The Progression Of Recession [or Praying For Rain ] Poem by Amberlee Carter

(all my evening sessions
have been set to torches-
the day ends in recession
and what the night remembers
merely dissolves-
the taciturn migration of sunlight into shadow)



Sitting on the step after
kicking the moon down off his perch,
tapping my naked toes against the raw light.


Beethoven’s moonlight Sonata
drifts across the humid distance;
even now he plays feverishly for a deaf world.

Siren’s echo drives a fear through my head
and I am aware, once again, of
the pain that I dread.
The judge has spoken, the reaper comes to reap,
another life, another deathbed
takes up space in your master room-
and all the world with all its people
are sentenced to a fate
more certain in emptiness than in loveliness.

Tragedy strikes and you
light a candle in remembrance
of all the times you’ve loved and let go,
of all the times you've lost and held on-
all the tears you could never quite shed,
all the real love that came to you, one night
during an emotional storm and you refused
it shelter.

Serene moments
reflected in a puddle of tap water,
substance rejected by the sky because its flesh,
its face, wasn’t quite as beautiful and clean-

but one can always dream.

All-American girls, pig-tales and pony-braids
playing hopscotch on the wet cement,
the rules and guild-lines long since washed away,
burnt into memory, so vividly,
they carry on.

I remember you, vividly-
in my tossed about, broken down bed,
the posts all dirty and stained,
we gave them hell in the end.

I think now of you, one, loved,
I recall as all heartbeats and tummyfullofbutterflies do-
how you danced to the music
in the heavy hours of hurt,
how you betrayed defeat with a smile,
and in my dreams I always see you smiling...always smiling

I call him lover, though I’ve never experienced his breath,
face to face or seen the way he turns
the pages of his favorite book-
oh God! how I miss those eyes, passion and fury,
thunder and sunset held in contempt
by the weight of a thousand reasons
he can never weep-
maybe not man enough,
maybe not strong enough, maybe just too human.


I pray for rain, though it seems
the gardeners in heaven are picketing again-
Eden became a cemetery overnight,
we're the ones who tore it down,
destroyed the tapestry with our false beauty.

But tonight, I still believe that
there is someone out there, still listening-
So I kick the moon down from
his self proclaimed throne
and ask him to sing lovesick melodies
for all the wayward hearts beating solo.

Headline reads: 'Drought and suffering all over the world,
is it ever going to rain? Prophets say NO! '

Evening arrives promptly as men turn on street-lamps,
and God, the stars.