
as if my eyes might forget
what she looked like

while she was in the bathroom
taking care of… her things

 

8

It was unusual
but if you think about it
it's not unusual
and if you think about it

some more
you forget what it was
you were thinking about

 

9

It was a simple thing
that became
extremely complicated
made worse by the fact
I couldn't find
the instruction book!
I did come
with instructions, right?

 

1o

I woke up
long before
I woke up
to watch
myself
sleep
I was

startled when
I opened
one eye
and caught
me
staring down
at me

 

11

My coffee drank me in
this morning
now the coffeemaker
will be up all night
writing bad poetry
wondering why
it chose to be
a coffee pot
—rrw o7-17-13

Blood Voyuer, July 16, 2o13

Tuesday,
   Sometimes I write a simple thing that just feels right to me.

 

Blood Voyeur

 

I was watching my eyes bleed
as the lids tied sailor knots
around the injured veins
this happens all the time
when it rains
and snows
and when
I think
about you
too long

—rrw o7-12-13

 

 

Son of Ranom (W) Rites July 15, 2o13

Monday,
   I've been saving this for a few days because of current events which have moved me to write some poems that needed to be posted while they were still relevant. In fact, one of them, Verdict, is included in this "collage" of thought... the third in a series of random thoughts.

Son of Random (W) Rites

 

1

My morning hair is standing on end
I must have dreamed something terrible
or something so wonderful my follicles
needed to dance

 

2

Don't argue with a sandwich

and then complain,
"I just ate something
that didn't agree with me"

 

3

I was going to think
about apathy today
but why bother

 

4

the evening shadows fall
like maple syrup
dripping hot buttered thoughts
on pancake dreams

 

5

Hope is a thing sitting in the book case
I'm always tempted to flip through its pages
listen to that wonderful gibberish
only paper understands

 

6

I was counting on you

saving long division
for my smarter friends

 

7

this is how we are
feet walking
hands busy doing something
mind wondering farther
than the other limbs
could ever imagine
the lungs breathing
heart spitting blood
throughout the system
consciousness waits
patiently for me
to run myself six feet
into the ground

 

8

There are some things
beyond our control
science calls it life

 

9

I caught my shoes
sneaking out the front door.
It was three in the morning.
What were my shoes up to?
Going for a walk
but where? Why?
Why?! What, am I in Russia?

10
I cried evening
and got morning
I laughed noon
it turned to night
when it rains
I receive sunlight
once an ocean
the desert now stands
as alone as me

 

11 Verdict

America stood in the corner

 hands in pockets looking up
at her own image wondering
where her smile had gone.
Sold, bought out. Sent back
to her room to think about
the mistakes, the promises
she made to all of us
who once worshipped her.
Will we ever see her face again?
—rrw o7-14-13



 

Hang On July 14, 2o13

Sunday,
   Still the Zimmerman decision is on everyone's mind. So, at least for yesterday and today I'm sticking with poems inspired by the current events.

Hang On

 

There's very little we understand these days.
Very little we care or need to understand.
The weight of it pulls at you, drags you down
into the same mud we all originally came from.
We have hope, we wish, we try to fight it.
But gravity has such large, powerful hands.
The numbers too always seem against us.
We do not control the tale being told as much
as we would like, as much as we try, we never
seem to get much farther than... all this, this thing
can be changed, turned around if we just try,
just sweat it all out a little bit longer. If we
just hang on a bit longer... it will work itself
out, it will be the way... the way it will be...

—rrw o7-14-13