I don’t write sunshine
and rainbows on demand.
I wish I were that gifted a poet,
but I’m not.
My poems form
whether I like it or not.
I live in man-made shade;
civility and comfort covetously
carved from a temperate rainforest.
My poems rain down as unspent tears
forbidden to fall by fathers and forefathers.
My poems rain relentlessly down
like a mother’s cry for mercy
that went unheeded by
groping hands and pounding fists.
My poems rain,
pooling in cracks and bones
of glacial ancestors
pressed, locked into
bondage and shame
and left in melted recesses
My poems rain and rain and rain,
wherever gravity lets them rest.
If I’m lucky, there is the occasional sunbreak.
I don’t write lilacs and lovelight
on lily-pad dewdrops upon request.
Buoyant thinking like that eludes me.
My poems scrawl
in greying grey smears,
churning, exchanging atmospheres.
I await haughty marine layers
that rhyme when they should not
making mockeries of landfall.
My poems tear open screen doors,
slamming them shut,
dotting the eye in goodbye.
My poems rip tree from earth,
uprooting my garden,
blocking my way out.
My poems scowl and spit
in broiling grey fistfuls,
leveling my pantry and
all my best-laid plans.
My poems rain and rain and rain;
my poems tear and rip and scowl.
If I’m lucky,
if there is a sunbreak,
and if the sun hangs low,
there may be the hint of a rainbow.
Go here to donate to Tim Duncan’s island storm relief fund.