Faith and Blood   Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Walking around downtown last  week, a little desperate, in fact, because I was two days behind schedule in finding the pictures I needed for this post, I ended up at the Alamo, which I have not, despite living in San Antonio for more than 20 years, visited  since I was about twelve years old,  nearly 60 years ago. I  remember being not particularly impressed, disappointed, in fact, because Fess Parker was nowhere in  sight.

The 1836 battle of the Alamo is often thought of  as the beginning of  its history when it fact it was almost its end. Essentially abandoned and neglected (a place to store hay for a while) until the twentieth century, it was rescued by Adina Emilia de Zavala and Clara Driscoll, persistent San Antonio members of The Daughters of the Republic of Texas.

This day, as I strolled the green gardens behind  the main building, I realized, from a more mature perspective then on my first visit, that I was walking on blooded grounds. I recognized for the first time that this was a battlefield, the small part mission visitors see today, as well as the much larger footprint of the  mission as it was at the time of the battle and for a hundred  years before (plans are being developed to restore that much larger footprint), and the central downtown area for several blocks around from which at the time of the siege, cannons were rifles were fired and soldiers fell, killed by fire from within the mission.

With that in mind, I decided to photograph the mission as well as the wider area around it, picturing what it is  today as I try to imagine what it was all those years  before.

It turns out that I'm not very happy with my  pictures. I went through two "special sauce" process edits trying to come up with images that spoke to my new understanding of the place. The first attempt  was not good, the second, which is what you see,  compounded the error.  This being a weekly publication, there is no time for a third swing at the ball, so you get what you get.

My anthology for the week is Shadowed Dreams, subtitled "Women's Poetry of the Harlem Renaissance." The book was published in 1989 by the Rutgers University Press.

Library poets and me, as usual, to  round out the week. More poems from me, relative to the others, than  usual. Entirely unplanned - another example of the "no  third  swing at the ball" difficulty  I've had with the post this week.

"the soul of fall"

Lillian Byrnes

you'll just have to take my word for it    

 Charles Bukowsky
the birds

a reminder

Gwendolyn  B. Bennett
Street Lamps in Early Spring

working in the trades

Jose Garcia Villa

Angelina Weld Grimke
A Mona Lisa

too much time on Facebook

Robert Lowell
For Sale

regarding evil - in a few words

Richard Brautigan
I discovered death
nothing new
the eternal she
a young man

finding the good life

"The Fall"

the strangeness of time and history

Mae V. Cowdery
Poem...for a Lover

standing for inspection

D.H. Lawrence
After the Opera

rain at midnight

wet dreams 


 Fall teases its lovers.

The title of this poem from a poem by poem-a-day housemate,  Alice Folkart.

"The Soul of Fall"
                   (thank  you Alice)

our  brief flirtation
over, autumn, a kiss  in the night,
came and went
over  the weekend

today, Monday,
temperatures back in the 90s
and still dry

but the kiss lingers
in the dim morning,  promising,
any night soon,
more kisses

I lie in my bed
ready to dream again,
ready to wake
in the orange light of fall


First from  this week's anthology, a poem by Lillian Byrnes. Information on the poet is not included in the back of the book,  nor could I find anything on the web specific to her. However, I did find a copy of the cover of the magazine, The Crisis, May, 1929, in which this poem appeared.

The character in the poem reminds me of some of the folks I knew growing up who would go to the traveling tent revival on Saturday night and be "saved." Rarely lasted more that a couple of weeks, but that was okay,  there was always another revival  coming  to town soon.


He takes his love much as he takes his wine;
He does not sip or taste,
Or gaze upon its  long imprisoned sunshine -
He gulps.
Men must perforce get drunk;
It is written somewhere.

And having  been drunk,
He curses the wine for being red,
The love for being passion,
Ensnaring him.

Sober and repentant  and miserable,
He makes resolutions against wine and love;
So that when he indulges in either,
He can fall -
As people ought who so indulge;
And feel as people ought
About it afterward.

