Sometimes I Laugh in the Rain

Sometimes I laugh in the rain
Kicking through puddles of youth
Squishy mud between my toes
And trouser legs rolled

I often dream at night
Alone in my bed
And there is sublime joy
From which I regret to wake

I have cried in the dawn
And in the bright sunshine
Dressed in a suit
By my mother’s grave

Things are not always
People are not always
The world is not always
As it appears

A cloudy sky may pass
Grey and threatening
But it may have brought
With it, tears of joy

The sun both bright and warm
Can fail to heal
The coldest moment of our heart
Or light a darkened corner of the soul

Winter can make us appreciate
The fires of friendship
Spring can remind us
Of flowers upon a grave

The green of summer shade
Can bear with it, shadow
And autumn death
Can bring dazzling beauty

There are many seasons
Both of the mind and heart
There are all kinds of weather
And even solar storms

I want you near
If only to hold my hand
No matter whether I smile or frown
Because I need your love

Hearts needs understanding
Every season
Through all kinds of weather
Whether in joy or pain

Perhaps they’re lost in memory
Or found in the here and now
The why not needing to be explained
Sometimes I laugh in the rain

Old Age, Death and the Poet

Mornings come unsolicited; peeling away the comforting edges of night
Secret vistas my mind had visited hang surreal in dreamy lingering light
Outside, cold clouds drift the blue; covering my dreams in shades of gray;
Blanketing sorrows with somber hue; hopes of tomorrow with cruel today

The spring of eternal hope has stopped; plugged with rocks of insecurity;
Fallen from vast walls around my heart where time and death are surety
The hoary frost upon the land has settled into my thinning hair and beard
Things I know and understand have become instruments of pain and fear

Cummings said, “Old age sticks”. Shakespeare asked, “What dreams may come?”
Is that it then? Do we cease living; fathoming depths of death; grown numb?
I am left with the love song of Eliot sitting by the crash of stormy seas
Feeling I am but a pair of ragged claws. The mermaids will not sing for me.

Distant hills are beckoning; draped in purple gowns and egret feather hats
Where once I roamed; a boy and his dog, why do I choose to remember that?
What is happiness but peace of mind? Is it also adventure into the unknown?
If that were so; death would be kind to frail and crippled flesh and bone.

Ms. Dickinson could not stop for death and so it kindly stopped for her
But now I count my hours left passing in passenger train-like blur
Stop for me I beckoned but rumbling along; it seems life passed me by
My voice fades in faltering echoes as my poetry and songs both die

Do not, I beg, expect from me; visions of eternity. I never met with God.
Shall I be saved; spared from the grave or sickening thud of falling clods?
The dead do not hear; so I might be spared the sound of devouring earth
I strive to recall those first sounds of arrival from the moment of my birth

Where does youth go? In truth, I do not know. But it can be captured by hearts
This life I am married to like a wife will soon divorce me as we part
Perhaps I will find my youth again in distant hills beyond the clouds
Will dreams return with life reborn or am I only dreaming now?

RAIN DANCE

My life has been a summer storm
My days were drops of rain
And from the moment I was born
Typhoon and hurricane

Love was just like lightning
While death was loud as thunder
Both of them were frightening
Filled with awe and wonder

Friends were gently passing clouds
Their sympathy let in the sun
And when the thunder grew too loud
Love lit the raindrops; every one

Days were sparkling downpours
While all my nights were deep
The water fall became a roar
That robbed me of my sleep

With lightning on my eyelids
I waited for the thunder
And everything that I did
Umbrellas hid me under

So hid from life and dispossessed
I never felt the pain
Until the flood within my breast
Released those drops of rain

Now I’ve learned to dance again
Amidst the storm and trouble
For if my days are drops of rain
My spirit floats: a bubble

Dream Catcher

I went fishing once in May
On a lovely springtime day
I took along a can of worms
A rod and reel and book of poems

I cast my line into the water
Passing time the sun grew hotter
Soon I sought the maple shade
With some sandwiches I’d made

So stretched out in my new nook
I opened up the poetry book
The fish that day refused to bite
I watched some children fly a kite

It is too windy, so I said
On maple then resting my head
There, so propped, began to read
Among the helicopter seed

A day had never seemed so short
As I read each brilliant poet
Soon I was so far from dawn
That I began to stretch and yawn

I fell asleep till evening time
Dreaming life was but a rhyme
As the fish are caught with hooks
So such thoughts by poetry books!

