It's raining again
& I'm writing poetry again
fresh coffee in my cup

what to write, what to write
about childhood, love or human rights
the rain is falling outside

& I've done all that before
so I'm searching for the poet
inside myself & looking for

odd lines that may take my fancy
meanwhile, the rain is falling outside
& the sky can't be seen for clouds

' I'm just another poet
on a rainy day'
I whisper

the sky doesn't answer

ive lost all my words
they've slipped from my tongue
I'm fighting a war thats already
been won

Scribbles and mess-ups and an ink covered page,
My brain is the station and my train of thought never stays.

Cluelessness and confusion are the things that choose to fill,
My mind of no rhyme in a head of no will.

So I chase down that train,
The one leaving my brain,
That fast locomotive that's driving me insane.

I find myself aboard a vacated car,
No thought,
just knowing not,
Where you actually are.

Place down the pen, close the book and lay back,
You might be on the train, but you're not on the track.

Head back to the station where you will wait for another,
Hoping then the train that comes will ride as smooth as butter.

Ask what fate is to dandelions,
For I am clumsy, loving you,
Peeking when was asked to dream,
Glad seeing you.

I am no cloud, no air, no wind,
And balloons have long fled from my wrist
Touching the convoluted power lines somewhere
In the rural south of my country.
But I hold your hand with my hand, so light,
Like the line of a kite, too high to make a run for,
That I cannot state with words, with poems
What's so heavenly about it
Or without it that is about you, except
As such, this mutual touch.

I chased a single drop
Not knowing what will hit me.
I'm drenched, soaked all over.
Rain poured down, heavily.
I gain what's unexpected,
And love...is undeserved.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

Time forgets progression
Every time you move and dress,
And cover yourself with silk, satin, lace,
     With hooks and garters,
With garments and clothing
Starting from small, tight and light
To large and loose,
     And soft and cottony,
That I can almost feel everything
     In my mouth, my tongue, yet
You are all too smooth to me,
Elegant, sophisticated, a walking flame,
That there's almost nothing there to touch
All red, white, all pink, all bloom,
     No flower nor petal,
All root, all stem, all fruit,
All pollens and butterflies, and juice,
All juice, all round, all curved,
     All bare, all time.*

© 2015 J.S.P.