Incessant rain
Incessant rain
Where have you been
Yes,I did bewail
For you left my dreams
Parched and weary
With a losing appetite

Incessant rain
Incessant rain
Why did you lose sight?
Yes, I did bewail
For
You left me thirsty with nowhere to quench.
A Glory,
Only you could bring.

Incessant rain
Incessant rain
But now,
I've learned from your wake
I must learn to be still,
Not whine or wail.
I now contemplate my reasonings
That  once seemed lame.

I thought I saw you yesterday
Just walking down the street
But it was only someone who looked like you

I thought I felt you last night
Hugging me close so I wasn't afraid
But it was only a dream that I soon woke from

I thought I heard you this morning
Calling my name from the kitchen
But it was only my sister using a funny voice

I thought you were with me just now
Telling me everything would be okay
But it was only the thoughts inside my own head
Missing you

I dreamed
I was
At Birthwaite
I awoke
I was

Keith Wilson, Windermere, UK, Oct 2016

♪♫♫♪♫

running fluid, flowing
like love, like life, like blood, like knowing
the living waters from the  throne of God –
it starts slow and it builds
equatorial storms, tropical sadness
as the guitars take you home
in reverberations of eternity
through endless repetitions of longing
through palm-branched alleys and red-dirt gullies
breeze caressing guavas and passion-fruit
past dictators’ mansions
past rusting shantytowns
over ditches running with sewage
into colors too intense to bear
colors to make you cry:
greens unseen in cold climates,
red earth, flowering jacarandas
women walking wrapped in rainbows
huge baskets on their heads
in the blare of traffic
in the madness of African cities
through the Congolese night that calls your name
and the smell of poor people’s food over cook fires
carried on the musical breeze
children smile and beggars crawl in the dust of the street
obscure wars are fought,  false peace proclaimed
while the bones are exhumed
as the Congo jazz rolls on, flows on
like silver sorrow dancing gold in the heart of darkness
past liter bottles of beer sweating cold
on the bar table by the flower’s starkness
lighting up the midday – when those horns come in
on the boat from Cuba, by way of Bruxelles and Paris
blaring triumphant and strong
like a shipment of diamonds and uranium
glittering in the drunken afternoon of a song with no end.

Dropped off in a desert.
Combat uniform tight against me.
Sweat gripping my skin in a desperate plea
For sanity to return, so I may escape.
Gunfire stutters its loud whispers of death against my eardrums.
Explosions drown out screams. My own?
I blink. The dust engulfs my body as I writhe on the ground;
Fetal position my permanent placement.
Longing for the ground to swallow me whole,
To the comfort of death's womb.
Cries of, "Get the hell up! What are you? This is a man's war!"
I get up.
The gun at my side like an old man's artificial hip;
Comfort and support in an unstable land.
I look at the chaos and depravity around me.
This is supposed to be Heaven to me,
Yet the combat boots feel too heavy.

Pit-pat goes the rain
Falling all around.
From under my umbrella
I watch it hit the ground.

Splish-splash go the puddles
As I come stomping through.
My boots keep me nice and dry,
And my umbrella too.

Outside it's wet and drippy
As rain falls from the sky,
But underneath my umbrella
I stay cozy and dry.

And though the sky is cloudy
And the sun has hidden her face,
Under my own little umbrella
I have a happy, pleasant place.