Wildness

When the dawn was young the wild geese took to wing
Soared above the stubble fields of harvest with their honking
Red tailed hawk exercising pirouettes below
Then soared on high pursued there by a pair of cawing crows

A herd of morning deer gathered at the forest edge
Alert and twitching nervous ears beneath the swaying umbrage
The icy touch of January drifted through the field
While thrifty field mice searched for seeds of morning meal

I walked along the fence line marking movement with a hound
Observing nature’s wonders and listening to the sounds
A far woodpecker tapping Morse code with his beak
A querulous squirrel still chattering complaints too harsh to speak

Things like this I live for, listening to the warnings
Of wild and secret creatures on my walks at morning
Long ago I was set apart from this noble band
But there is wildness in my heart although I am a man

Teardrop

Silent pear-shaped world of water;
Ocean of pain trapped in a drop
Sliding slow as frozen glaciers
Down the cheek to trickle stop

Saline bitter; sometimes sweet
Always salty as the sea
Where emotions mix and meet
From the hearts of you and me

Soothing balm to pain and fear
Sadness caught or rapture’s joy
All contained within the sphere
Encapsulated by this envoy

Messenger of pride and pain
From young child to dying old
They are drops of our heart rain
From the windows of our soul

Blood is life so oft is said
It goes unchallenged when we hear it
Clearer than the crimson red
Is the bearer of the spirit

Offering this wisdom now
For every heart and soul to hear
Sacred as the wedding vow
Is the shedding of a tear

San Antonio 1959

Neon flashes POOL and COLD BEER upon the glass

The green and red lights; a Christmas parody in the rain

Slick sidewalks reflect smoky headlights as they pass

Jukebox music drifts across the street in sad refrains


Hank Williams moans I’m so lonesome I could cry

Bob Wills and The Texas Playboys; Faded Love

Doors open revealing strains of fiddles to the night

Pale yellow moon swallowed by hungry clouds above


Drunk shoved to the street warned not to come back

Stands staggering slurring words about their mothers

Almost falls reaching to the sidewalk picking up his hat

Saturday night cowboy cut from the herd of his brothers


The motel room stinks of mold and stale cigarettes

Sheets smell of soap. The TV gets all the local channels

Suitcases lay unpacked on the extra queen size bed

Bullfight painting hangs from dingy hardwood panels


Midnight hour whiskey breath slips and drifts into a snore

Levis across Durango boots hang heavy with silver rodeo

Early morning will find the motel manager at the door

Tomorrow; another competition, welcome to San Antonio

The Only Lonely Bluebird

The only lonely bluebird who never sang a song


To any lady new bird who might wander along


He sat upon his perch and watched through sun and stormy weather


And when it rained it hid the tears that trickled down his feathers





His parents both were bluebirds but somehow he knew


To love there must be two birds instead of one so blue


He watched the pairs around him atwitter in the spring


He could never tweet so sweet so why bother to sing?





