Catching Poetry

There is no poem-faucet
No tap to turn and let gush
A flow of melodious words.

A poet is only some soul
Patiently holding up a pail,
Awaiting thought-rain.

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In Our Eyes

Our perfect eyes –
Our pride. Through these lenses
we judge the world,

We see clearly, but not well.

We boast in gazing
At the majestic copy-cat wonders
Mankind has made,

In our own eyes, we are great.

But banish us from Light
and our perfect eyes are futile,
There is no sight.

Wonders dim, nothing to see here.

If ever Light could leave us,
Orphaned men would grope in darkness,
Begging handmade eyes to see.

Such is human dignity.

Transient Storm

The damp grey rag of sky
Let loose tiny bullets of water
To shoot the weary street,
Which never fought invasion
But allowed the huddled clouds
To puddle along it’s sides.
Though the ash-puff artillery
Never recalls from one cycle
To another, it never wins.
The street is wise, it knows,
Sun sweeps aside petty foes
And the billows pass as light
Shoots rays to oust the puddles.

I haven’t a clue why I’m writing about rain in February.

Perhaps I’m looking for stories where the light wins.

Or perhaps it is the sequel to “Incessant Storm”, the other side of the story. After all, even if a storm lasts a lifetime, it cannot be incessant. All storms will end, someday, in Light.

Incessant Storm

These waves are familiar
They roar and I quake
In the wake of the storm
That will not end.

I must stop believing
You are only in the ceasing
Of the storm, some faint beacon,
Or I will never see You for the rain
Blurring my vision, never stopping.
I’ve waited. You haven’t halted
This barrage of pain, pounding
Water drenching me incessantly,
Pummeling hope out of this soul.

I must begin believing
You are the boat that holds
My trembling life within the mess,
The planks I stand on in my shaking
So I will ever see You in the rain,
Faint but firm – foundation for a girl
Often doubting, never drowning –
Being the hope within this soul.