is not rain

is not rain
only for babies
like damp diapers
inconvenient, perhaps

this day will not slow
roll out your thunder
then push on it
food good for make strong

see this day grey
i hello you
cover from water falling
is enough, is so

open, heavens above, come on
not holding back
do as i know you can
give me all your thunder

coping

as the small bangladeshi and tall senegali
simultaneously squeeze departed
i tapped a shoulder; she half-nodded,
and took the inside window seat.

packed we were in fine october rush morning,
rolling slowly in traffic congestion
amid calm low voices and little movement
the girl, now seated next to me in the final row,

wearing an elaborate blue with white
lightening designs on a headset,
privatized from the throng;
when further, from the depths of her large purse

deftly extracted a tiny round compact,
opened it
and peering into the mirror
on the pretense of inspecting her eye,

i in a glance observed
as she melt-glided
swift deep away beyond time borders
into private mirage eternity.

the buffalo

some rainy, foggy, chilly midweek

when secretaries call in sick
and postmen wear goulashes
go to the zoo and take in what’s left

splash along the water-covered concrete
past occasional trees bent, looking away
from the wind’s lick

see the muddy, mucky, peanut-shelled patch
where there stands the buffalo
knee-deep, with dirty, unkempt, matted hair
his eyelids closing out the drizzle
shoulders that held up america

clothed the indians in a montana mountain snow
fed starving wagoneers not quite to the promised land
mark of the plains
symbol of an era

it is fitting that he be visited
for his eyelids are closing now, america

day lilly

they only last a day she said

as she picked the fading flower

some of them probably think they'll go on forever

like some people think they do

sun to sun
got'ta have fun

sun to sun

see how they run

the man in the moon

what you expect when you look up.

to home of the big shiny

in what is otherwise dark,

nearly black, but yeah

there’s color and i’m an artist, even we,

including Michelangelo Buonarroti who didn’t pump

red like blood under the sculpted fine Tuscan

Carrara marble  skin of the Pieta -

the  Madonna and dead Christ,  

have a tendency to round things off.

like i‘s saying, it was dark,

the pale  moon bright near white

or there abouts.

and low you have it

creeped down on the side is the face

as drawn in olden times, in antique mysterious hue 

as per the season, moisture content in the air,

time of night, cloud drift in the way, all of the above

come together, perfect, scary and complete;

needed only dreadful music, wind blowing

and black cat leaping, shrieking, but this is life

not hollywood remembers, not even a mouse

so, that’s how it goes

and went leaving

an impression on my mind;  

like an inside job wall brain stencil.

the air that i breathe

the air that i breath

thankful i am for the invention

and skies above

another fine intention

ground to walk on

amid the clutter of people

in city hub bub

seemingly without direction

as birds soar above

fish swim the sea

waters rain upon us

streams flow

frogs jump,

nearly hidden cats lurking, see all

here, where we can, on good days,

nap in the sun

Morning, noon and night doesn’t cover it.

It’s all before, during or after a meal.

columbus nimbus

columbus nimbus

first day this year in our skies

only one sky, really, but could have been fifty,

seems years since i’ve seen them like this

bursting, flaming red,orange,yellow, early morning gold

combined in rolling dough balls - like inflated balloons

over clowns and jugglers in the big new York city parade,

twisting, changing shapes as i watched;

the ropes holding them were city wires on poles

so they weren’t tied in the sky,  just added flavor.

fat, wonderful cartoon characters

sun- lit, puffy tumblers, changing shape;  practically on fire,

background blue sky patches,  white clouds too,

 oh, my,  yes.

love divine,  so fine,  all mine.

mornings like this do take me along.

of time

what is time, the time, anytime?

a second is not a heartbeat or a blink

for elephants, people, whales  nor  canaries.

suppose seconds were made too quick or slow,

then we really never know

what time it is.

days and nights you can bet on,

you see it light or dark;

but right about the time, are we?

how can seconds tick the same

when winter days are shorter

and summer days are longer.

yet different at the poles, you know,

depending on the time of year.

(there is time again, the walking shadow)

the world  not perfectly round in shape or orbit, spinning, leaning.

as much as we depend on them

clocks are overvalued and  underdeveloped.

when this world agrees on little,

who declares what is an hour; how many in a day,

a month, in a year?

and everyone shaking heads in agreement?

convenient, for sure, but is it true?

while baseball is something you can depend on,

of that there is no doubt,

no matter how quick or slowly it goes -

three strikes and you’re out.

friendliness of the sun

there is friendliness  of the sun

when mornings parting clouds,

pouring in the window,

a glowing yellow beam,

leaning the same spot

on the wall

feeling the floor,

slowly stretching  like a cat

shifting as the hours pass

until gone from east window glass

doing sky work for the day, then back again

wakeup  time tomorrow

circle me darling with your arms;

i’d say morning to night,

but it’s really hard to walk around that way.