The only lonely bluebird so hopeless and forlorn


Froze to death upon a limb one cold and frosty morn


He fell to earth and lay there having never made a sound


Except a tiny thud as his soft feathers hit the ground

Rabbit Nerve and Silent Stars

There was wonder once, in the silent beauty of stars

When butterflies were new to us and gossamer dandelions

We touched the tortoise shell of life with trembling smiles

Our days were slow and thus so armored and protected



We knew the kitten’s fur and the down of baby chicks

But did not understand the wide-eyed nerve of rabbits

We could never catch the goldfish swimming in his bowl

Until we learned to use a net to capture and control



While plucking flowers bright in color we saw them wilt

We never dreamed we could be caught up like them

We tried to save the baby bird whose rapid heart trembled

In our palm like our lip with tears as he slipped away



Things fall from the tree of life and go unrecovered

They are simply not able to fly to the nest again

On Sunday we went to church and learned the golden rule

Then life became learning as we started our days at school



We were taught the same as every other child

We were molded to become citizens and students

We learned patriotism and how to pledge allegiance

We became parts of a group bigger than ourselves



So when the teacher spoke, we never questioned

If anything was truth, we took it for granted

The adults had all the answers that ran the world

They understood the wide-eyed nerve of rabbits-we were afraid to ask



We knew everyone could be trusted absolutely

Why would anyone hurt who knew the golden rule?

Then we fell in love and thought our hearts were broken

And we began to question if everyone thought we were fools



Years passed and we were surprised our hearts healed

But we looked at our scars often and cautiously

We looked at others and began to wonder if they felt

The same as us and lost a bit of what to feel



We lost all interest in the stars for music and friends

We were social creatures finding our place in the group

Like a herd or pack or even a flock; we learned formation

We learned how to scatter and how to leave the weak behind



We fell in love again and again- but a little less each time

We expected our hearts to heal and grow tough like tortoise shell

We were fast and reckless but we built our walls to last

And we took comfort that we were thus protected



Then one day our world was shattered- our dreams scattered

We were broken-hearted again and left alone

Our tears remembered the little bird and how it died

And as we cried we wished-oh how we wished- it could have flown



We began to think about the weak we left behind

We learned regret and sorrow and it perplexed our minds

As more years passed we put aside our wild and reckless habits

We began to contemplate in earnest-the wide-eyed nerve of rabbits



Gray hair and wrinkles came- we traded our jobs and cars

Some of us changed our names and wives or went to drugs or bars

Others went seeking the golden rule- wondering still if they were fools

But we found wonder once…in the silent beauty of stars





© 2011 Fabian G. Franklin

The Dogwood Tree

Beneath the speckled canopy
Of bright-leafed layers dancing
In early morning breeze that stirs;
In sunlight soft romancing

The underbelly umbrella green; here
Hummingbirds whisk and twitter
Stopping long enough to feed
On a container of sugar water

Hornets and yellow jackets feud
Above bright plastic flowers.
Table manners; greedy and rude,
Endure into the evening hours.

Ruby throats and emerald greens;
Through twisting branch’s thatch
Dart between the dogwood leaves
To hold a fencing match

Above on a higher branch there sits
The home of worm hunting Robin Red Breast
A woven nest of broken twigs
Where tiny heads are now visible

Tiny mouths gulp towards the sky.
Mother and father with dinner swoop in
In answer to the hungry cries
And feed their little children

Adolescent rabbit hops in the drive.
He stands with ears erect; alert.
At the slightest motion he scurries back
Across the gravel and through the dirt

The greedy, the humble, the meek and the proud
All gathered like drops from a summer cloud
While I contemplated the mystery
And philosophy of the dogwood tree

The Gathering

French Champagne at 3 A.M. with the ghost of Jean Lafitte
He hangs his sword upon my chair and cordially takes a seat
Poe and Dickens grace my step at quarter past the hour
Timid Emily; Belle of Amherst arrives in white with flowers


The Bronte sisters come to call and sit with Miss Dickinson
A knock brings transcendental poets Thoreau and Emerson
Jack London follows with a bottle of John Barleycorn
Then C.S. Lewis; pipe in hand; a gentleman to manor born

Not far behind; Mr. Tolkien; the mystic fantasy prophet
Telling tales of Middle Earth and creatures he calls Hobbits
Rudyard Kipling now arrives via my invitation
He hated to leave his India but joins the conversation

Caravaggio brings some paintings that were lost at sea
The former Knight of Malta drapes his sword across his knee
Knowing the temperament of the two; as host, I collect the blades
But in gentlemanly gesture; from both, a bow is made

