THROUGH THE RAIN
The wind is pilot to the clouds
dark and bruised and beetle-browed
misty hands, each reaching out
to knot the blindfold of my doubt.
I danced a ballet with the leaves
as shadows slept beneath the trees
the branches draped themselves around
wrapped with raindrops, gossamer gowns.
Someday, someday, through the rain
I think a love like lightning
emancipating my remorse
might strike the soul with vital force.
what occupies the arid streambeds of our minds
places where the effervescence
of Heaven's luminescence
should fill the valleys of the soul, reflecting
light that stirs the grass, revives the leaves, informs
the buds, awakens seeds.
Instead we smother in the dust,
the dried out remnants of fantasies,
the brittle stems and broken leaves of human remedies
the dizzy pride and heavy stride of bent philosophies.
Across the wires all I hear are cries that fall upon the ear
like children heedless of the grace at which they jeer
unconscious of the threads of time and destiny
woven through the days and nights
uncertain rhythms in our minds
deliver us to eventualities
so that the unknown becomes known
by the slow revelation of participation, the expansion of experience
the practical magic of results axiomatic flowing from truth autocratic.
What is, is not enough for me
nor you, I think we can agree.
form arduous adversities.
Why must we pretend to be
unbaffled by realities
briefly harmonized, it seems
but raveling out in darkest dreams?
Existing where existence crawls
from faultlessness to fatal flaws
between transcendence and despair
the doubt of souls in disrepair
wherein a silent testament
without our least acknowledgement
announces to the world at large
the fault lines in the heart of hearts.
Before the sun sets let me gaze
across a scenery ablaze
with light transforming every stone
each flake and rock, each crag its own
dimension of rare symmetry
expressive of a momentary
glory which can only rise
when we observe with humble eyes.