Poem: Red Rainy City Scenes

It all began one early morn’,

uncertain words flicker-painted,

lips in petaled covenants,



A seagull driftwood quiet scene,

leafy ambers, sand sand sand,

the distant thrum of city wheels in

rusted-umber galvanized commercial screams…


I told you of my bygone life,

sunrise-scattered, river-birthed

in phantom motions, cattail knees

both gravel-bled;


Or conversing with unknown trees,

mineral-rooted, the seconds creaking

in like summer-raining bedtime solitudes;

I thought of you…


Forgive me for this veiled dream,

lamplit, inky, rhythm-weaving –

nature mistook me for a pearl in chamomile,

what does it know?


And here you are –

a willow-star, a winter reaching for the moon,

all the while naiads playing underfoot –

I hear your heart…


Which glistens in midnight caves or oatmeal breasts,

or suitcase sweating’s, or meadowed trains,

or snorkeling coves of jellyfish in threadbare fashions

wildly tossed among the clustered desert sages…


Your radiance?

I bottled it.


’Twas then we set off on our journey’s

endless moonrises to red cities, their

pavements packing undercurrents of gangster hats,

of handsome ladies’ spirits buried behind old walls

and window verges…

We’d peel back the gas lamped streets,

our eyes awash amid the flurry;

I ran them up the concrete walls to

escape the engine noises and the rustlings

of bustling people-in-a-hurry

I took your hand in vertigo,

the city woozed, out of tune

with the recent

Noreast deluge…

We finally found our feet –

across a solid patch of firmament,

though in a caverned business district;

still the cool, but calming, rain…

We stayed the night, they closed the pubs,

the city dreamed of oceanic skies and

whooshing curbside lullabies, puddle-bound…

I led you to a city square where

tree limbs gasped for forest air;

I had a can, I left it there…

Such strength against the stormy skies,

but I can see what it espies:

the warmth between us, you and I…

We feel the movement, reach and touch its depths

out amid the very early

morning mists,

rising slow and distant, beyond

this paltry haven of

our hovering pane of glass…

Another night in red-hued cities,

the denizens, all looking smart and evening-pretty;

still the rain…

Run, Dick, Run! See Jane run!

Spot’s on fire, Sally’s lost –

she’s probably wandered to her Aunt’s

on Blue Jay Way at Second Street… Spot’s OK.

We sit and sip our cups of Joe,

peering skyward, where the rows

of ant-like people do their thing during city rains…

It’s early 3 am. and we are

driving down the Avenue,

yes, the very avenue that beckoned us

with emerald lights and mannequins selling wigs and

strings of discount Jewish jewelry…

Déjà vu… but not the same, exactly… we

both ponder, “Why?”…

Ah! The Answer: the city re-façade’s

itself from time to time…

I’ll go right, you go left,

we’ll meet back up at City Hall, and

compare our artsy photographs…

I met myself one leafy day,

a chilly, drizzling afternoon,

a heart-life waning in the gloom;

I said, “Good day,” and passed on by…

That’s it. To us?

They’re rows of red-tipped sapphire memories –

those city scenes, the men, machines,

the artificial greenery amid the loud and future ruins,

the worn, wretched bloodshot eyes

hid beneath mascara lines, quite well, in fact;

the jazzy tunes…

Yet… all I really remember is…


holding you.



an accompanying song (from my cover songs list): Beatles Medley — It’s All Too Much/Tomorrow Never Knows/Blue Jay Way/Love To You







Electronics technician. Writing Style: Unschooled. Philosophy: Humanity has a serious problem. Read the Philosophy of Broader Survival, which addresses it.

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