Rain

(Image from www.rossphillips.net)

Before tropical storm Ondoy/Ketsana gave Luzon island in the Philippines its worst flooding in memory, I had written down Rain. Whatever relation you may find in this particular verse with the storm in question is totally unintended.

Needles fall, piercing leaves
down roots of memory ghosts.
Pain, guilty moves, singling out
the skin of Avalon’s wounds.
Luck, a hook on string,
waiting for the bug
dumb to vision quest.

It doesn’t last,
this deluge refused
Nirvana’s iconoclast.
The ground still thirsts
heaven won’t fill up.
The sun doesn’t shine today,
it tires of unceasing play.

Caffeine Fix

She lives on coffee
The deep dark seas
That know no waves
She sips the foam
From surface tension
Of romance circumstanced
Skimming divine approval
For unplanned conceptions
It turned out OK
Like rum on java
Kids calling daddy papa
And you stir your cup
With a teaspoon cold
Steel on porcelain
Stares on sweaty skin
You need a glass to drink
Leave the tap open to suggestions
Let liquid fill the sink
Air turns to water
Everything swims

The Land Of Ire

The land of ire
is not far
from anywhere.
It is a word
and an act away,
at arm’s length.

It has two seasons:
warm and burning.
The devil was born
in this place;
hands curled
in a fist,
with no face.
He exults every time
someone settles
there, here.

Guilt is the only rain
allowed in the land of ire.
It is a worm gnawing
on rotting flesh on a silent battlefield.

Ballads and lyrics
like bullets litter the ground;
gestures mean,
words with no sound.