In bed, bathed, and…
The rain is coming down again
Slopping down the roof outside my window

That’s all it’s done in days
And all today it has come down
In its enclosing wetness

At least I am in bed
Propped up comfortably by pillows
Listening to it as it splinters

To all its different timbres of tone and syncopation
To the rush of the stream down the drainage
Wearing away a narrow gully

One drop a TICK,
Then the other, a TOCK
Glad I wasn’t in the day’s THICK,
Under my blanket I am safely TUCK.

Away from the day’s HASSLES
Some I know will be in this rain, hmmm! HUSTLES!
What choice do they have against survival’s TUSSLES?
They are deeply engaged in what life throws to them as BATTLES

Well, I can’t blame the weather for any REASON
This rain has every right, it’s its SEASON
Soft sounds, swift air whistling, some gentle BREEZING
I just hope I don’t get up here again, heavily SNEEZING

Anyway, let me keep watching and MUSING.

And while I listen thought begin to form
I contemplate the goodness of God in sending us rain
As nothing teaches the abundance of God better than this.

Though He has given us mighty oceans and seas
Still He sends us waters from Heaven’s corridor
And by these waters the Earth yields of her fullness

I contemplate the Wisdom of God in the Universality of water
How that no matter how dead when water comes life begins
So I celebrate the life that this rain will birth for it’d be glorious

Then I see people skedaddle furiously by in the hazy showers
And I wonder why they won’t sit still and enjoy the rain
As rivulets of water in magnificent descent wet our dry and parched land

Well run around if you must, your troubles ain’t mine to bear
As for me I’d enjoy this rain, its wetness and cold in my room
Clutching my mug of coffee; listening to the rain; anticipating the advent of new life

The thunder rumbles
To give the accomplice signs
For the birth of rain..

Hermaphrodic Tears…
To you all, my Muse will sing: Come
Its hermaphroditic sound to you is music in the torridity of your mute docile pillows.

This song drenches them on the streets
In the angry torrents of his flood
Frenetically folding feeble fenders of tag liners.

The tag liners of this world are without a bed.
They line in unsheltered rows
Open to the mixed mercies of the rain and its makers;
Today mercy comes,
Tomorrow’s doldrums.

Rain, the necessary tears of heaven!
Shed it on us and we paint equality;
Tear it down and incarnate the “muscled stomachs” and the “boughed” fists.
Twist their heinous wrists
With your wanton stroke.