Sonny Rainshine Poems

Penny dreadfuls they used to call them.
Dreadful but cheap
like a $3 bottle of wine.
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A white dot on a blue bedspread:
ivory-toned palomino grazing
in a meadow of indigo lupines:
peace, beauty, unbridled freedom.
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If to dust we must submit,
and with the cold December wind
incorporate our breath,
when lowered last into the pit,
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So many miles of earth and rock
and we linger here on the surface,
living on the crust, and dying just beneath.
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Just as you to inhospitable places
are drawn, so am I.

Just as some je ne sais quoi
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On some days the sky is not cerulean blue,
it is not azure or indigo, nor is it the tint
of someone’s grandmother’s antique ewer.
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Pale green-swirled cradle,
rock-a-bye in the cool breeze.
Dream of butterflies.
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Cherish that sliver of time
descending at the close of day
like a window shade slowly drawn—
a white gem glitters on the fabric:
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The night held the consistency of Turkish coffee,
dense, deep, heavy, viscous. They kiss
beneath the sinewy bougainvillea vines, drinking
up the cascading passion and the mingled scent
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Measuring his days from high to high,
barely getting by; living on the fly,
Henry Worth began setting by
vials of tears for a rainy day,
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