40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam! – Day 20 – “Rain Date”

“Rain Date”

Thought we could get it in.

We missed it by inches.

Then sheets of rain came down.

We tried to be stubborn about it,

But park slides don’t work well in the rain.

A water-logged situation developed in a flash.

Our park dreams were all wet.

And just as fast, the library was closed.

Summer hours.

Last resort, fast food play playground.

Full of so many nooks, and viable germs.

Building robust constitutions one rain date at a time.

A very special thanks to A and L, for taking a wet song and making it wetter.

40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam is a project in which people have joined me for 40 days and 40 nights of on-demand poetry. They have submitted the concepts, ideas, and subjects; I’ve done the work.

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40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam! – Day 4 – “It Was Not Joyful”

“It Was Not Joyful”

An ill-prepared wanderer,

the rains came for me.

Violent, voracious, vexing vendetta.

Sheets of water fell heavy.

Visual acuity registered poor and begot bad decisions.

Puddles exploded in measured bursts,

as my cobbled soles ranged uneven ground.

Outerwear did little to divert the assault.

Eventually, socks and underwear captured the glory of the flood.

It seemed as if Noah was imminent.

He never showed.

Just soiled and saturated beasts,

two by two, three by three,

a bathtub lottery.

Dampened regression.

Deluge-ional.

Dam burst. Capacity exceeded.

Waterlogged loafers,

squeaked through the depot.

Hurried and hydrated forever.

Plumes of water overtook curb-stranded souls,

that waited for the WALK signal.

A moist menagerie,

stupefied by ambitious clouds.

It was not joyful.

A very special thanks to LR for simply saying : It Was Not Joyful

40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam is a ongoing project in which people have joined me for 40 days and 40 nights of on-demand poetry. They have submitted the concepts, ideas, and subjects; I’ve done the rest.

“Boston Brogue”

It looks like a stream of consciousness, but it is more of a happy accident. As I couldn’t write down my thoughts on the way to the train this morning due to rain, I engaged the speech to text function of my phone. Apparently, my phone cannot catch my words wrapped in the Boston accent. I was quite amused by what resulted. Here it is unedited. I find it has a poetry all its own…

“Boston Brogue”

Rain dancer rain dancer prancer caught in the space between the rain the raindrops wrinkles top me how to dance in the rain three missing Sporto squash gravesite what prayer was a minute give me a jacket what without the aid of an umbrella what’s almost camouflage four should be lying about what brothers are curious thanks they open and close and they can umbrella without the clause

“Cattle Train, Cattle Train”

delayed
“The Out Crowd” © C.P. Hickey 2013

 

“Cattle Train, Cattle Train”

Cattle Train! Cattle Train!

My life’s refrain.

Can someone commute my commuter pain?

Oh, how I disdain,

this daily pain.

I can’t sustain,

and must complain.

It’s such a drain.

Fucking insane!

Profane?

Let me explain.

What’s plainly plain:

Humans behave,

less humane,

when waiting for the Cattle Train.

It’s worse in the rain.

If there’s a delay,

it puts a strain,

on our collective brain.

Because, the Cattle Train,

can’t possibly contain,

all the bane,

pertaining to this mortal plane.

Take for instance, Elaine.

You know, the girl from Spain.

Over there leaning on a cane.

She seems inane,

but, she’s just arcane.

Today she suffers a harsh migraine.

And will not feign the pain,

that the rain causes her curly mane.

While she awaits the Cattle Train,

wrapped in cellophane,

in pouring rain.

Strain.

Pain.

Remain.

Or take that prick from Maine.

What’s his name?

Blaine?

His breath smells of methane.

Humming a neat quatrain.

Standing in the rain.

Waiting for the Cattle Train.

Strain.

Pain.

Maintain.

Do you think those that live in Des Plaines deal with such constraints?

One obtains small gains while one abstains from complaints about the Cattle Train.

But, the pain is hard to sustain.

It’s no gravy train.

Ask Lorraine,

sucking on that candy cane.

She survived September’s hurricane.

Only to remain,

waiting for the Cattle Train.

Strain.

Pain.

Stained.

Cattle Train! Cattle Train!

My life’s refrain.

Can someone commute my commuter pain?