Of That Ilk

From the beginning

kindred voices whisper

between words.

Sea through the windows.

Landlocked roots.

You reel me in without a net.

Gently unhook.  For keeps.

Channels pulse an ancient beat,

deeper in your eyes than blue.

I have been away too long.

Ancestors line the shore.

One of them points―

"Your man over there"

I take him literally.

They applaud as rain.

Rush of belonging sweeps

stronger than a tailwind.

I grasp your arm

to keep from flying―

put me down!

Look at my pale feet

unearthed from nowhere,

still covered in grubs.

I dig in my heels.
Spread my toes like fins.

tk/May 2015

Lovely retro-esque read by R.A.D. ...

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group.

Foxed

Someone made a wish,

pressed a flower,

left a tear on the page,

below trees

slashed with names,

hearts cut in bark.  Splashed

river water.  Catfish.  

Cat hair.  Dog-eared.

Pocked yellow pencil.  Scribbles.

Foxed.  Cough in a concert, a kiss.

A single glove.

Cigarette ash dropped

Hansel & Gretel style

up frayed steps

to a lover's room.

Wood sighs.  Sheets twist.  

Sock with a hole.  Rain.

Mud.  Drainpipes.

Brave earthy things.  You.  

Damp.  Preferably mellow,

a little bit worn.

tk/July 2014


Lovely mellow read by R.A.D. Stainforth ...

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group. 

Leatherlips Curse

Time for the Annual Muirfield Memorial PGA Golf Tournament in my neck of the woods. It is said that Jack Nicklaus built his course on Wyandot Indian burial grounds, and that the tournament is cursed by Chief Leatherlips. It is certainly peculiar that every year, golfers and spectators are drenched with pounding rain. Could it be that Central Ohio just gets a lot of rain this time of year? Possibly. 

  

Leatherlips

Wyandot warrior 

There were signal trees,

bent, tied as sapling maples,

marking the sacred burial ground

of the Wyandot.

They grew into silent curled trunks,

respected by the Sells brothers

and their settlers;

words were their bond.

Two hundred years later:

no one remembers.

The chief sings a valedictory chant,

song of the living dead,

laughs as he calls wind from the Scioto,

rain to avenge his people.

Strident golfers run for cover

in shiny Range Rovers;

spectators under umbrellas

watch torrents of answered prayer. 

tk/May 2014



Masterfully read by R.A.D. Stainforth... 

Feather

I watch the sky,

listen for you in the wind,

shake out my hair, open my shirt,

let rain have its way.

Shy clouds cover their eyes.

I pick up a pleasurable stone,

one you might choose to skip;

suck April from it,

taste distant fault lines,

hold it in the roof of my mouth.

I find a lone feather,

think how it floated down,

like a sleek ghost

from something wild, airborne.

Looks right in my hair.

I wait for light to change,

this stubborn season to end,

for a massive earthquake

to come to my assistance.

tk/April 2014 

Delicious read by R.A.D. Stainforth... 

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group

Rain

R.A.D. Stainforth contemplates a walk in the rain

It's the way droplets

pause on your face,

how your neck looks,

tempest with a seaweed

of rain-soaked hair;

because your clothes,

drenched against innocent form,

beg to be peeled away.

Walk with me today ―

embrace global warming,

get crazy Waterworld-wet,

lap waves of kisses,

let them flood between;

drink resplendent,

play dead, drown, 
float, until we 
are no longer thirsty.

tk/October, 2012


Join The Mag creative writing group.

thunder in my hair

A thrill of thunder in my hair:

Though blackening clouds be plain,

Still I am stung and startled

By the first drop of the rain:

Romance and pride and passion pass

And these are what remain.

― G.K. Chesterton (and me)

rain today at Willow Manor

Intermittent

R.A.D. Stainforth in his rainy black and white world...

My favorite you
is rain-splotched
from a long walk home.

You're shy, just bad-tempered enough
to refuse an umbrella or car.

At the center of my heart, I listen 
for the hydroplane of your shoes in the hall.

I anticipate the underwater look in your eyes,
your full damp-wool embrace,

the scent of your hair
in my face,
like an expensive hand-rolled Cuban cigar.

tk/June 2012

Puddle, 1952, M. C. Escher

Join The Mag creative writing group.

rain

Why does the rain make us feel so romantic and strange? Maybe it's the fact that we are unnatural spectators of it, from inside our homes, and it is a reminder that we have the power to live our whole lives like this, if we choose. It's not the smell of fertile ground kicked up by raindrops, or the slick leaves, or the way we must amplify our voices to be heard over this larger presence. It's the power of the rooftop that makes us want to fuck under it.

― Amelia Gray, AM/PM


photo: rain at Willow Manor this morning

come back

come back 
believer in shade 
believer in silence and elegance 
believer in ferns 
believer in patience 
believer in the rain

― W.S. Merwin ... and me


believer in moss ... (my addition)




image: Mossy Roof, Abandoned Ohio, Dublin