As One Listens To The Rain

Listen to me as one listens to the rain,
not attentive, not distracted,
light footsteps, thin drizzle,
water that is air, air that is time,
the day is still leaving,
the night has yet to arrive,
figurations of mist
at the turn of the corner,
figurations of time
at the bend in this pause,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
without listening, hear what I say
with eyes open inward, asleep
with all five senses awake,
it's raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables,
air and water, words with no weight:
what we are and are,
the days and years, this moment,
weightless time and heavy sorrow,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
wet asphalt is shining,
steam rises and walks away,
night unfolds and looks at me,
you are you and your body of steam,
you and your face of night,
you and your hair, unhurried lightning,
you cross the street and enter my forehead,
footsteps of water across my eyes,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the asphalt's shining, you cross the street,
it is the mist, wandering in the night,
it is the night, asleep in your bed,
it is the surge of waves in your breath,
your fingers of water dampen my forehead,
your fingers of flame burn my eyes,
your fingers of air open eyelids of time,
a spring of visions and resurrections,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the years go by, the moments return,
do you hear the footsteps in the next room?
not here, not there: you hear them
in another time that is now,
listen to the footsteps of time,
inventor of places with no weight, nowhere,
listen to the rain running over the terrace,
the night is now more night in the grove,
lightning has nestled among the leaves,
a restless garden adrift-go in,
your shadow covers this page.

-Octavio Paz

Ticket Taker

May Writing Challenge

poems, prose, advertisements, rambles, etc....

Soy Luz y Sombra

with photographs of the Chavez Ravine

Soy luz y sombra, el sol brillante.
Frío beso de nubes, frío beso de nubes
Que acarisia tu piel, que apolla tu andar.
La roca bajo tus pies, soy.
La voz del búho, que siempre nos canta,
“¿Quién podra negarnos, lo que nos falta?”
Todos pasan sus días entre mis brazos.
Tenemos mucho que compartir.
Hogar fecundo de árboles viejos,
De flores tiernas recién nacidas.
Con raíces maduras y esperanza futuras,
La familia unida.
Pregúntale al polvo de donde nacimos.
Pregúntale al bosque que con la lluvia crecimos.
Pregúntale a las palmas que con el viento se mueven.
Escucha el corazón de tu madre y pruebe.
La voz del búho, que siempre nos canta,
“¿Quién podra negarnos, lo que nos falta?”
Todos pasan sus días entre mis brazos.
Tenemos mucho que compartir.

-Traditional (Costa Rica)

Birds Again

A secret came a week ago though I already
knew it just beyond the bruised lips of consciousness.
The very alive souls of thirty-five hundred dead birds
are harbored in my body. It’s not uncomfortable.
I’m only temporary habitat for these not-quite-
weightless creatures. I offered a wordless invitation
and now they’re roosting within me, recalling
how I had watched them at night
in fall and spring passing across earth moons,
little clouds of black confetti, chattering and singing
on their way north or south. Now in my dreams
I see from the air the rumpled green and beige,
the watery face of earth as if they’re carrying
me rather than me carrying them. Next winter
I’ll release them near the estuary west of Alvarado
and south of Veracruz. I can see them perching
on undiscovered Olmec heads. We’ll say goodbye
and I’ll return my dreams to earth.

-Jim Harrison

All In White

Letter to the editor

I fear the few words have escaped me,
like green leaves gone red
somewhere between the border of this season
and the next. jericho has fallen and my trumpet sits
in a dusty case (in its
lonely place) somewhere between
the triumph and malady of a broken wall. we can
turn the tv on, if you like
and share the dismal sound; the
sadness is better that way-
somewhere between two hearts. the
sky went black early tonight
and I sketch to you starless
and needy, still somewhere
between and boy and a man. now
all is quietly chamomile,
I’ve never been trained to say
what I want. Sleep will envelop me
and this stamp will always carry me to you,
regardless of the inflation of
time and regime, ideas and truth. and
the truth of it is , somewhere between
the frail parchment and creased corners,
just that.

-christian kindschy