Sonny Rainshine Poems

Judy, Joni, and Joan,
the balladeers of sixties folk,
the minstrels of protest:
where are you; where did you go?
...

The paradox of people who write
and paint and compose symphonies
is that the world around them
sometimes can’t compete
...

He was perspiring like the greasy spoon’s
plate glass windows on a subzero afternoon,
the drizzle of convection a reaction to the heat within;
the heat was on.
...

Bobby became a misanthrope
after losing hope in the goodness of man.
He found he could not cope
with the everyday stings
...

The bent old sister,
...

Listen! Wind still sighs
...

Go ahead; do it.
Nobody’s looking,
nobody cares.
Hurt him,
...

I am neither violet nor villanelle,
not a torso nor a bust. I am flesh
and feeling; I perspire
when you make love to me,
...

An icy rain.
A coyote stands shivering
in my back yard.
Lost.
...

That one covert act of unkindness,
you know the one, he said,
you may think went unnoticed,
but the sound of its detonation,
...