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Poem

When the river of poetry has dried
Like parched clouds waiting for warmth
When the rain beats down on emptiness 
The god of rain demands to be penned

I pour myself a glass of wet wine
An offering to Bacchus to entreat
My muse, but she ain’t listening 
Her torrent of words fall on deaf ears

I light two cigarettes as an offering
My sooty lungs are a poor sacrifice
Still my muse refuses to talk sense
The god of ash will not spill beans

Poetry has dried, but I am faithful
I’ll cup my hand in the pouring rain
I’ll bind dissonant words like cold fusion
Marry consonants and vowels online

Anything to rise above the mundane
I offer sooty words to show I’m here
Do poets online get drenched like me
Stumbling in the rain posting virtually?

My eucharist is dipped in whine now  
Comments become sacramental breads
Poetry is a vice best felt in the rain
Washed clean by constant wringing

So I’ve made a poem out of rain
Turned water to prose like Jesus
I’m on Golgotha with Him every day
Extolling in the driving storm

Both of us bleeding or crying
Eli eli lama sabachthani?
God, my gods why have you 
You abandoned me?

You must know it's just a cross
It's me counting rain drops
When the parched clouds part
Let the sunshine be though hard

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