The greatest gift of all is to bear the pain
of your loved ones wihtout breaking and
as frightening might be that pain will make
you feel stronger to stand for them and
selflessly grant them comfort.

the soul sometimes gets
drifted into a soulbank
gets piled on top
of other drifted souls
awaiting the next
dance with
what they love
to be embraced by the
universe and
waltzed or
tangoed or
salsa’d
into Love

patience is faith and
faith is trust in
the drift


c. 2107 Roberta Compton Rainwater

Yes, I screamed
Between mothering thighs
Emerging into light,

Masked man wielding
Forceps.

Yes I screamed against
The coming of light and,

Ageing now in
Deepest night,
Yearning for the
Dying of all light-

Amniotic fluid

Of

The


Dark.

My brain is a locked door
and I've misplaced the keys.
Nothing will go in and
nothing substantial will come out.
I've knocked and I've rung,
but all to no avail.
The only response is the letterbox
hurling out junk mail
and words I've used before.

the poetry gene
a stylus into wax
from bird feather quill
and fountain pen
typewriter clack, clack, clack
to computer key board
silent poetry.

Clatter clutter on the pave, feet on the run
furrowed brows faces grave, life is no fun
home to work work to home, time is so mean
to and fro on the track, heads in a spin.

Red for the pedestrian, green for the car
quicker may save the day, sights are a blur
conspires the digit light, ticks ever slow
holds up adds to fright, the cruel red glow.

Just on the other side, a few blocks more
you are late again, ears hear the roar
had they only known, the hurdles on the way
the daily mad struggle, to save the day's pay.

The road is clear now, on a quick glance
here's the time to move, grab the prized chance
clatter clutter on the pave, feet on the run
blood spreads on the tar, redder in the sun.

in the hall, I listen as she calls out
his name

not aware I am there,
nor would she care

if I open the door without making
a sound,

I purloin a few seconds to watch her
before she sees me

when her eyes catch mine,
she looks away

the morning sun makes a sympathetic effort
to light our room

"our" room which from which I have
been excommunicated

the drapes she sewed only last summer
are never open

that is her world, staring through
baby blue curtains

which mute the half light of morning,
though not enough

not enough to blind her to the spot
where her son's crib waited

until I committed the unpardonable
sin of taking it to the cold cellar

only a fortnight after our stillborn child
was placed in the ground