There upon the foamy waters
boats rock with silent ease
all about reflects the sky
forget me not blue
stretches the miles.
Hushed I watch the majesty
of simple lives
Under the toil of the sun
boatmen sing their nets ashore
shimmering with life
as though the dawn itself were caught
within
a single bell, chimes skylark sweet
keeping time with the rhythm of all.
Calling home calloused hands
to pretty parlours
where rest and the devil take hold.

I am doomed to keep repeating
this hateful cycle, self defeating
bleeding red through open sores
set up to be deaths only chore.

These many coloured choking pills
that rush my blood but cure no ills
have taken hands too raw with pain
and bound them tight against the rain.

There is no finer love than this
between my soul and fires kiss
which burns my throat and scars my heart
while keeping love and life apart.

She calls on the cardinal in winter.
All that remains of reverence for a god who has gone--
And he appears to her!
A lone spark lighting the static of snowscape
Like a bolt of lightning traverses dimensions to strike a dream.
He delivers lost loved ones as she washes the dishes.
Ascension of memory is as steam on glass.
The child raises a finger and draws the sign of the cross,
And through the clarity of its lines, she sees the river change its mind,
Stop short,
Swirl in Inertia’s moment of uncertainty
Before scrambling frantically back toward its
Source.
She washes the dishes,
And watches through window of steam and snow for a sign from God.

I sip, poor
on my nepenthe
stroking skin
the glass holding poured antidote
I sip and swoon, devote
I'd swim in it
even as it takes its pities
never part with the piment
the earth stills
slows its cities
and I take a sip of him
the warmest regrets
gnaw at my regard
cathartic, quiet egress
my minds reach not so far
as to want for them again
I sip, so poor
on my nepenthe
drink 'til it pours cold
it offers up its pities
pardon any sentiment
of the sorrow it erodes
it offers up a numb
I can't deny consoles

Winter skin shivers as damp settles,
his troubled brow seeks silent shelter to sleep among demons. Triumphs and tortures muddied by time haunt the waking as they pass.
"There but for the grace of who?"
is uttered under the cross fire of blame.
Surely the grace is ours?
An outstretched hand, filthy with grief begs solace from the blind.
On his cheek a tear to shame the world.

I could miss my stop,
miss my future by a block
and change my life forever.
I could venture,
take a tour,
let you drive me gently into that good night;
or, I could dream,
my head on your shoulder,
drifting asleep while you drive.

You could meet my eyes,
watch me watching you,
in sneaky furtive glances.
You could think it too,
the many untaken chances,
and the stolen moments,
the missed connections,
life’s incomplete passes.

the pleasing rhythm of
your life entrains my heart
gives it loft
to sail above myself   that
it may die and I become alive

this is nostos
gesture to Home
greater than

this is Illich’s dying from
Death
unconditioned
unconditional
conditioned by Love

your eurythmia sails me
over the seas of
my limits
and beyond the mountains of
my intents
a realization of the loft in my soulbones
reaching up as
Love reaches down

the two meet at the
phoenix star   a
supernova from our
supernova


c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater

We were slack
desperate
so we settled
for the comfort
of our ruins

Country Cups and Picnic Races,
Welcoming smiles on rustic faces,
Bush ballads in these places,
Galloping steeds and friendly faces,
A good time is had by all, eh!
Summer race day in the country,
Galloping steeds and bush hospitality!