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March 23, 2016


I owe you a March 12th poem.  One about rain.


There’s no such thing as gray light

            But the rain might care to differ

                        In the pitter-patter tatter

                                    Of its fingers on my hinges.


                                                Begs for shelter from the storm

                                                            Uninvited, still it mourns

                                                                        In the pitter-patter rat-a-tat

                                                                                    On the window, slow it goes.


                                                                                                The Natives live in Neon

                                                                                                            Full of Freon,

so-called Freedom

            From the pitter-patter-putter

                        When the rain reminds of mothers.


                                    How she held you in the halo

                                                In her holy ghosts of day-old


                                                                        When you’re cradled in her soul.


                                                                                    But now the City’s somber

                                                                                                Each is One

and Each is Numbered

            Count the pitter-patter pats

                        Like feet scraping ‘cross a mat.


                                    And I am just depressed;

                                                I pop the pills to pace the stress

                                                            Of heartbeats pitter-patter-putter

                                                                        But hearts are lonely ocelots.


                                                                                    We’re all gray light ghasts

                                                                                                In great white ghost towns,

                                                                                                            In Pitter-Patter-Burgh

Where the rain persists to drown.


            Like the cat that mourns its home

                        As it refuses to die alone,

                                    I hear pitter-patter-paws,

                                                Invite the rain inside my walls.


                                                            And it waltzes, plucks like country

                                                                        To notes F, A, C, and E

                                                                                    With a pitter-patter-pat

                                                                                                To dab the pool upon my heart.

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Ryan Oliveira

Ideas.  I'm full of them.

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