Lafitte makes some remark of Italy’s taste for war
Caravaggio returns, “The French know not what canvas is for”
Bemused, Lafitte replies, “I’ve used all mine for sails.”
“And mine for masterpieces” the painter quips and spreads his tails

And so till dawn the guests arrive like Mary and Percy Shelley
Mary reads from Frankenstein and then we fill our bellies
“A goose that would have made Scrooge quite proud!”
“The nose of the Boz knows”, then Charles asserts aloud

Poe, in deep and morbid thought exclaims, “We all are dead!”
No such rubbish and fantasy, not here; as you share my bread.
“But it seems I’ve lived before”, London says, “I’d make a bet.”
“Quoth the raven, “nevermore” but you live on as yet!

You spirits are my muses who gather here tonight
All chivalrous and talented, inspiring by the lamplight
“Well spoken intellectual, recall the sun rose clear.”
Thoreau thus spoke and Emerson joked, “It seems we too my dears.”

At this; the ladies giggled, and Emily said to me.
“I know how a wave must look; yet, I’ve never been to sea.”
Lafitte here offered to take her, upon his ghostly ship
But when again I looked around, her presence from our group had slipped

And so they faded; one by one; each with apparition smiles.
London was the last to leave, saying, I hear The Call of the Wild.
And as the sunlight filtered into my bedroom this morn
I was surprised to find two swords and a bottle of John Barleycorn

I Must Write Of Love

I must write of love today though I feel no romance.
I must write of bravery and hope there is a chance.
I must kindle friendships remembering what they’re for.
I must count my blessings although I’m ragged poor.

I must write of peace today and sweet serenity.
Even as the dogs of war come snarling after me.
I must call you brother regardless of your skin.
I can’t let petty prejudice defeat my soul and win.

I must believe there is a God who listens to my prayer.
I must have faith on bended knees that He will hear me there.
Oh, Lord of heavens and the earth, my humble spirit calls.
You knew my soul before my birth, tear down these fortress walls!

Circumstance can hedge a man till he sees no escape.
And rob a woman’s morality as real as any rape.
And even though the wrong’s not theirs; lower them to the dirt.
Then, in throes of agony, they cry out in their hurt.

So I must speak of right today through tears began by wrong.
And though my soul is suffering, I must search for song.
I must swallow fear today along with tears and sorrows.
I must forget my past regrets with plans of new tomorrows.

I must conquer pride today and reach out for your hand.
I have stumbled along the way and need your help to stand.
I will write of hope today in the midst of my despair.
And to the cynics I will say, I bravely dare to care.

The Silent Song of Falling Stars

How brief the moments of our lives; our petty jealousies and fears
How frail the ties that bind our love; steeped in joy and lost in tears
The heart does not age but remains the same as our frail form retires
It was only yesterday; and now the passing years have made us liars

The man in the mirror; I know him not; where there should be a lad
With dirty cheeks and mischievous eyes looking somewhat like his dad
The moth still flitters round the lamp; the warmth of imitation light
But when the switch is turned and black; then, he retreats into the night

Into the lonely hours then; where once a baby’s cry was heard
Among the laughter and shaking hands; there, passed life without a word
Before he learned to whistle tunes; so many were the songs he knew
That he could not keep track of them and then, the dances were too few

Now the crippled steps he takes in memory mock him as a fool
He should have danced; he could have danced, but now the songs are fading too
The meaning of life was whispered clear on moonless nights between the stars
Deaf in wine; he refused to hear, and now the lights have traveled far

You sisters of the Pleiades; safe from the grasping of Orion
Like savannah grasses where, in wait; there lays the hungry lion
Immortal daughters, shine your lights, as my light fades in me
I do not know by mystic rights, if I, a slave or prince should be

Soft; the song is muffled now, the drum beats steadily desperate
The flow of blood is colder. How… I wish…but it is too late
Life is a dream within a dream of some mad and sleeping god
And we relive his life for him through histories both far and odd

