The weather plots his journey
Town to town in dead of night
Fields dead and on a gurney
He comes in to make it right

A rainmaker, people call him
A psuedo-scammer others say
He sells himself as godlike
He comes quick and does not stay

He tells people what they wish for
He beats the storm in to their town
He seeds their minds with his tall stories
He promises more green than brown

Like an evangelistic angel
He beats the weather to the ground
He's a salesman like no other
He picks their pockets with no sound

A rainmaker, just a scammer
He works the towns where nothing lives
He is an alchemist non-gratta
He always takes and never gives

He sells snake oil and concoctions
He is a shaman in disguise
He promises rain where none has fallen
There is more moisture in the farmers eyes

He takes credit for a rainfall
He promises gold where once was straw
He's a rumplestiltskin with their feelings
He sells them only what they wish they saw

He may believe in what he tells them
He always puts his name out on a stake
But, can he truly make the skies open
That is a choice the desperate make

The look; true care
The definitive act
Lies not in mere gaze,
But in deep seated passion,
Fostering emitted forgiveness.  
Evangelistic and empathic.

A mind in love, counts no pebbles.
It connects its concern
Sensitive and deliberate
… it drags still a cord
Of compassion along.
The wavelength of patience
Uninterrupted by hasty conjecture.

Hidden deep in the galley at sea far from the front
Washing pans and floors and sometimes onions
Never a shot fired at nor its distanced boom heard
Now proudly badged, poor, unemployed, a veteran
Strutting in the town square openly carrying
Seeing fear and respect in mocking eyes
And gratitude in sneering smiles and sarcastic lips
But utter despair and pity to those that truly loved
Now old, lonely, far from those who once cared
Sharing truths on the net when away from Facebook jail
And calling out fake news with evangelistic fervour
But touch Trump, and even jihadists cow before his ferocity

Beside and beyond
the tabernacle
(evangelistic not catholic)
was one of the biggest

bombsites to explore
more ruins to climb
more places
to hide and seek

and you showed Helen
around the place
finding a way through
the wooden hoardings

put up to keep kids out
and she stood
gaping around
and said

gosh isn’t it big
and to think
that people lived here
and maybe died here

and she clutched
her doll Battered Betty
in her arm protectingly
and you with your catapult

in the back pocket
of your jeans
showed her
into what was left

of a house
climbing the wooden stairs
one wall missing
blown away

the sky visible
through the hole
in the roof
and she in her flowered

washed out dress
climbed gingerly
behind you
talking about what

her mother might say
if she knew
saying how her mother
would wag her finger

at her and say
don’t go in those bombsites
they are dangerous
in one room

was a lopsided picture
still hanging
and there
in the wooden floor

a gaping hole
showing the cellar
two storeys below
she gripped your hand

with hers her other hand
clutching Betty
pressed tight
to her chest

and she said
what would
your mother say
if she knew

you were here?
she won’t
you said
what she don’t know

will do her good
less to worry about
and from the top room
of the house

you could see
the tabernacle
in the early morning sun
feel the sunlight

seeping through
on your face
and Helen said
she was scared

and could you go down  
and so you went
back down the stairs
she gripping you tight

Betty hanging
by one hand to Helen
the smell of dust
and old *****’s ***

and damp wood
and bricks
and London still there
despite old ******’s tricks

with bombs and fire
for you to wander
and explore
and taking Helen

carefully
went out the door.

Uncle Jesse James Tiberius Kirk Douglas MacArthur Park Overall
will stun you with ethics till spring stumbles into summer then fall
into 2014 stroke mode for the near-nonagenarian hag Lauren Bacall
who seldom took a dump without wearing her Bogie-knitted shawl
at Kmart, Sears or the prettiest, cleanest, white-people-loving mall
where Ninjas practice Moslem prostration & the evangelistic crawl
spanning 12 lifetimes along the width weft-wise of a soft rock wall
where Sonny Bono tempted a political hit in horse-face Cher's stall,
as midgets beat the bejesus out of men who're 6-feet-something tall

Give me your hirsute/textile/hombre love you lovely hairy rag man,
with your pointy nose, unlimbered leg & warts from Larry Hagman
who from the horse's mountable side snuck up like an airy stag ram
Don't take what little's left via state Santa Christmas merry bag ban
Let's dress like women in debt at the oldest Chuck Berry drag stand
My happiness is easily seen in blood-letting cirques as corpuscular
while my rippling backwards frontage is of a physique so muscular
that it is known by fat aunt Joan as socked-in and highly avuncular
Uncle Jesse James Tiberius Kirk Douglas MacArthur Park Overall
will stun you with ethics till spring stumbles into summer then fall
into 2014 stroke mode for the near-nonagenarian hag Lauren Bacall
who seldom took a dump without wearing her Bogie-knitted shawl
at K-Mart, Sears or the prettiest, cleanest, white-people-loving mall
where Ninjas practice Moslem prostration & the evangelistic crawl
spanning 12 lifetimes along the width weft-wise of a soft rock wall
where Sonny Bono tempted a political hit in horse-face Cher's stall,
as midgets beat the bejesus out of men who're 6-feet-something tall
exhibiting syndromic Parkinsonian tremors that deliver restive rest,
in vales, dells & knolls made greater by craters marking flood crest
Dwarves are closer to ground-in filth as the average giant can attest
making 1% of nothing seem more like freeing compounded interest
that dialyze the failing kidneys of flitty Obama's E.V.D. ebola guest
Let's not be hostile, malevolent, vindictive, vengeful, edgy & mean
over the fact in Bali brassieres are for keeping peanuts nice & clean
& because poverty forces negroes to use pigeon **** for Afro-Sheen
the sympathetic Balinese must dance in ritualistic limbo in between
butch hustlers & ****** in drag that for sober Johns is readily seen
especially when darkies scarf squirrel intestines like a ghetto queen
who lacks the get-off-food-stamps-and-find-a-job-to-pay-rent gene
or the smarts not to get knocked up 5 times while you're still a teen
The sun's setting for my ******* to vent her Black Panther spleen
as it's from the udder of masonic exploitation that a **** must wean