Rain essays and more from this writer…

rain essays, poetry, love, betrayal, loss, friendship, writings, musings, An excerpt from the "Rain Essays" and 
part of my book of poetry.  

Rain on the Face of Africa

  The great Serengeti’s broad face lies in the African sun,

 dry, weathered, cracked, thirsty for the season’s tears

Storm clouds gather on her brow like an old lady’s curls

Promises, promising, an empty promise

                                The rains are too late. The children of the Serengeti

                                    lie down on her dusty bosom, never to rise again

                             A desperate waiting fills the air

At last, a single drop of rain falls on the delicate skin of the vast plainrain.

 then another and another, there but for an instant, before it vanishes into the scorched earth

Another drop, then ten, then dozens, then hundreds

until the broad face that is the Serengeti smears through the downpour

Watering holes fill and breach, streams and rivers run like locomotives

Mysterious fish pop out of the mud

Sweet grasses leap up in the night

Yesterday the majestic canvas was devoid of life     

  Today, overflowing, a palette  gorged with color and life…

the cycle begins anew

                         The Serengeti awakes!                        

When I began writing this book, I discovered that I had been collecting little snippets of my own writing for over thirty years.  As something touched my soul I would write it down. For example the poem about New Orleans (Adieux my Beauty) was written on my lap, in the car, as we drove out of that grand old city for the last time, back in 1978.

 

New.Orl.Mist.Adieux My Beauty

Standing outside the gate,
eager to say goodbye, remembering
all the reasons to say hello

New Orleans, that witchy woman,
whose song is loved and never forgotten,
whose taste lingers on the tongue forever.
Where love bloomed on a rain slick night

Now, as I bend to kiss the powdered, rouged
cheek, my nostrils are assailed by
the sweet odor of rotting flesh eaten
away in the darkest recesses by
a decadent, self indulgent cancer

I don’t love her, this grand old dame, any less for the rot.
We both know she is dying
It will be the last time I kiss her
I love her so but to stay means to be infected by the rot.

So, I bid you adieux my beauty,
my elegant, old, painted whore.

Trisha Sugarek
1979

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In addition to my twice weekly blog I also feature an interview with another author once a month. So come along with me; we shall sneak into these writers’ special places, be a fly on the wall and watch them create!    Mike Wells will be my December author.

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