Poetry December 19, 2012
A lot of my poetry deals with being alone. Why? Well, because that tends to be my existence for the most part. Alone. I also write about simple things happening at the moment I'm writing. Again, Why? What else should I write about? The simple things, the "little" moments are what count. Those little moments of pain and/or delight shape us in ways that we may not be aware of. Here's a poem about being alone on a rainy night.
Another Rainy
Night
A thick rain
falling tonight
crackling
like fire. The lightning
flash, the
cold rumbling breath
of thunder
shrivels summer
to a dark,
cold whimper.
Rain has its
own smell
born of earth
and grass
a hint
perhaps of sunflower.
For me a rainy
night
has long wet
fingers
that claw
away
layer by
layer every inch
of matted
memory
that has
dried up,
cracked and
peeled
itself into
fine red ribbons
that resemble
rose petals.
Nature has
never loved me
like a true
mother, more
like a step
son she thinks
of me... not
truly hers
but still her
responsibility.
She has
called the rain tonight
to babysit,
and it has never once
complained
when I beg of her a gentle
lullaby to
close my sleepy eyes to.
rrw o8-25-12
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