A Rainstorm Gathers

November 13, 2015

A rainstorm gathers in my eyes and pen,

and I write a poem to touch all men.

When bullets have flamed and hearts set afire,

my words shall burn on the funeral pyre.

A river in vein washes o’er my bones.

I fall for the sound of merciless stones

and kiss for the last time the dirt of hate

and wipe away tears that have fallen late.

The blindfold of religion makes men blind

and crashes like waves over all mankind.

Silence curls its timber into my heart,

a synopsis for worlds now blown apart.

I stretch my senses on this moonless night

to sleep in the shadow of love and light

where songs of glory bathed the hearts of men

before the flames ripped through our fragile skin.

I cannot water the graves of the dead

nor plant roses above each sleeping head.

The wind shall carry my hopeful prayer.

It’s the fabric that binds us, here or there.

The pain dissolves in the gathering rain,

and poems are born in its sad refrain.

Like whispers of a widow’s wedding dress,

it bids me to love that much more, not less.

The grave and its silence become our friend.

It’s the bookmark when life has reached its end;

and tears will be shed like leaves in the fall.

The heart houses the homeless - one and all.

The dead move on, and we are left behind.

We grow closer for all the love we find,

and words are written in sugar and frost

as arms circle around the loved ones lost.

Sweet breath is born beneath a widow’s veil.

Life is born when another breathes farewell,

and a hollow of tears will cup the moon

until the eyelids swell with great tribune.

A heartbeat flutters among the ashes,

and smiles delight the lamenting lashes.

The tides in the ocean know our story

and weep for the pain behind our glory.

Author's Note

The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral,
begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy.
Instead of diminishing evil, it multiplies it.
Through violence you may murder the liar,
but you cannot murder the lie, nor establish the truth.
Through violence you may murder the hater,
but you do not murder hate.
In fact, violence merely increases hate.
So it goes.
Returning violence for violence multiplies violence,
adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars.
Darkness cannot drive out darkness:
only light can do that.
Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Reviews

[Roland Petrov]

Religion is a blindfold; I couldn't have said it better. Sadly, all types of fanaticism ultimately end in murder and suicide: Jonestown, Waco, Heaven's Gate, ISIS......

[alifeacoustic]

Profound and wise words, beatifully capturing the senselessness of an ever increasing cycle that shows no sign of diminishing any time soon. We have been caught in the storm so long we have forgotten how beauriful a clear blue sky can be.
When both sides return hate, the escalation increases, and the possibility of peace diminishes. Will we ever learn?
Engrossing read, thank you.

[The Rock And Roll Cowbo..]

WOW... a very moving poem... if only love was a virus then we could spread to those who seem void of it... been a while since I saw a poem from you, and glad I got to read this one.

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Thank you. It's the first thing that I've written in six months - my longest hiatus ever! Hope you're faring well.

[The Rock And Roll Cowboy(REBEL WITH A CAUSE)]

Well you came back strong... glad to see you are writing again. Things are good, hope they the same for you.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

poems born through the tears...such sorrow and chaos in the world...we need a flood to wipe everything out so there can be a starting over...if only peace and love could rise again...what is especially heartbreaking is that so many are doing these acts of terror saying it is in the name of god...but that can't be.

this poem flows as easily as the tears that caused it.

j.