This is a poem I wrote a couple of years ago, while working at a boring hotel job, and trying to find inspiration on a super dreary rainy day.
Visions of news-spread hurricanes
light fires in my mind.
Memories of lives broken
from Mother’s daunting hand.
Washed away in one slow flow—
millions watching, unknowing,
Until they see the slow glow
from their televisions, they receive “truth”.
I slip my hand out-of-doors,
safe from Mother’s moistness.
Shelter above protects me
from cold windblown droplets.
Only the air makes it real.
No other fragrance so calming.
Flickering anecdotes from childhood past
light my forgetful spirit.
Oblivious cavorting, frolicking in bliss.
Delighted with Mother’s change in disposition.
Is the rainbow just an illusion
of sprightliness washed clean?
All my hand grasps is soft trickles of the drops,
And the brilliant rush of aliveness.
Soaking, remembering, shivering,
touching, tasting, smelling.
Infancy to demise, that single scent
always inducing nostalgia.