How long the suffering of our souls; where empty hearts are met
How great the tragedy of our roles which we play in sad regret
The ageless heart is lost in dreams where happy children laughed and played
Now; ghostly shadows run to corners of minds where muted pain is stayed

To the Muse

Before her alter the poet brings
Written verse and singing strings
To woo the wells of paradise
Painting scenes which so entice
The oracles which prophesy
To separate the truth from lie
Taking thus the muse as wife
He dedicates his love and life

To fair Euterpe sings his song
Cleansing all the world from wrong
With music and the poets pen
Her honor thus he must defend
She has granted audience
To troubadours and others since
Yet he basks within her light
And knows he is her favorite

Inside his spirit soars and lifts
Till heavens voice her precious gifts
And raining down upon his heart
Swells again till words impart
Both to master and to sage
Bright visions of the coming age
When the weak have swooned and fainted
There will lie the canvas painted

Everything within his heart is
Offered by the humble artist
Whither tales of love or truth be
lies the beauty of Euterpe
Undisguised or masked by ruse
All is prized to please the muse
Through his wisdom or his wit
In every word that he has writ

Day at the Amusement Park

Fathomless gentle mother rolls sighing to the shore
Whispering the histories of things that are no more
Coral and shell are mixed in glittering snowy sand
Terns on matchstick legs retreat the foaming land

Black bulk of horseshoe crab lay; lifeless alien form
Airy driftwood twists its way from far electric storm
Delicate periwinkle pink; the shade of mouse’s ear
Lies beneath grey seaweed combed from mermaid’s hair

Rumbling roar that moves the mass; imitates the heart
Embryonic pulse reminding endings where they start
Beneath the waves, all is bright; eyes rise above to see
Azure above the rolling green stretching to eternity

Far, the pencil line of land; dots move along the beach
Where burning tourists march the sand; lotions and oils in reach
Their blankets spread beneath umbrellas; imitation shade
The sun is scorching on the waves, shining on my head

I laugh and dance and leap with joy before the ocean god
Joined by friends and family; all members of my pod
I hear the earthly creature’s children screaming out in glee
As I chatter back to them, I know that they have seen me

We come here every morning and fish till it grows dark
Protecting human friends that swim from eager hungry sharks
This is our entertainment too; the electric connecting spark
We watch from pools of pristine blue the human amusement park

Lessons from the Choir Loft

A songbird woke me at three in the morning
In the pitch black smallest hours he sang
He warbled his chirps and twitters till dawn
I was so amused that I could not complain

Not a nightingale or whippoorwill; this
He roused the neighbors who turned on their lights
And as day began to sift through the trees
A chorus began to share his delight

It was clear he could not wait for the morning
Bound by the joy of sheer existence
At the top of his voice he sang until dawn
Perhaps thinking he brought it by mere persistence

And who am I to argue his logic
If indeed he had that thought in his mind
Enough beauty can certainly bring light
Enough light can open the eyes of the blind

So what if I am deprived of a little rest
At least I was entertained by the concert
In the dawn I spied him not far from his nest
I pulled on my boots and buttoned my shirt

As I walked out to listen to the Sunday choir
I found my own joy in my morning search
I whispered forgiveness for the early hour
And cathedral mountains became my church

Smolder

The rasp of a beetle against a window glass
Turned the sleeper in his fitful dream
The night was heavy as honey; thick as sorghum
And sooty syrup filled his lungs with charcoal

The stomach seethes with eager embers
When every breath is a fan to the flame
Skin hangs clammy cool against bones
The sickly boiled flesh is wrung to drain

Flame burns in the whiskey forge below
The sleeper groans in crushing pains
Someone is stacking stones on his mortal form
He lies pinned in the agony of suffocation

A ship is lost at sea in still doldrums
No wind stirs to fill her ghostly sails
She sits frozen as dark-finned shadows circle
Patience feeds the faceless scavengers

