In the rain I like singing
and in puddles jumping
running and rushing
from downpours escaping;
but if it’s just misting
or dripping and spritzing
a gentle though chilly face and hand wetting
hand in hand with my darling
to be sure I’ll be ambling
or quite slowly strolling
and chatting and laughing
till tears are a’flowing
and we are a’rolling
all the while knowing
the rain we’re not noting
our steps it’s not slowing
lost as we are in the moment, the loving
Writing, Reading, Rhyming, Enjoying
Writing, then reading, and see it rhyming
That’s what a poet does in his or her writing
And when he or she’s done, he or she’ll be reading
And he or she will be satisfied when he sees it rhyming.
Reading, then see it rhyming, and he or she is enjoying
That’s what someone does in his or her reading
In a poem, he or she looks, and sees that it is rhyming
And soon enough, it is seen that he or she is enjoying.
My Beautiful Thing
You are the weak dawn rays of Sunday, gleaming.
You are the first rich taste of coffee, steaming.
You are vivid tales of midnight wonder, dreaming.
You are stars on winter nights, ethereal-seeming.
You are chocolate cakes and dates, a turquoise ring,
You are autumn leaves, sea breeze, and when birds sing,
They sing of you. As we all do, my sweet darling.
You are a little bit of every beautiful thing.
Right now I'm flailing
Can't shake the feeling
of quickly running
far and failing
So today I will be clinging
to any last hoping
I have left in by body shaking
Because lately I've been praying
and nothing has been happening
and I don't know what is happening
in the world surrounding
and in the lives with which I'm interacting
Since my head is so full of loathing
not self, but something
else that my words are not describing.
Tomorrow I'll be mailing
you the letter I spent my soul writing
all in the name of telling
you I'm not done believing
that the world is done giving
us what you need to stay standing
and not stop longing
for that great future you've been planning.
The Idea of Everything
Some of us are working,
some of us are lying,
some are failing,
Some of us are living,
and some of us are dying,
some of us are laughing,
some of us are crying.
The idea of everything,
and everything we're doing,
is overlooking what all others are doing.
Until we are the ones working,
then we are doing
while others are overlooking.
An Affair Soon Ending
Witty prose about how stifling
He find his summer fling
In Autumn, all beautiful, soft whispering
You're mine, I'm yours, the lying
So easily off the tongue inciting
Dreams in a naive girl--believing
Holding on to nothing
She hates the city--New York in the Spring
An iron cage that's keeping
her within his grasp-trapping
her within him, dying
She's barely breathing
He does nothing
In winter she was his pleasant shining
Sunshine, just a jeweled thing
But New York in the Spring
In the constant raining
the jewel tones are wearing
She's duller than she was in the beginning
He thought she'd shine forever--misleading
Her innocent smiling
Inviting, ever drawing
Him in to her--she's missing
That girl he fell in love with, missing
She is not the same, now drifting
Before his eyes, thinning
Frame and dead eyes, once gleaming
Where is that dreaming
girl he thought of loving?
She says to the winds of spring
"Save me please, I'm dying."
He says nothing.