Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

Sometimes It Seems All Of The Days Are Gray

sometimes it seems
all of the days are gray
and the doors closed
without a glimpse of the one
who steps across the threshold
you are the one who walks in the rain past the curious stares of dry children in their after school program coloring within
and further along past the empty storefronts waiting for new tenants
you smile at the woman smoking beneath the dripping eaves
the open sign flashing red behind her

inside at home it is warm
the lights cast off the chill
but you know that you can
never ever leave the gray behind

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

The Melancholic

perhaps it is the rain
the gray of the day
the fog across the window panes
the wet that keeps
the hounds at bay

the clap of refrain
where fingers stray
to jog across a tender frame
the fret that weeps
the sounds of a ukulele

the trap of my brain
the notes that play
and slog across my inner disdain
regrets that sleep
in mounds of dismay

perhaps it is the rain
the tune of the day
the dog that sees me with eyes of pain
sets aside the sheep
having found her prey

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

when the sky is fire

when the sky is fire
be not afraid
of the wind
which heralds
the coming storm

the dark clouds
touched by flame
of the rising sun
will water an
earth that is
bone dry

and you too who
walk beneath
the burning sky
with dry dreams
shall find them
wet with rain

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

Forecast

it is not that i have nothing to write
it is that i have too much

i have not known where to begin

the words have appeared within like leaves in a sudden spring
the trees are full

thunder breaks the silence
the sky fills with pregnant clouds

i await the wind

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

Predication of Precipitation

On red mornings
the paper is double bagged
and tied off in a knot
to anticipate

the old warning
to shape where troubled crags
and tide conspire to rock
the sailor’s skate

though the storming
often escapes bubbling windbags
who try to predict
where clouds ought
to precipitate

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

Friends Upon My Face

the sun is a warm friend upon my face
a constant reminder of daily grace
the morrow has enough worries of its own
and the seeds of yesterday have already been sown
now all i have is this day
to wonder at what may come my way
the stuff of life its joy and pain
warm friend sunshine cool friend rain

Posted in Musings and Reflections

Words Said or Not

After calling my destination, I was surprised to learn that there the sun was out and the skies were blue.

My morning and subsequent drive has been filled with gray skies and rain, remnants of a dying hurricane. Suddenly, an hour into my trip, the rains end. The dark clouds turn white with blue skies showing through. It is as if a weight lifts from my shoulders. The stress of these past several weeks seems to fall behind me on the road like the carcass of some dead creature.

I have not written in a while I know, struggling with what to say and how to say it. Some things are better left unsaid far from a public forum. I have never understood those who place their pain and suffering out for all the world to see. It is a twist on the neverending narcissism of these times.

Yet I must continue to find a way to write, to pray, for those two are synonymous for me. I am most able to make sense of the world through the words that enter and flow forth from my heart, whether it is hurting or filled with joy.

So as the storm ends and the clouds change their hue, I find that I am released again to listen and share this eternal inner conversation.

Thank you, dear reader, for your patience and presence amongst these words, said or not.

Posted in Musings and Reflections

La Lluvia Viene Como La Raza

Years ago, so long ago it seems like it was a dream, or that the man in the street was someone other than myself, I marched with my Latino sisters and brothers through a Columbia Heights very different than the neighborhood of today. It was right after the Mt. Pleasant Riots, the anger at an unarmed Hispanic man being shot by police on Columbia Road still present in the chants of the marchers.

“¡El pueblo unido, jamás será vencido!”

“The people united will never be defeated!”

We marched behind a red banner with the same words in white spray paint on the front. (Later, I took the banner home, tore it into strips, and made an art piece with it).

It began to rain. We laughed, shouted louder, and kept marching.

I began to say these words.

“La lluvia viene como la Raza.”

And then;

“La Raza viene como la lluvia.”

“The rain is coming like the people.”

“The people are coming like the rain.”

I no longer recognize the place I called home those many years long ago. Condos and chain stores crowd the sky, looming over what used to be burned out storefronts and the charred pavement where the police cars were set ablaze. A different kind of people walk the sidewalk where I staggered, my eyes burning with tear gas.

Change came, but I doubt it was the kind we were marching for. I can’t help but wonder how many of the people in the crowd behind that red banner on that rainy day were priced right out of their own barrio.

Yet, I doubt any us regretted our march through the streets, or the subsequent protests, or the candlelight vigils, or the community meetings at the Unitarian Church, or the light in the dark eyes of the youth who finally felt empowered to do something, whether we agreed with their methods or not.

You see, the people keep coming like the rain.

And we will keep coming, marching behind banners, be they red, white, or blue, raising our voices, until the noise of our passing rattles the powers that be like hard rain on a metal roof.

Yes, we, the people, will keep coming like the rain, until, as the prophet Amos said, “justice roll(s) down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”

Posted in The Sunday Driver: Life in the Slow Lane

Out of the Gray

shooting ball to gospel
hard rain drumming
on the metal roof
of the gym

in a life of change
these two things remain
to comfort me
three if i count
the rain

the past seems more real
than the present
i wonder what stories
i am to tell
and what new ones
i am to begin

in the pause
when i put the ball down
to write
a brother enters
for connection and
conversation

i realize again
that when i wait
the memories of
yesterday
join with those of
today
and what i need walks
through the door
out of the gray