The dragging of chains across a wooden floor
Precedes the sliding bolt of a mammoth door
The sleeper struggles with his fear of death
Listening, he hears the draw of raspy breath

A ragged inhale brings rattles but no relief
The exhale is not his; it comes from somewhere below
Beads of sweat pour to his soaking pillow
To his terror he realizes the sound of bellows

A flash of flame envelops the dreamer
His eyes burst open in yellow light
A solitary bulb hangs from the ceiling
Sixty watts of hell in a sultry summer night

The Lucky Optimist

Bending over a field of clover
Counting petals over and over
Searching for his four leafed luck
Into a buttonhole he might tuck

I present the incurable optimist
The wisher of fate innocuous
Bearer of all good tidings and glad
Looking for hope as if he were mad

It matters not if he finds the thing
I am certain he’ll go on searching
It’s in the way of the optimist
Not to give up before success

Still he gives all the credit to luck
But now in the field he’s been stuck
For the better part of half an hour
Counting clovers and picking flowers

Patience

Patience is the advantage of old folks and fishermen
It is a forte not to be taken too lightly by any as well
If a person can wait without allowing petty distraction
There is life to be caught by the slippery shirttail

Things seldom turn out according to our plans
The plans of others and things unplanned are always cropping up
The schedule and the itemized list are the vex of man
Things forgotten are always at work in the tumbling tines of karma

So there we end up; speared like kabobs with no escape
Headed for the fire to be cooked for good or ill
And generally muttering like the fox about sour grapes
As old chef time prepares to sauté us on the grill

But the patient know that this too in time may pass
The patient are not distracted by facades of wealth and fame
Because there is no telling how long a fad or a man may last
And they have yet to feel the scorching of the flame

The exercise of discretion builds muscles of morale
But not the type one usually earns at the gymnasium
Confidence that is bulging is generally an act of denial
But patience is an attribute of old folks and fishermen

Adventure in the Storm.

Adventure in the Storm


He stood upon the wooded hill; eyes squinted against the falling snow
Staring with longing and hunger at the farmhouse far below
The smell of meat and burning fat was faintly discernable on the wind
His nose twitched and his belly growled as flakes drifted through barren limbs

He saw the big black ranch dogs; Newfoundland, by the looks of them
Drop-tailed and worried he backed into the pines; careful they did not see him
He is familiar with the rifles of the ranchers and this particular breed of dog
They are every bit as big as him; he paws the snow and settles in by a hollow log

The gray and silver folds of his winter coat make excellent camouflage
He thinks and ponders about the smoke, the rancher; the rifle and the dogs
A storm is moving in and blue-black clouds herald the threat of more snow
Through covering shadows he can see lights below inside the frosted windows

When he was young and running with the pack he was adventurous and bold
Now own his own, it was stealth and cunning; not valor, that let him get this old
In the middle of the night; the storm raging, the rancher brought his dogs inside
Carefully he crept; inch by inch, forever vigilant, slowly down the mountainside

A cache of ham was hanging in a tree, tied securely to a higher limb
The rancher was smart and cunning too; but maybe not as smart as him
Methodically, he set about his work stopping only to rest or to listen
He pawed the snow until he felt dirt, then alternated, changing his position

The drifts were up to seven feet and he packed them solid with his heavy paws
Standing on his wolf-made mountain, he jumped and sank in teeth and jaws
Rocking his weight with the weight of the ham, the frozen limb began to crack
He quickly released it and let it fall; barely missing his shoulder and back

Quickly now, gnawing at the cords that wrapped his sweet and smoky prize
Inside the house came the creak of floorboards, he glanced up with knowing eyes
The rancher had heard the limb break and was coming out to check his cache
His rifle in hand and dogs at his heels; he couldn’t believe he’d met his match

A fifteen foot high ridge rose paw-packed around where his ham had been
His tedious knots were chewed clean through and the wolf? No sign of him.
Safe in a stone outcropping; high on a lonely hill, he gorges himself with pleasure
Dangerous work but the night is still as he enjoys the taste of his treasure