Waiting For The Rains

Waiting for the rains...

The land is a dry throat, desolate and parched
unable to imbibe the inertia of bloated clouds
searching for direction, looking for a home
like a barn swallow needing to build a family nest
searching for a patch of mud only to find
that mud has become a lost companion;
a lost companion waiting for the rains to thunder,
guillotining the lumped throat of maybe
to flow into arteries;
into the intestines of the land.

Still waiting for the rains…

Alternatives

The birth certificate remains hidden
while he strangles another glass of burgundy wine
and sags deeper into the depths of his midnight couch
listening to rain music wash away another year.

His eyes float a zigzag pattern toward the window pane,
entering the private world of one obscure droplet
that unbendingly refuses to burst and follow
others down the slippery road toward inevitability.

His eyes stare into the obscurity of the droplet—
a transparent fortress replaying memories
embellished from calendar droppings
and one too many glasses of burgundy wine.

He turns away from the window pane,
wanting to stop listening to rain music wash away
what he does not want to think about.
Left wondering will the one obscure droplet
ever burst and drench him tonight?

Pete Madzelan resides in New Mexico with his wife and cat, Manny. Has had fiction and poetry in Poydras Review, The Dying Goose, Cigale Literary Magazine, Bellowing Ark, Wind. Photography in various literary journals including Epiphany-epiphmag.com, Bellingham Review, Petrichor Review, San Pedro River Review, Pachinko, BRICKrhetoric, Foliate Oak, convergence.
David Mohan