Rain Pelts…

skin 1

The rain, so real, against my skin.

Damp reminders of…

Where I have and have not been.

Timber, askew from a soggy past.

Stray and lost, falling like broken glass.

I sit…

Transfixed by what is so common.

A life that can easily be forgotten.

The rain pelts against fairer days.

Wild the bird standing in weather’s woody ways.

I sit…

Transfixed by what is so common.

A life that can easily be forgotten.skin 2

 

If I Were a Fisherman

If I were a fisherman.

Forty days, forty nights, would no longer be pretend.

I could cast my line into a moldy moat.

If I were a fisherman.

I would no longer need a boat.

If I were the rain.

My flesh turning toward water.

My blood thinned by the clouds above.

My tears rearing…the green grass below.

To a life filled with drought.

I would be liquid gold.

If I were the rain.

I would be the only reason for many a season.

If I were a picture.

Worth at least, a hundred words.

I would photograph, all that is foreign and absurd.

I would camouflage all the earth’s treason.

Exposing the hue and contrast of desperation’s sun.

If I were to walk on water.

I would not need worry about the weather.

Encompassing all that is gathering and harsh.

After the ark, I would satiate all that is parched.

 

Making Sunshine

13th day of dismal, delinquent weather!  Today, I must make my own sunshine!

RandomwordbyRuth

“My uncle ordered popovers
from the restaurant’s bill of fare.
And, when they were served,
he regarded them with a penetrating stare.
Then he spoke great words of wisdom
as he sat there on that chair:
“To eat these things,” said my uncle,
“You must exercise great care.
You may swallow down what’s solid,
but you must spit out the air!”
And as you partake of the world’s bill of fare,
that’s darned good advice to follow.
Do a lot of spitting out the hot air.
And be careful what you swallow.”

Dr. Seuss

 

 

Walking By Heaven’s Door

 

Just one of those, where the rain barely keeps you awake, moments.

Seconds with my life for life’s sake.

Hidden in the foggy valleys of every god forsaken town.

Storybook ghosts walk by without any sound.

Every now and again,

I cling to these forcibly sad days.

The ones so silent they dare not get in the way.