Latter Rain

"font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#c0c0c0;">Latter Rain

Heaven seems closed. It's done that before. The ground crackles until pleas can be heard from every break. There isn't time to be concerned with the dust underneath the feet, the ill taste on the tongue or the creases around the eyes. There is something rumbling behind the clouds. It can be felt on the floor of the belly and on back of the knees. The freshness alarms the nose the way a trumpet preludes a new day. This is what you look for when the night season seems long. When the answer doesn't come in the wind, when you stand at the gate waiting to hear it thunder--waiting to feel the coolness of the rain.

Half Moon

You know the other side is there. It's mystery stirs something within. It keeps entering into your dreams as if to leave a message. When you search it out in the morning the answers are locked deep. You want it to trust you, to show itself under the sun.

Without strength the blood still stains the tree

Stumbling in darkness the light still brightens Zion

In sinking sand the stone still hewed out the mountain

Head bowed in shame grace and mercy still stand near

The end of summer nights regrettably move on making room for a season filled with cold days. They take with them the sweetness from the air and the dew from the front lawn. They become as ghost. And when an attempt is made to conjure up the atmosphere once again they slip away like the lizard on the back porch scurrying away to the past. Nothing remains except for the photographs taken while on the vacation meant for curing everything that ached all year long. No wonder the smiles on the faces look painted on and not true to the celebration. They fail to capture the youth in the eyes and the expectancy of the ocean's air. Instead when no one was looking the lens etched out the sadness even when the eyes were staring out into the distant row of houses. Where they could imagine days hid on top of a mountain instead of a valley. Where the earth meets the sky and its clay dust the floor like that of gold and with one reach a cloud could be pulled down and kneaded. Its extraction would be used to moisten and protect the skin. There would be no regrets. No need to capture a significant moment in a frame for each day would be a continuation of the one before.

It's hard not to respond to the tempo. Hard not to tap your feet to the sounds gyrating off the walls. The memory of your first kiss in the poke-a-dot shirt seem so far in the past. You wonder what attracted you to that person in the first place. The taste of salty skin surfaces and you feel silly as you touch your lips. The idea of being care free again is now buried away like old newspaper clippings in the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. You review your progression stanza by stanza still wondering about your timing.

The silence of the night rest on the ears bringing everything to a stand still. In the middle of the road a reminder to keep your eyes fixated until you feel pain--pain in the abdomen. The kind lingering upwards to the throat refusing to leave unless attended to. And you would if you knew what the actual origin of the problem. One morning brought a shovel full and it's been hard to either re-bury or at least sprinkle it over the top soil as to make it stand for something. The stench is still very much present as people avoid you like the plague. So much so until you believe you have been plagued--disregarded and left to be subjected to lies. The truth of course comes with a price.

Pamela Cone and LaJoya Reed | Sinclair Community College

Pamela Cone and LaJoya Reed | Sinclair Community College

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The mechanism is broken but there isn't anything wrong with the design. The wheels sometimes turn too fast and other times too slow. Oftentimes as if it doesn't have anyone at the controls at all. These instances are sporadic of course and the test results are inconclusive. This inevitably sparks the debate on what can actually be charted? Statistically speaking of course--and who wants to record the data? Employed to meticulously jot down every time the mind drifts and the emotions follow. Who could actually chart such evidence and what form of graph would one use? I would imagine the information would be matched to those with paralleling symptoms, similar demographic locales and of course those too suffering from dying. The latter would include everyone entering into this hemisphere. No one leaves this place untouched. And sometimes the evidence can't be assessed.

I walked away from it. When I returned it no longer looked the same. The taste was quite different on my tongue. I no longer recognized the flavor. The texture and proportion was the same--I concluded it, the change, must have been internal. The temperature had changed due to the change of the season, but each season before never had the power to extract a different response. In fact, it was the opposite. Each scene promoted a different view, a new scenario. Absence appears to have been the best remedy. It seems to remain dissipated even when I try to conjure up the recipe again.

If I could hear or see myself from a strangers perspective--how would I sound? It would be interesting to see if they could see past the obvious. If they would actually take time to listen to the inflation of my tone whenever something or someone amuses me. I have a tendency to set things on the display shelf and later (depending on the emotion) try to distort their meaning. Or either pretend what is visible isn't real. It's easier to believe time will permit the truth even when you know the space will never be fluid. Yet we still hold our breath for the future when the universe is aligned parallel to our innermost desires. For the time when the one who fits our soul will suddenly appear sitting next to us on an airplane on their way to vacation too in the Mediterranean.

Sometimes memories are false, then they by some peoples definition are lies. I would like to think otherwise. When the recollection of conjured up words spoken in the swollen air sound sweeter than the true screeches of night this is when I reserve the right to remember the stories I told to myself.

The coffee is strong and sweet this morning with no dreaded bitter after-taste. The sun woke up victorious as the night, defeated, went and hid. The rest seemed short but the eyes woke up refreshed, ready to uncover a new wonder. Time unravels quickly--it's hard to catch when standing still. Moving with it will propel any effort of motion. Just don't fight the wind! It's strength is greater and the arms will quickly tire. By the time evening comes they will hang down by the knees begging to excrete the pressure. Patience is the key to a good brew.

There is something lying between the last sentence and the next. Something that will linger for days and perfume the empty space. And what would have happened had the words escaped through the gate? Would the next day have begun any differently? If we were in possession of the ability to rewind to the moments which now fill us with the stench of resentment, would we now posses the courage as well to allow words to become attached to our inner appetites?

I would rather not have the stretched out fields of my days resemble the fenced in dumps we pass by quickly so as not to deal with the guilt of our waste. No, I would rather nourish the soil with the lessons of humility and respect--not to mention restraint. There is something to be said about being disciplined. I'm not quite sure what, but it keeps you in your own bed at night. It keeps you looking towards Heaven asking for what you are not always willing to lend to others. It makes you pause before you utter the next verse.