Then he is Puritan.

Or he is lusty, male, resplendent,
Knowing that he  should sin
On general principles.
He tosses away the empty glass
Satiate and comfortable,
He consigns the harlot,love,
To her fixed domain of the senses -
Then his is the "Great Blond Beast."


Here's a poem from September, 2012, documentation that I am truly  an important personage.

you'll just have to take my word  for it

I will do
important things today

I  do not  know
what they will be,
that they will be important
because I will do  them

will not recognize the importance
of  these things I will  do
either before or after
I do  them

it's  a vision
the knack I have for recognizing
the importance of things I, in my well documented
to do

just  have to take my word
for it...


meanwhile, at booth across the room,
sits the chipmunk looking fellow
that I hated on sight
when he sat
with his snarkle snarkle
in the booth in front of mine
six months 

I discover
distance does not make the heart
grow fonder

I can hear  his snarkle snarkle
from  here - what a
even  with his snarkle
chipmunk face


two guys sit together
in the booth
on the other side of the table
a big-bosomed girl
in a gray sweater and blue jeans

neither fella
wants to be sitting
where they're sitting, both
greatly preferring
to sit next to the pretty girl,
very close to the
pretty girl,
hands in undisclosed locations

what can you do?

it's 8 a.m. and it's a business meeting
and she's the boss

for a whole  new cache
of questionable imagining,
firing offenses
each and


the fellow
over there blows his nose
like he's afraid
it's going to fall off

I've had days like that...

a delicate  picker
must like


reassurance -

none of the above
is the important stuff
I'm  going to do

too  bad that
you won't read about it
in the paper
tomorrow, since it's  all
me and Rosa
in the backseat
of my '49 Plymouth...

you'll have to take my word


First from my library this week, the master of straight-at-you, Charles Bukowski. The poem is from his book The Flash of Lightning Behind the Mountain, one of many published after his death, this one by Harper Collins in 2004.

the birds

the acute and terrible air hangs with murder
as summer birds mingle in the branches
and warble
and mystify the clamor of the mind;
the old parrot
who never talks,
sits thinking in  a Chinese laundry,
there is red on his wind
where there should be green,
and between us
the recognition of
an immense and wasted life. 2nd wife left me
because I set our birds free;
one yellow, with crippled wing
quickly going down and to the left,
cackling like an organ;
and the other,
mean green,
of empty thimble head,
popping up like a rocket
high into the hollow sky,
disappearing like sour love
and yesterday's desire
and leaving me

and when my wife
returned that night
with her bags and plans,
her tricks and shining greeds,
she found me
glittering over a yellow feather
seeking out the music
which she,
failed to hear.

Also, the book is divided into four parts. Each part has a couple of lines of introduction which I assume are  excerpted from a poem in that section of the book, each one an essence of Hank Chanaski.

Part 1

I watch the old ladies
in the supermarket,
angry and alone.

Part 2

bone-dead sorrows
like starfish washed ashore

Part 3

death will come on padded feet
carrying roses in its mouth

Part 4

why do we kill all those christmas trees just
to celebrate one birthday?       


 Seasons come and go and, like all that lives, we must adjust our expectations.

a reminder

driving back
from  out trip  south yesterday,
most of the way,
part of the way so heavy,
it forced me to drive 40 miles per hour on the interstate,
unable to see more than
two car-lengths 

but in San Antonio
the dry dome of death
barely enough rain
to  settle the dust...


I  stayed a good part of the night
waiting on my patio
to watch the rain I knew
couldn't be more than minutes away...

disappointment -
but not this morning...

still dry
but 65 degrees and a brisk north wind
blowing cold on my bare head
as I walk Bella...

a seasonal reminder,
special for woolly caterpillars
and me...

time to grow some hair

Next from the anthology, I have this short, very lovely, poem by Gwendolyn B.  Bennett. Born in 1902 in tiny Giddings, Texas, she grew up  in cosmopolitan Washington D.C. and Brooklyn, her father a lawyer and her mother a teacher. After receiving an fellowship to study painting in Paris in 1925, she returned to her career as an assistant professor at Howard University. Her career was cut short when she was fired by the University in 1927 for marrying a medical student, a professor/student relationship prohibited. She moved to Florida with her new husband and taught high school and abandoned her creative work. Later,  after her husband died, she  remarried and moved to Pennsylvania where she and her husband ran an antique shop until her death in 1981.

