rainsong

Some people feel the rain;
others just get wet.” —Roger Miller


sweet the rain falls at my tired
feet, splish-splashing in its wake;
greetings of delight lithe bubbles,
fleeting by, leave in the lake.
brief their smiles and then they perish;
grief they cannot understand.
sadly watch i, with scant relish,
glad they die not by my hand.

water woes—tears—for some people,
laughter goes when stalwart rain
compromises humble dwellings,
harmonises with the pain
deeply etched where they have struggled,
cheaply wretched in the earth.
zinc-fence shelters where they've snuggled,
brink-tense by their peasant birth.

steep the rain falls on my castle;
deep the pain my neighbour feels.
safe inside, my children frolic;
chafed backsides, their household reels
as the bitter tears of heaven
cast the smell of death about.
lo, the rainsong gives me leaven
tho my neighbour swells with doubt!

river flowing way down yonder,
shiv’ring from rain-gutter rush,
would to God you’d drown my troubles:
good-for-nothing is the plush
evidence that once consoled me;
eloquence is fickle fame.
guile my heart has rendered carefree,
while the poor man you inflame.

weep ye no more, while some shudder,
sleep-bereft and hope-estranged.
glove your deluge, lest the hovels
of the pitiful, unchanged,
float away like helmless vessels,
boats astray on killing seas.
lave the rainsong where peace nestles,
save poor souls on bended knees!

© Copyright 2020 November 03
by Clyve A. Bowen♫