Drizzle

The muse has been muted

while we are both listening

for some reason-

we have both observed;

Profound is not discovery, 

Epiphany is no certain 

understanding-

A stumble or stall may not be accidental at all...

Just as falling drizzle drenches without a drop

so too does silence deafen without a note

left, 

in absence-

There is room for us both

to wonder, to ponder,

what comes next

reason or rhyme,

a poets musing

or the muse leaving a poem

somewhere

in this thin air...

Artwork by Richard Bergh (1858-1919), 'After the sitting' c. 1884 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Sprinkles on my Sunday

I like sprinkles on my Sunday
slathered with syrup sticky in grey
dripping in melted sleepy-eyed gloom
sliding down panes of my room.

It turns me rainbow gay
not to be taken the wrong way

In its darkness- I sneak a smile,
life agrees, Its been awhile.

The pungent scent of pavement
emitting its stench of sealed fragrant
plumes of sweat
musty and wet

Dissolving salty sugared beads
Once barren earth now growing weeds

Is it
drizzling a bit?
Was it
just some spit?

I think felt it on my nose
(I hate it squishing between my toes)

As though the leaden sky
releasing a bitter sigh
drools in premonition
soothed by heavy submission

Rushing she pushes a bitter wind
Herd and gather inside the thin-skinned

She peaks on her progress
breaking clouds to see her mess

sinister rays
threaten the sprinkly days
this restless phase
an extra scoop of praise

A hazy solemn Sunday treat
A lazy indulgent guilt free sweet
On a day of cleansing and forgiveness
Weather (or not) blessedly religious.




Image of painting by Paul Cornoyer (1864-1923), "The Plaza After Rain",[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.