This poem was originally published in Opportunity in 1926.

Street Lamps in Early Spring

Night wears a garment
All velvet soft,all violet blue...
And over her face she draws a veil
As shimmering  fine as floating dew...
and here and there
In the black of her hair
The subtle hands of night
Move  slowly with their green-starred light.


I've done lots of different work, none of it very well before I had a chance to sit and talk  to people. I  did that real well. This is from September, 2012.

working in the trades

of construction,
nail guns
like AK-47s. tattattattattattat.
nothing like the sound
of individual carpenters swinging
by hand their individual


I have three
hammers, I love the feel of them,
weighted toward the head-end, the power
of a swing multiplied,
the joy of a
hammer driving
a nail
into virgin lumber,
for me,
the more useful feature
of the hammer,  the claw opposite
the head that I use to pull
the two our of three
nails that bend
and turn  crooked as I swing
with all my  misdirected intent...


a roof-sitting side-legged
on the roof,each shingle, its
thing side carefully
under the thick side of the one above
to insure  against leaks,
(or maybe it was the other way
around, thick end up - it's
been a long time 50-55 years,
so perhaps I should not room again
without close supervision),
each row of shingles
and complete, each row
a beacon of useful work accomplished...


I learned once
how to make construction blocks
out of compacted mud
and straw - then visited a country,
a city surrounded by mountains
slopes where such houses
were built, where annual monsoon rains
melted the homes of the people
on the mountainside,  sent them washing
in muddy streams through the streets
of the city


a good cook adheres
to his recipes,  a good mason
does the same - I am neither a
good cook or a good mason,
and imprecise
as in my poetry, each mix
of sand and cement
and water
an exercise in improvisation,
so my concrete
in the sun, melts
in the rain


the smell of hot tar,
shiny black liquid in its
fire pot -
if it's your neighbor's roof
being fixed, oh,well,
if it's yours


electric  power line
hardhats, heavy leather belts
swung low from hips,
linemen up top,
"grunts" down below,
"headache" yelled from above
means duck and cover,
something heavy's coming down...


the art and technique
of manipulating a shovel,
taught to me
by a man three times
than me who dug four holes
to my one


the lesson
from my time in the
construction trades -
life  favours those
who know what they're doing,
but the rest of us sometimes have

My next library poems are by  Jose Garcia Villa, from his book Selected Poems and New, published by McDowell, Obolensky Inc. in 1958. Born in 1908, Villa was a Filipino poet, literary critic, short story writer and painter, and recipient of the National Artist of the Philippines title in 1973. He died in 1997.

I selected two pages from the book at random, with three poems from the 245 (numbered) in the book.


Now that now
You are truer old
Time to learn to bow
Time to learn to hold

Self in homage,
Time to know to burn
With purer rage
Time to know  to  scorn

Unself in any place
In any when, in any with.
Time to unveil the face
Of the unknown pith:

Time to claim its grace
Time to confront this Face.


Does a mirror forget?
I believe it  does not.
I believe  a mirror will not forget
If you come to it superb .
 Clear gaze of mirrors
Towards the gaze of God:
As the waters of Galilee
Upholding the superb Feet.


A wall is History.
I say, Illuminate this
To see Who hang there.
Their  Instantness never will cease.

Not to see in not to unsee them.
The not-seer cannot unmake.
Sweet, murdered stars
Upon the solid black stake

Drift history immortalward.
Extension of the Wall
Is due in every Now.
Otherwise the Fire will fall.


