hard rain…

memories
rain upon a tin roof
so gentle at first
almost soothing
but
as night hours linger
dark clouds begin to gather
and the rain pours down
harder than when
they were not memories
somehow
returning pain is stronger
than its first moments
were we not taught
that time heals all
but
apparently not
the pain of memories
in the night

 

passe…

now
i know
it’s not fashionable
but
i’m holding on
to
my old
moth-eaten
frayed
and
ragged dreams
i don’t need
any
fancy fantasies
nor
do i want to be
weighed down
by
all
the depressing
shenanigans
coming
from
the white house
i want to continue
to believe
that
this is a country that cares
not only
for its own self-interest
but
for the human rights
of
all men and women
regardless
of
race,
religion
color
creed
or
sexual orientation
you see
i’m
an american
with
the old
true
american dream

 

spring #12…

his timing
and
vision
of the future
was always
somewhat
questionable
so
last winter
when
he ordered
pineapple lily seeds
from
south africa
based
upon
physical appearance
and
its lovely name
few of us
were surprised
when
he darted
from his home
one spring morning
gasping
for air
the pineapple lilies
bloomed
early
in
his basement greenhouse
resulting
in a relationship
much like
his former marriage

 

spring #3…

even in cold rain
they held hands
warmed
no doubt
by
thoughts
of spring’s passion
and
those sweet promises
made before
each kiss
that
nothing
could ever separate them
as
they reached
the front porch
a light came on
and then
her father
opened
the door