In The Middle of the Night

In the mid-
dull of the night
I lay
and listen to the rain
In this hot room
the sounds of splash
draw out my
slightly sighs again
Were you not here so
short-a-time-ago to
sweat with mine
The ticks
tock by
so bluh
dee slow
hammer out
such emp
tea time
Through this din of rain
and thunderous clocks
my thoughts
collect on you
I’m sure though
slow these days
will fly and
bring me close
in time to you

June

We’re finally at the end of the crazy-June! Leaving us still with 2 months of silly season (English summer) to go… Where that will take us who can possibly know?!

June Oh June

With your bitch, full, blue moon.
You run on in pieces
in drips so drab
and break up the fun
that we waited to have.
You tyrannous slut
of a month
– Cat June!

Bringing the promise of sun and fun
to dash them and crush us –
you run on and run.
So you’ll guess I’m not pleased with you;
guess we’re not growing
to love your foul days of rain,
while you hide the suns glowing!

Oh June.
Oh my.
What have you become
now so late and wet
were you once called the sun?
I cry for you, baby
and the tears sting my cheeks!
I cry everyday
through your long blasted weeks.

Beck sun

This is an updated post from 2012…

the rain falls

a dropping constant in today’s bleak rush for tomorrows motional ideas and rewards, grasped at for the sake of change regardless. As home coughs its overused phlegm up from way deep back in time. As the race to use every last atom of life rushes ever onwards, screeching past all who ever thought they wanted it and past the next, tirelessly marking second-hand starts or bristling with excitement for the latest ‘greatest’ which often proves merely more complicated and intensive than those passed. Whilst every hour, by weight, more rain falls.

So where do all the puddles flow? Not steamed away by a sun too well concealed out in space by vast gatherings of carbon clouds, blotting all but the invisible rays of dancing ultra violets from brightening up our mornings. Deprived of heat waters fail to boil, they inch up round our lives – flooding street and town, home and farm, plants and pumps. Icily imbibing our land saturated in chemicals and yesterdays dead, stirring up the mud like so many should have done so long ago. And every hour, by weight, more rain falls.

What can we do now, but watch and wait? Listening to the stories and rhetoric of unlucky leaders flailing in time, as changes rush by them in plastic and radio waves too fast for too few to notice, far less appraise or employ. Living in the echo of our shared histories – bent only on eschewing blame – even as dark fault-lines creak and fissure under their own weight, in greed… Whilst every hour, by weight, more rain falls.

  • edited (improved?) and reposted from August 2015. Here’s a morose reflection on how things are for a Tuesday evening…
Rainfall in Venice

Rainfall

Sol

Monotonous feet echo in clattering silence,
wind gorges down narrow escapes,
a can rattles towards its end,
trees rustle their dew-heavy leaves.
Dark is cast and clouds spread wide
(while a cat, somewhere screams – like a child).
The first drops are washed away
drains are soon filled by the cascades.

 

Once more down

Once more down
As romance comes around
Where bad winds blow hard
Drowning poor dogs barks

Once more down
Only noises drown
No springs bring fresh rain
Cracking dried dead drains

Once more down
Violence is still grown
Fighting spills into streets
But even tears no longer weep

 

Thunder

Thunder
Feel it from under
The crack of clouds collapsing holds your whole parched world in wonder
Pitter patter starts and mighty
Drenches all asunder
That heat that held us
Close and breathing
Hard and hot is undone
For skies, turgid with blue,
Belch forth great torrents
Drawn from under
Tonight is blown clear
Shattered by an air whom bellows
Thunder!