I haven't had a chance for one of my drive-arounds in a couple of  years. Sure miss  it.

I'll  be watching for you

I  love to drive

even going  to places I've been before,
finding new  ways to get

seeing what  there is to see,
to take-in a closer  look
at a tree, blazing in autumn colors,
or grand vistas
from crooked narrow mountain roads, or
a tiny side road to get to
something seen in the distance,
like an iron railroad bridge
somewhere in Arizona,
bright red,  about a quarter mile
off the highway, nestled
between hills,
seen clearly from the road,
but never found, settling
for a jack rabbit in a field beside the road,
standing tall  on his haunches,
ears like furred yardsticks,
exposing the flag of his soft pink inner  ear,
posing for me while I find my camera...

so much to see, forests, mountains cresting
before a blue horizon,
animals on hillsides, grazing, little farmhouses,
a cemetery in Tennessee,
white stone
climbing a the side of a green hill
beside a tall-steepled


Dee wants to go someplace
and do  something;
I want to go someplace
and sit  and watch the different world
I've come to, the different
people who  live in that world
and who, under closer inspection,
not so different as from far  away, 
you might imagine


four great places for sidewalk sitting
and people seeing...

Santa Fe, New Mexico
Durango, Colorado
San Antonio Riverwalk...

I'll be watching for you
next time  I'm

Next from the Shadowed Dreams anthology, here is poet Angelina Weld Grimke.

A journalist, teacher, playwright and poet, she was born in  1880, daughter of the second African-American to  graduate from Harvard and on of the first African-American woman to have a play publicly performed. She died in 1958.

Her poem first appeared in Caroling Dusk, an anthology of black poets published in 1927.

A Mona Lisa


I should like to creep
Through the long brown grasses
    That are your lashes;
I should like to poise
    On the very brink
Of the leaf-brown pools
    That are your eyes;
I should like to cleave
    Without a sound,
Their glimmering waters,
    Their unrippled waters;
I should like to sink down
    And down
        And down...
            And deeply drown.


Would I be more than a bubble breaking?
    Or an ever-widening circle
    Ceasing  at  the marge?
Would my white bones
    Be the only white bones
Wavering back and  forth, back and forth
    In their depths?


Two years since I wrote this and, if anything, it's even worse.

too much time on Facebook

too much time
on Facebook...

my god, the
lies and lies and lies -
what chance for the future
does a culture have
when facts have become lies
created for political
when up is down
if it suits your purpose,
when black is white
and partisan can blame the
tragic depletion
of white
on political  opponents

what do we do
when facts are captured
by possessive pronouns,
"my facts" versus "your facts,"
when facts are presumed
to  take sides,
and, by go, when they don't
take the right side
we'll just toss them out,
make some new ones that better serve us

how can we survive in a world
where people  can
so hate
that they blind themselves to all conflicting truth
and find pride in their ignorance,
like people who so hate rain
they will  not
acknowledge the rising  waters;  people
who would rather
drown than admit  the wet...


this morning,
too much time on Facebook
where the inmates
having overpowered their institutional
roam free
and unfettered  in fantasies of their own creation...

if this is the  future
I don't think
I  like it

Next, Robert  Lowell, from  Robert  Lowell, published by Faber & Faber in 2001.

I include  Lowell because he is considered such a giant in the poetry world, even though I don't like him and don't  know why. Possible because, like Bly, of his insipid, self-righteous, and self-aggrandizing anti-war poems of the sixties and because it occurs  to me that academics hiding out in universities should not write war poems, for or against.

For Sale

Poor sheepish plaything,
organized with prodigal animosity,
lived in just a year -
my Father's cottage at Beverly Farms
was on the market the month he died.
Empty, open, intimate,
its town-house furniture
had an open tiptoe air
of waiting for the mover
on the heels of the undertaker.
Ready, afraid
of living alone till eighty,
Mother mooned in a window,
as if she had stayed on a train
one stop past her destination.


