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April Showers bring May Flowers

Until this May rain had confined me for a bit, held me at bay from the world and pinned me to the wall of self awareness I couldn’t see winter’s end. I couldn’t see you as never there. But now I sit alone on the sofa aside from new lives and new attitudes, having breakfast at noon and typing this into my phone…

Art to be made and songs to be played. New songs and old songs and perhaps just a few songs I haven’t heard before, from desktops and bus stops and rooftops and blacktops that all cry out confined in droplets of rhythm in time dropping and splashing in their own meter and rhyme, chiming together with the tune of passing shuttles and planes plowing through pillows of thick cotton complexions, resounding through my window like passing strangers in the night that seem very recognizable. Where are the birds I heard a few days ago? Now my heart is friend of the jackhammers, like when I was a kid on the playground — hanging out with the class clown cut-ups before they could gang up on me, I was their mascot — so too my heart takes solace in the streaming plane overhead, the trains that glide smooth over the bumps in the road of my mind, like getting the kinks out on an ironing board. Cozy heat comforts pleats and my heart in this city is the night bird of Keats…

There is so much pain the world carries every day it spins anew, must I navel-gaze much longer only to miss the few moments that flew on by before I knew. Looking glass to telescope open wide this periscope this is how you truly see the world as it was meant to be. Flowers fall and die and fade only to sprout someplace else, be made, whether by clouds of bees in steamy pollen-filled-days to bare earth and concrete places, or to clean white spaces where with paper and rhyme and pen-off-his-heart some poet will paint the petals so smooth you forgot the death and laugh at the life what flower what love what languish what pain! Clouds move on through every day they pass, like that river proving true but never quite the same to pass, fleeting friendships and the running-rest all subside like fears in the night only when fears submerge to converge in the blank open spaces of dream canopies and commas of catharsis. So it rains, so it ended what is life without being mended. Flailing and falling and failing and mauling at some answers like grizzlies defending her right. My cubs are but dreams but I’ll fight in my heart, to live it all well and treat others from start, with love and respect in the grand scheme of things but also right down to the littlest of moments, for that is what surely brings all of the flowers clinging and mingling to ethereal dust. This is my quest like some far away something of a mystery to me. Just me and the world and music make three. Honest plaintive melodies set to the pulse of this city gliding ‘long this river deep within me and to this rain that I do see. This rain in May, that keeps me at bay. This electro-micro synthesis of pleasure and pain, this forgetting you and loving you as a memory lost to time. This will all take writing and music and time….

Of course, flowers need no music or poetry, and rain comes with or without the world to see. They live and move congruous to some damn divine plan that I’ll just for now surrender myself to.



Theatre Maker. Teaching Artist. Student of Life. Poet from way back.

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