It’s raining in America

It’s raining in America,
or at least it’s raining on my town,
water splashing the windshield,
wipers setting a beat for the music on the radio,
headlights from the oncoming cars
falling like Christmas lights onto the city streets,
travelling their passages to love and glory,
passengers ridding waves of time and space.
It’s night time in the city,
And angels walk the clouds above, waiting for the daylight.

Soon.

Purgatory

One foot in the water
One foot on the land
One’s turning left
One’s rightward bound

Like the Roman go Janus
Or the Gemini twins
One foot’s going outward
The other’s coming in

Straddling the proverbial fence
‘Tween today and the morrow
One’s on a road to hope
One regret and sorrow

One’s going to Hades
One to Avalon
Like Humpty Dumpty
I may crash and burn

So I take a moment
To charter moon and stars
And wonder what to do
When both feet spread too far.

The Green Days of Paradise

Rome wasn’t built in a day
And a soul takes a lifetime
Yesterday an empty glass
Tomorrow another sip of wine
Day by day sunrise and sunset
And moon and stars out for a stroll
Images painted on the heavens
Clouds sailing and geese sing their call
Shadows climbing the afternoon
A voice makes a beautiful noise
A face is a long ago memory
Of a garden of a red red rose
Where a squirrel and a cat drink tea
And a pony rushes off for a ride
Through canyons and arroyos
And into the green days of paradise.

A Bad Case of Sonnetosis

What can I say I was feeling unwell
With a fever of a hundred and three.
I called the doctor. He examined me,
My ups and downs, my valleys and my dales,
My hearing, my touch, my taste and my smell
And all the ins and outs of my body.
It hurts like hell, my eyes cried with a plea.
He laughed and said, “Wait till you get my bill.
I’m afraid you have something atrocious.
Those iambic pentameters, you see,
Are showing up in my diagnosis.
There’s only one thing I know it can be.
You have a bad case of sonnetosis.
There’s but one cure. A sonnetectomy.”

We’re working things out

A pickin’ and grinnin’ lyric for National Poetry Month

Off to Philadelphia, P A
They drove for twenty-four hours a day.
They hoped hard times had stayed their stay
But the hard times followed them anyway.
I’m still with Tommy, she says to me
We’re working things out.
Sure, he can’t hold a job, she says to me.
We’re still working things out.

He had seven jobs in seven days
And he has an eighth on the way.
He needs to get his act ready for play.
Just give him some time. It’ll be any day.
I’m still with Tommy, she says to me
We’re working things out.
Sure, he can’t hold a job, she says to me.
We’re still working things out.

It’s not that he’s lazy or that he drinks.
He’s in need of a little leeway.
It’s taking some time to work out the kinks.
He keeps hoping things will work out okay.
I’m still with Tommy, she says to me
We’re working things out.
Sure, he can’t hold a job, she says to me.
We’re still working things out.