The moon is muffled behind a ledge of cloud,
briefly douses in bonfire on the harbor...
Machiavelli despised those spuriously fought
Italian mounted-mercenary battles;
Corinthian tactics, Greek met Greek; on death,
he died of a stroke, but not the stroke of battle.
The Italians were not diehards even for peace -
our police hit more to terrorize  than kill'
clubs break and minds, women hosed down stairs -
am I crippled for life? ... A cow has guts,
screwed, she lives for it as much as e,
a three-day mother, then a working mother;
the calf goes to the calfpool ... When their barn has been
cows will look into the sunset and tremble.


ISIS, of course, makes us  think about evil, but it is just one manifestation of what always was, is, and will be. The question, when it shows its head, as it always will, is what to  do about it. But that's a question that no few words can answer.

regarding evil - in a few words

people speak
of defeating evil

but evil  is part of  us
and cannot be defeated,
only constrained
until it rises
in all of its varied forms

a Pandora's box
opened from the inside...

the Devil made  us do it
we say,
but the Devil is our creation
and cannot make us do 
that is not in our nature


we are the Creator,
both prince and victim of all
we create, the Evil Angel,
forever lurking
behind the smiles of out better  twin...


Next from this weeks anthology of women's poetry of the Harlem Renaissance, here's a short poem by  Dorothea Matthews.

Although I could find nothing on the poet, I did find  a cover of the magazine this poem was published in. This issue, July, 1926. Her poem was published in the magazine's April, 1928, issue.

The Lynching

He saw the rope, the moving mob,
And suddenly thought of quiet things;
The way the river-ripples sob,
The silver flight of pigeon's wings
Free in the blue September air;
And that the night was warm and brown -
Under the trees the shadows hung;
The little stars of God looked down.


 I'm up early every morning because I just can't see lying in bed and missing the most  glorious part of the day. This poem  from September,  2012.

morning call

gem on gem...
full-bright diamond
on a turquoise sky

as the flaming ruby
on the east horizon

new day
old night
out world 
the birds
to rise
and sing

and you as well,
a new-day morning
calls all
daybright's creatures
to rise and sing

and sing
with the east-burning fire
as the bright goddess of the  west

made for you and me
if only we gather our arms
and take it

Next, by Richard Brautigan, several short poems from The Edna Webster Collection of Undiscovered  Writings - Richard Brautigan. The book was published in 1999 by Houghton Mifflin Company. Best known for Trout Fishing in America, these are  from Brautigan's early work, before his subsequent fame.

I discovered death

in life
I discovered
that I
was going
to die.

It did not
bother me
at all.

in life
I discovered
what dying meant.

was a dirty deal.


I remember
a very beautiful,
quite proper
young woman
a fart
that sounded
a gunshot


Lonny is
two years old.

she and I

I didn't know
what she was
whispering about,
and she didn't
know what I was
whispering about.

We whispered
very softly,
and acted as if
we understood
each other

nothing new

is nothing new
under the sun
you and me

the eternal she

I gave
a girl my soul.

She looked at it.

Smiled faintly.

And dropped
it into the gutter.


God!  she had class.

a young man

Surely goodness
and mercy
shall follow me
all the days
of my life,
and I will dwell
in the house
of the Lord
forever,  if the
rent isn't too high


A poem  extrapolated from  a couple of memories, many years apart. Different times, different  places, different cows.

finding the good life

the brush country
between Sarita and Falfurrias,
a path through the tight-packed
cactus and mesquite
on the other side of the fence

a cow path
about fifteen cows
after a day's grazing,
following the boss-cow
who knows when and where to go
and how to  get there

homeward bound for  dinner,
a drink,
and a good night's sleep
before called back to duty in the early


of  Soledad and Main,
about 15 cars
in a line, waiting for the boss-light
to turn green,  give them
the go-ahead home, dinner,
a drink,TV, and, if it's Thursday,
the possibility of sex
before sleep,
dreams of the early morning
alarm,signaling return
to duty,
grazing in the pastures
of middle age

seeking  the good life,
their place
amongst the


three cows
on a high ridge, graze, silhouetted
against a rising sun

finding the good life...


