rain

The sky is dark at suppertime, just as it was all day.
I can see the rain from my balcony.
It started by the church on the hill, the one with the red roof and stone facade.
Sheets of it obscured the green of the trees.
It was the wind that first gave away the rain's path.
Fifteen pigeons flocked and soared together following the wind's path.
They circled rooftops, dipped and swirled and then selected a roofline on my left
above Thames Greenery.
They lined themselves on the crest.
Some fluffed.
Some ruffled.
Some stoic to the pending storm.

Rain doesn't seem limited to cloudy days.
Sometimes a few silver drops fall from cyan heavens,
single tendrils of wet tinsel.

Today, the rain is a sheet.
A wet wall.

As if nearsighted, I place lenses in front of my eyes.
An artist's hand renders my view: Vertical lines scrape onto canvas before me,
clouds to pavement.
The wind tortures the artist's hand, drawing bristles left then right,
twisting and blurring now, muted green and canary yellow of leaves.
Dimming.
Darkening the tapestry before me
until it is just
Rain.
Dishwater poured from dishrag clouds.

Rain, when it happens is not pretty.
I do not look at the cold wetness as future contributions to a glass of Poland Spring on ice with a lemon twist.
I see it as the rinse cycle of our human condition,
Sloughing our waste and lazy filth into gutters, drains and estuaries...

Trapped rain can be a child's toy.
Memories of flat blue Keds slapping percussion on drums of wetness...
Puddles are dark.
Their darkness splatters in satisfactory splotches against summer whites at six years old.

Once, the rain obscured my humble bath,
Rinsed urine from my pregnant, homeless flesh.
A dirty bath, like a bird's taken in the gutter on that roof.
Desperate.
Cloaked.
Rushed.

I have walked in anger in the rain,
Felt the steam of my thoughts dissipate against its coolness
until the hot iron of my resolve,
my fears,
my aloneness,
were all drenched.
Extinguished.
Numbed to the point of homeostasis.
I've walked, one with the rain.

Note to self

Hey, why not write about those moments when you balked, or when tears stopped. Or perhaps when you laughed so hard you did pee your pants, but no one remembered what was so funny. Write about what you forgot to say. Just write.

coffee house affair

in the seconds when my thigh crossed thigh
and knee hit wood
and big toe kicked table stand
I waited
I waited for the words
the cheerful impetus to make the raw image I witnessed before me change
I waited for the words
his shrug to acknowledge our being
his raised brow inviting me to smile

well this is awkward

they did not come

I waited for the words
to place me before their espresso order
and her eyes
and her
her
whose back fenced me away
they sat on cushions and love
his thighs settled intimate and owning
her thighs receiving
minutes ground with their coffee
slowly to fine powder
my trust
my hope
my respect
powder
my crossed thighs uncrossing
brown remnants now dried on my cup
like dirt
or blood
speechless

today
just held
in a hammock
no words, no kisses
cradled
embraced
wrapped in a cocoon
just held
no sounds, no looks
like a glass ornament
treasured
cherished
warmed
just held
secured
assured
no pressure, no expectations
just held
today

Would I rather be

a bouquet of flowers
the fireworks finale
iced cake
winning lotto ticket
lover's climax
mural dried
sculpture formed
no,
just me with hope for more.

There is a fragileness inside every one of us
a rice paper core
waiting to crumple
at an intrusive touch

I remember what it is like
to be forgotten
to plant coldness in my heart
harvest numbness
to mine great crystals of sadness
like diamonds from my darkest thoughts
hiding in the well of my soul
To place them in every window of my mind
so that my heart could not know the sun

Look at this night
even the moon shuns the clouds

I am dark like spent oil
hidden in crevices of pavement
rising when the first rains dare
on me you spin

While Hitler listened to Wagner

Just how many bombs dropped o'er my head
would it take to convince me my city was dead?
What are the numbers of sinew and bone?
Of blood-bathed children (most dying alone)?
How high will I count the multitude of ways
that bodies can contort on fire swept days?
And when I have tallied the cries and the moans,
will I remember what it meant to be home?