Book of Rain

October 14, 2019 ~ G. Paul Randall

Humidity palpates the heedless air
then, blue nits pound the city dust
and china cabinets rattle in its thrall
a piano falls out of it, a pulled
muscle, a gash in silence, the ivories are
fisted in pedal depressed clusters
divided by earth into sky
upturned at the brim of its bay
buckles the paper, warps its print

We scatter seeking cover, but
the sky is our cover, the rain covers
and rends the book of sights
now the thrill of lost footings
leaping curbside puddles
I feel suddenly late for something
and after, I cannot begin
to catalog all the sounds
now that it is quiet

This bit was started shortly after TS Imelda inundated the Upper Texas Coast with absurd amounts of rainfall, and has since been revised and rewritten, modified and culled dozens of times. Raining, as it is this morning, I had better go ahead and send it on its way. “A piano falls out of it,” was the seed that germinated.

Poetry

October 6, 2019 ~ G. Paul Randall

Here’s my idea for a poem:

Here’s the poem:

—

If we could dispense with
all this elaboration

And just transmit our ideas
directly

There’s probably a Buddhist tantra
that shows you how

And a Nihilist aphorism that
says why bother, but

Isn’t the ramshackle an honest look
at how things go ?

—

Image (1st) by Pete Linforth from Pixabay
Image (2nd) by Vicki Nunn from Pixabay

Little Done

September 21, 2019 ~ G. Paul Randall

in physics, material arises
from an energetic potential and
not the other way around

but me, I just lie here
beguiled by the fluttering
portents of hope, my mind

affixed like a wax seal
to the docket of these sly days
where much is doing, little done

the rest, unsettled, like an
almost melody when the tones
leak out of all the fickle things

Flattering

September 8, 2019 ~ G. Paul Randall

Always check that the cause of the puncture
be it a nail, a thorn, a shard of glass

An inconsiderate remark, a petty theft
a selfish motive, a hankering for revenge

Has been removed from the treads
before changing the tube. If not, the air

Of all your effort will burst and flee
with a pish and a slew, ardently pressed

To get even with your atmosphere, and
there you’ll be, a lump on the shoulder

In a cloud of gnats, that proud upper hand
grips the frame, this bicycle built for none

Your former comrade in the righteous cause
of flight and mobility, now a fanged partisan

For the higher truth of gravity, you let a
recalled sense of decency bid you be humble

Well, it’s a tough row to hoe, to walk
it all back, in the heat of disguised blessings

Image by Etienne Marais from Pixabay

I, Madness

September 1, 2019 ~ G. Paul Randall

I host little parties for
the ants and the flowers and we
talk and we talk, for hours and hours
the madness can’t vex us in the way
it does some, it follows and listens
to the songs that we hum.

And we forget everything that we
hear and we say, the minute we hear it
all giggled away, and that’s how
we roll, we won’t let a madness
become such a thing or take
hold, like a sadness.