Splashes made with every taken step,
the aftermath of aftermaths,
and just as distant as the passing clouds
we stroll along on our intended path;
Rainstorms hover now just overhead,
looming ‘cross to gray out afternoon,
and none could fathom why so shortly
the sky cleared again just as soon.
Search always for the nameless helpers,
bearing no distinguished sigils,
and yet through them the world obtains
a good unfettered by their gains;
Amazing still is their denial that the acts
are worth the notice or commending! —
As though their kindness is so plain
we could ignore in proud pretensions.
I pledge to pay forward 10 times over for your act of kindness.
The rain will not have ceased
upon the restless feet’s desire,
that eyeing past the pouring pane
absorbed the gloom and grew tired;
Instead the dreams will take their flight
between the night and pillows, blankets;
the waking world abhors wet shoes,
but dreams care not the slightest.
There rests a blankest apathy
adorning brows of the fatigued,
that hope would seem a dirge
too often left upon repeat —
Yet ears attune despite the shrills,
and wipe the sweat off wrinkles;
another day completed same,
but hoping to dislodge the cycle.
So thus pass 4, or sometimes 8,
the years would meld to memories,
when more was needed from the same,
then asked us why the sullen apathy.
Muddled sunlight behind clouds
breaching silence in pale streaks
scarce enough to absolve ground
of morning fogs gathered ‘neath —
Convoluted wishes watching dawn,
of burdened night spent sleepless,
asking for its coalescing calm
to soothe the worries bore on peak.
The second cup, like second chances,
a reattempt for further insights,
yielding under shades and mellow winds
what whims and figments in the ice,
that stirred with swirls of caramel,
the latte melded with your thoughts —
So many days between for moving on,
but with each cup drank so far, have not.
A bout of winds sent droplets scattering,
a clap of thunder nearby overheard,
a flash of lighting making day of night,
a long word home without a word —
As good a night as any to have rain,
the cowered head and soaked clothing,
as good a struggle against emptiness
when made the real in elements.
Just another knock upon the wall
that pretense holds will separate
the present moment from before
whereby longings permeate —
An echo thus reverberates,
the images immediate conjured,
that months and years did little
to diminish love’s allure —
But shaken walls will crumble
if used for firm foundations,
yet who can help but try to build
upon the dents of ruminations.
I’ve learned of sadder pasts,
and heard more awful tales,
but then I lived a moment
where all the options failed;
And there I learned at last
the worth of passing pity,
so graciously dole out
in my prior days of plenty.
I pleaded for a day of rain
to quash the passion’s embers,
fueled by the lost restraints
of a longing love most tender;
The rain arrived with gusts
to stir the flames to rage,
yet paltry drizzles can’t begin
to quell a well-fed ache.