Tag: rain

Come and shake the dust out of your hair

Come and shake the dust out of your hair,
You wallower—even in my dreams—
Take a bit of golden glare
From mine and tie it to the sunbeams
Refracting in your eyepair's blue gleams.
Allow me to rest in your plaintive gaze
While outside the sudden sun shower streams.
Thunder doesn't disrupt the rays,
And sorrow needn't cloud our days.
Light can be produced by sharing a kiss;
Warmth can be fostered together in praise
Of each other's touch and soul-tenderness.
All raindrops splash the shield of our embrace,
My treasure plainly hidden in your face.

Rain at Work

You love to hear the sky in
 tumult, grimly booming
  in the morning overhead.

The rustling curtains
 of showers whipped
  over the trees and roadways,

Spilling through commerce's 
 arteries, washing away
  a few would-be commutes,

Pattering upon the roof,
 and the few times the doors open,
  echoing from the street,

Mixes with the buzzing
 freezer hum drowning
  the consumer pop out.

Hallelujah!
 the peace of white noise,
  a fleeting wave of bliss.

A siren cuts the drone,
 emergencies arising
  from a wet road perhaps.

What's the price of my leisure
 when I'm supposed to be working?

I suppose I should
 prefer them in here to out there
  if it's a question of danger.

Either way work
 will be slow;
  rain rain go away,

Come again another day;
 probably come every day,
  but at least I'm off tomorrow.

I guess that just means I
 can enjoy the rain 
  without getting paid to do it.

We do whatever we do,
 it dwindles to a drizzle,
  the sun swells like business.

People come and go,
 time mercifully quickens,
  sirens continue to travel.

The clock is a sliding scale
 moving from negotiation
  in public to private and back.

A smile is a worthy tool, makes
 things easy; easy things
  don't last long.

Rain like rolling dice

Rain like rolling dice
Clatters on the metal roof
Of my tiny porch.
I'm reminded of the holes
In my net by mosquitos.

That sweetest relief,
Allow me to praise its name,
Hydrocortisone;
The skin's itchy memories
Are soon forgotten in you!

Last Sunday

In the evening the great grey sail is drawn;
Now, Tampa, the rains are beginning to pour.
I hear it thump over the HVAC's yawn
And the jammed traffic from Raymond James' door.
I heard the Bucs won and the final score
Was forty-to-something, though who they played
I don't know; usually there's fans galore
For any visitors, but today I made
My way to work with the game underway.
The rain has given way to blackness, laid
Upon our hut of lights and slow decay.
As easy a Sunday as any here,
Albeit the last Sunday of the year.