It matters not the darkness
before dawn, the two at one
needing each other to be
a proper show.
It’s dry and hot, which could
never excite a soul until
the storm clouds roll in
to change forever the state
if forever is a moment, nothing
is—and truth alluding poets
but seeking always we put our
cup out to the sun, wait.
There it is, the first drop
dropping calmly, lightly with a
ting, then another, more here
and there and the humming bird
buzzes by like firefighters not
away from the event but toward
it, they fire, they rain, the bird
wants a bath so sits with the drops
closes its eyes in ecstasy, shudders,
shakes its feathers to complete
the bath before finding a branch under
cover to avoid a drenching.
Boom the thunder hits from a
far-off bolt, but this was not an
electric storm—more of a cleansing
wave, like the law man who finds
the perp burping in the sunshine,
smoking cigars, private jets, pinching
stewardess butts with a smile you’d
think only wine or money makes.
God, the view is good from up here
is a final thought as the plane goes
down, 10-20 years for money laundering
or some other hidden gem.
Wishing no harm on anyone,
unless the point of view of banks is
seen; then if you go there, you
know the people hurt when they
are robbed. Dishonest is its own
crime, look at the board of ten
brought from God through Moses
upon the Jews, they’re good.
Cleansing is the rain; the storm
picking up, hitting the soil with what
it needs, the apple sprouting the bud
of weeds cramping gardener’s style,
so he gets online to buy more mulch,
poof, on its way, roses budding a creamy
winter of snow on the way against
this rare summer break!
Indictments are sure to come, just
as the mulch arrives, the weeds
relentless until we act, restore a level
of security and sanity to the hill.
Mueller uses not gas-powered crap
but hand to hand combat; God
is proud of earnest, humble work,
punishes the brash, but not before
they win some battles, look at the
South for five years keeping slaves
trapped, little skirmishes won and
lost, guerrilla fighting the tough
life of the rebel. “We cannot change
the world, it cannot be done” echoes
on an Asian valley butterfly, flying
through the passage of time,
Wondering if mankind, women too,
could all get together, realize we’re
from the same general stuff, rain
water and sun, blood of Earth, the
swim of that stewardess, like a
caterpillar, becoming Flight Attendant
with a lawyer, smart on the game
so she could win, and the butt
pincher faces twenty to life now
for lying to the FBI about killing
Democracy. The court almost laughed—
not down here, but on the planet
far off that runs us. “Democracy!” they
laughed and almost fell off the
cliff of the universe, where they stand
and spy. “People-rule!” gets them
busting up full, and they float down
to Earth through a black hole eating
underwear under there, causing
a great earthquake, followed by
a tsunami, the rains piling up,
a flood rising until Man once
again finds its wisest stance and
repeated mantra through captivity
toward eternal freedom from care:
“We are powerless,” smiled the
orange criminal.
And a lone flower burns on the
hillside of summer untouched,
Making ash for even democracy
to change, become wine from water
and confuse us back to powerlessness
over and over until Samuel gets
out of his cage-like grave, walks
up that dang hill, and makes an
unseen God king again; He’ll
have to do it tomorrow, too if
we wake, my friend—for whatever
progress we made today, it
will rain, and we will wonder if
before it does we laid down enough
seed, to feel the peace of mind
that turns words around, turns
our efforts on themselves, returning
us all to Tao Te Ching-like calm,
the uncarved block, the dawn,
our own birth. Wordless
and Perfect.
Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet 