A Rainstorm Gathers Poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell

A rainstorm gathers in my eyes and pen,
and I write a poem to touch all men.
When bullets have flamed and hearts set afire,
my words shall burn on the funeral pyre.

A river in vein washes o’er my bones.
I fall for the sound of merciless stones
and kiss for the last time the dirt of hate
and wipe away tears that have fallen late.

The blindfold of religion makes men blind
and crashes like waves over all mankind.
Silence curls its timber into my heart,
a synopsis for worlds now blown apart.

I stretch my senses on this moonless night
to sleep in the shadow of love and light
where songs of glory bathed the hearts of men
before the flames ripped through our fragile skin.

I cannot water the graves of the dead
nor plant roses above each sleeping head.
The wind shall carry my hopeful prayer.
It’s the fabric that binds us, here or there.

The pain dissolves in the gathering rain,
and poems are born in its sad refrain.
Like whispers of a widow’s wedding dress,
it bids me to love that much more, not less.

The grave and its silence become our friend.
It’s the bookmark when life has reached its end;
and tears will be shed like leaves in the fall.
The heart houses the homeless – one and all.

The dead move on, and we are left behind.
We grow closer for all the love we find,
and words are written in sugar and frost
as arms circle around the loved ones lost.

Sweet breath is born beneath a widow’s veil.
Life is born when another breathes farewell,
and a hollow of tears will cup the moon
until the eyelids swell with great tribune.

A heartbeat flutters among the ashes,
and smiles delight the lamenting lashes.
The tides in the ocean know our story
and weep for the pain behind our glory.