The  problem with writing in public places, sights and sounds that overcome all plans. Another poem from September, 2008.

The Fall

a pretty standard old man,
a little  taller  than most,
but still,
the straw hat, the loose hanging
faux leather jacket,
the clatter of pills in his coat pocket
when he stood up, a pretty standard old man,
much like me, except I don't wear straw  hats and
I don't have a faux leather jacket and I
wouldn't wear it even this late in the summer
if I did and I leave my pills on a kitchen
shelf at home so the pocked of the coat
I don't  wear wouldn't  rattle
with pills
other than that
we could be twins,
that pretty standard old man
and me


but I digress,
even before I start  I digress
because the standard old man  almost like me,
sitting in front of me at the diner,
was just a target of opportunity, not the intended target
for this morning's  poem
which is  about standing in my backyard
at 5:15 this morning when  the first cool breeze
of autumn  cracked the back
of summer,  the endless season too long  lingering, finally set  aside
for a day and night or two under the whisper
of wind-rustled trees and the bamboo chimes hanging
from those same trees, clock-a-clock, clock-a-clock, they sing
in their hollow-cane way, their sound
a welcome  to the north-smelling morning...

I  throw wide my arms
and embrace the beginning of the beginning
of a new season change


that was supposed to be my poem this morning,
until the standard old man
almost like me
jumped the line,
with this straw hat and faux leather coat
and pill-rattling pocket
pushed ahead,
as if to  remind that autumn,
though welcomed for its  fresh, cool nights,
is  still sometimes called
"The Fall"


 Walking around downtown looking for pictures, ended up at a place I hadn't visited in more than 50 years.

the strangeness of time and history

and tourists
roam the back grounds
of the Alamo,
tourists along the curved sidewalks
that weave around and under
the huge oak trees
up and down which scurry
the squirrels

even though I've lived in the city
for twenty years, it's been at  least 50
since I've visited the shrine
of Texas independence, the Spanish mission,
one of five by the river
that, for a hundred years
before the battle that made
a new republic, served the religious needs
of  Indians come down from the
hard-scrabble hills
for safety from more war-like marauders,
come to this and the other missions
where they learned masonry and farming
and the sacred rites demanded
by the one true God of the Spanish priests...

being there to take pictures,
I did not go into the shrine, stayed outside
with the skittery squirrels and meandering visitors,
finding again how beautiful was the lush green garden
in the middle of the city...


ten blocks from my car,
sitting on a stone bench among the trees
when the storm  came,  soaking
in the cool rain and the quiet atmosphere
where heroes, Texian and Mexican,
spilled their precious blood as history ragged
around them...

they were here, died here,
and now I am too
and I am struck by the strangeness of time
and history and
the affairs of heroes,squirrels,
and vacation-clad tourists

Here's another poem from this week's anthology - this one by Mae V. Cowdery.

Born in 1909 in Philadelphia, Cowdery was highly popular and very well regarded by her contemporaries. She was one of the few women of her generation to bring out a volume of her own book. Despite this and her general popularity, she dropped out of sight in 1936 and died by suicide in 1953.

I could find no picture of the poet, but I did find this very small image of  her book, We Lift Our Voices and  Other Poems.

Poem ... for a Lover

I would give you
The blue-violet  dreams
Of clouds ... forgotten
And left to grow old
In the sky.

I would give you
The dew-drenched hope
Of flowers ... forgotten
By a long dead lover
And left in a garden to die.

But you have no need
Of my meager gifts
With your gay little songs
And lips ... redder
Than bitter-sweet berries
Left on a leafless bush
by the frost ...


