The Value of Rain

Summers is here and the sun bares down.

I could impress upon people the value of rain-

silver fingers drumming, the sky without frown-

but they see it as a pain,

something to avoid. I would dance in it,

but instead I sit

inside and read poetry. When I was young

I would open my mouth to the rain

the way any other child would catch snowflakes on his tongue,

and I would spin for raindrops and drink them in.

Summer people watch the moon wax and wane.

On bright mornings I wince at the sun

and whisper you win.

Once

Once I cried from my powder blue room

my wails rising from my crib

like awful birds- beaks targeting ears

at which to peck.

 

Once I reached inside myself

and found the nerve to kick off the training wheels

and form my own path, unencumbered.

 

Once I found myself in a four square court

and the ball bounced between me

and people who introduced themselves

as they held that yellow rubber sphere.

 

Once I looked at the monochrome clock

that crouched, always in the same place,

on the mocha-brown walls of a building

that always smelled of new shoes and Lysol.

 

Once I found myself in a room-

painted a darker blue, the same

room where that doll-sized impression of myself

used its voice to rouse people from slumber.

Now I can use my voice to do the same,

but in spite of everything,

I take my own initiative

and set forth, out of the crib, onto the street, into the halls

on my own.

Moving On

Moving on is a funny thing.

At times it seems impossible,

but then you come to a place

where you can look back

and laugh. And you may not

be happy, but

you’re getting there.

And another realization

hits-

that it’s time to move forward

and stop looking back.

The Price of Love

The price of love be

overpow’ring memory-

though it seems a sad thing,

it is the best price to pay.

Goodbye

We send you off

into that good night.

You were seen off

by golden sunlight.

Though tears plague this spectacle,

I remember your happiness

most of all

…

We’ll be alright.

For my Grandmother, born Feb. 1919, died Feb. 2014

The Extraction

By tomorrow I will have lost four pieces

of my head: four diamonds, two of which

have yet to emerge;

four relics that have grown inside me;

four friends which have stuck with me

through depression and heartache,

through thrill of stage lights and applause,

through anger and haste

and a five hundred twenty five word apology

to a girl I haven’t seen since.

Tomorrow I part with these old gems,

and I’ll be none the wiser.