r 1d
Tonight Hunraqan
roams the night
lifting the shroud
of dark clouds
so the moon can peek
down  on my long dreams
of water, and the mystery
of sleep; I am tranquil
one eye open, thankful
for the respite of brief light
while somewhere a plank
floats east to the Atlantic
carrying a forgotten book
of the K'iche' Maya language
with my name inscribed
just inside, I sigh, oh why
heart of my sky, why?
Wikipedia:  Huracan[1] (/ˈhʊrəkən, ˈhʊrəˌkɑːn/; Spanish: Huracán; Mayan languages: Hunraqan, "one legged"), often referred to as U K'ux Kaj, the "Heart of Sky",[2] is a K'iche' Maya god of wind, storm, fire and one of the creator deities who participated in all three attempts at creating humanity.[3] He also caused the Great Flood after the second generation of humans angered the gods. He supposedly lived in the windy mists above the floodwaters and repeatedly invoked "earth" until land came up from the seas.*
r 2d
Although I can’t prove it,
I think most poets work
for FEMA, writing good
lines on the side of homes.

This poem is asleep, so
don’t yell at it, waking it up;
leave it alone letting it dream.
;).  Coming Thursday to your Mobile Phones, like it or not:

"Presidential Alert: THIS IS A TEST of the National Wireless Emergency Alert System. No action is needed."

No action needed, this is ONLY a test.  Yep. Just ask the good people of Puerto Rico.   Wonder where the all  CAPS idea came from?
r 3d
Last night
a mournful air,
slow and tuned
with grief,
carried the sun
somewhere
out of sight,
like a thief,
dreams spun
until darkness
hid them inside
his wet, worn
black torn shirt

I awoke thirsty
with a start,
thinking this
is the reason
for whiskey,
not water:

Hurricane season,
drowned sorrows,
young daughters
and sons gone
missing, along
with their fathers
the lost fishermen

Hurting widows
searching
the wind-blown
docks perching
like strange birds
from the island
now inland, the dead
wood of their eyes
stacked against them.
The small, unincorporated fishing village of Sneads Ferry, NC, located near New River Inlet between New Bern and Wilmington seems to have gotten lost in the news, though the strongest winds, storm surge, and now feet of rain have left it nearly decimated. It’s been a fishing village since the early 1700’s, and has survived worse.. The Ferry, as we call it, will survive this storm, too.  Keep the good folks of Sneads Ferry in your thoughts.
r 6d
It was a slow rainy day
down at the Double Drop D
I was taking a smoke break
watching the weather on TV

The band on the jukebox was playing
an old favorite of mine
and the words the man was saying
took me back in time

Long as I remember
the rain been coming down,
Clouds of mys'try pouring
confusion on the ground


The new girl, Florence was dancing
I liked the way she spun around
like the storm that was advancing
while all the boys gathered 'round

Good men through the ages,
trying to find the sun;
and I wonder, still I wonder,
who'll stop the rain


When the song was over
and Florence gathered her clothes
I strolled over like a bad dog Rover
and ask if she'd do one more

Heard the singers playing,
how we cheered for more
The crowd had rushed together,
trying to keep warm


She looked me in my eyes,
gave me a peck on the cheek
and said, Boss, that ain't my style
now be a good boy and go
buy this bad-assed girl a drink

Still the rain kept pouring,
falling on my ears; and I wonder,
still I wonder, who'll stop the rain.


For Sjr1000, and in remembrance of Creeker, the dreamer of the Double Drop D.  

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1542136/cinnamon-girl/

*"Who'll Stop the Rain", John Fogerty, originally recorded by Creedence Clearwater Revival for their 1970 album Cosmo's Factory.
Stay safe, coastals.
r Sep 8
In silent repose
I watch her
holding the pose
above me, my mistress
the moon, up there
in the nest of the Phoenix
while I lie here, hard
planks of my deck
leaving me scratched
all bloody and raw,
flat on my back far below.
r Sep 6
Sometimes I come to
while the moon is still up
i have been dreaming
way into the night
of a sad woman
in the corner of my room
sitting at a loom
weeping, and weaving
her own shadow
and my silence feels
like an intruder
to her sorrow
an unnatural light
to the darkness
she will face
for all the rest
of her tomorrows
if I could only dream
a way into her
dark nights.
r Sep 3
My tired eyes and red
glow on the tip of my last
cigarette tells me it’s way
past midnight again as I
try roping a star smoking
on my porch by the light
of a big old yellow moon
and I could have sworn I
saw her riding by wearing
black boots, her tight-assed
jeans and a blue bandanna
heading  west to Montana.
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