 I always try to make the best of what ever trying  circumstance I find myself  in. This is another poem from  September 2012.

standing for inspection

I think
some people just don't
how tough it is
to be the stay-at-home spouse

for example,
when my wife took out to work
this morning, she left behind
two big bunches of grapes
with a note telling me to get the washed
before she got home because
she was going to make  a special
fruit  salad...

and, let me tell you,
it wasn't easy - the damn grapes
kept  rolling off  the table
and I'd have to chase them
across the floor
before the cat, who thought
this was  a really great new  game
she had just invented, go to them...

but I'm not one to give up
so even though it took me half a day,
I  got the job done
and all those rotund little devils
I had to chase all around the floor
are properly lined up in their dress purples,
spit shinned and ready for

and I'm really feeling good
about myself


Here's my last piece this week from my library. The poem is by D. H. Lawrence and it's from the book,  D. H. Lawrence - Selected Poems. The book is a Penguin Classic first published in 1972, with my edition coming out in 1986.

After the Opera

Down the stone stairs
Girls with their large eyes wide with tragedy
Lift looks of shocked and momentous emotions up at me.
And I smile.

Stepping like birds with their bright and pointed feet
Peer anxiously forth, as if for a boat to carry them out of the
And among he wreck of he theatre crowd
I sand and smile.

They take tragedy so becomingly.
Which pleases me.

But when I meet the weary eyes
The reddened aching eyes of the bar-man with thin arms,
I am glad to go back where I came from.


The first signs of seasonal change, but so  slow incoming, a poem from two years ago.

rain at midnight

at midnight
so soft in the dark
defying gravitational
concepts like

like leaves
drifting to the
in the  cool, wet breeze
of autumn arriving

a  Greyhound bus
at  a small, prairie-town
bus station,
a long and lonely
before the first  orange
of sunrise
breaks the flat horizon...


headlights break the desolate

Last for the week, a poem about, well, dreams of wet. Sometimes it's discouraging. Everyone who has read this poem has misread it, even after I changed the title to make it even clearer that I was talking about rain dreams, not a rain event. Leaves me wondering if I was too clever in my analogy or not clever enough.

But then, I've always said a poem belongs to the  reader, not to the poet who wrote  it. So I guess  just have to accept  the poem  everyone is reading and put the one I wrote out of my mind.

wet dreams

the rumble of thunder
and the flare of lightning
on the  horizon

the deep, sky-cracking roar
as  lightning arcs to the ground,
sizzles the  air, ozone  smell blowing in
with rain through the crack
under the door, drops the size of marbles
thwacking the roof, hitting the street, splashing up
like a  meteor strike on the ocean

front yard flooded, the creek up
and racing toward the sea,
cars  awash with over-the-top splashes
as  they collide with standing water...


who needs midnight sex within the gossamer visions of  sleep
when there are rain-dreams
drought-stricken sleepers
like me

As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and to me.

  As always, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad)

New Days & New Ways

Places and Spaces

Always to the Light

Goes Around Comes Around

Pushing Clouds Against the Wind

And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio

Seven Beats a Second

Short Stories

Sonyador - The Dreamer


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Loch Raven Review
Mindfire Renewed
Holy Groove Records
Poems Niederngasse
Michaela Gabriel's In.Visible.Ink
The Blogging Poet
Wild Poetry Forum
Blueline Poetry Forum
The Writer's Block Poetry Forum
The Word Distillery Poetry Forum
Gary Blankenship
The Hiss Quarterly
Thunder In Winter, Snow In Summer
Lawrence Trujillo Artsite
Arlene Ang
The Comstock Review
Thane Zander
Pitching Pennies
The Rain In My Purse
Dave Ruslander
S. Thomas Summers
Clif Keller's Music
Vienna's Gallery
Shawn Nacona Stroud
Beau Blue
Downside up
Dan Cuddy
Christine Kiefer
David Anthony
Layman Lyric
Scott Acheson
Christopher George
James Lineberger
Joanna M. Weston
Desert Moon Review
Octopus Beak Inc.
Wrong Planet...Right Universe
Poetry and Poets in Rags
Teresa White
Camroc Press Review
The Angry Poet