The melancholic, cold rain makes me sad.
In the days of loud silence,
rain always called on you.
Your way into my thoughts and tears.
*
Color of lead on the sky; everything is grey.
The blue is in your eyes only.
Come along and listen with me
to the drops dripping down the window.
Like once upon a time down to our curls,
while in love and smiling,
we kissing each other under the clouds.
*
Your head is on my heart.
I am silently touched by your skin.
The gentle warmth of voice.
Your hands on my face heal everything.
*
Heavens Weltschmerz for all sad loves.
Maybe spring will bring something new.
New love and joy.
*
Piano music is somewhere in the distance.
A full circle day is approaching.
Announcement of the golden days in Marrakech.
With flower petals on the bed
and the view of the sunny oasis day.
---#---
It's Not My Job
by
Rick Folker
It's not my job to teach you of
love;
to pull you, pry you from your
place of hate.
It's not my job to lift you
from willful ignorance
when you elect a president
the despot whom
you elevate.
It's not my job to offer you
truth and beauty
in place of your racist, supremacist
warped world-view;
your wicked weltschmerz
you fearfully embrace.
It's not my job to point you
towards the weeping women
whom mourn their lost children,
taken too tragically, too violently
by the guns you make.
No more, no more can I convince you
that this country is in love with death,
No more, no more can you ignore
The glaring cynical game you
continue to play,
The absurd theatre
the thirst for more victims
will not abate.
The truth lies bare
for those of us willing to
educate.
It would be like a Cessna hitting a mountain;
Weltschmerz; rain falling on a tin roof.
So let me work my garden with burnt hands,
Thoughtless as a spade in cold loam.
Let all words fail as the day reduces.
We all love the holes in which we put our heads.