Sonny Rainshine Poems

The bent old sister,
...

From the thirty-first to the first,
the urge to reassess, to recalibrate
rises like the steam from hard cider,
and as we celebrate
...

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,
...

The irony of it
(sort of like Medusa getting bit
by a snake)
did not escape her.
...

She was born
with a coronet
of wispy gold twine.
...

For a moment let’s not consider
the beauty of the mallard
paddling, paddling on the lake.
Overlook her irridescent shawl
...

Having taken on one too many
dimpled rent-boys and
ladies-in-waiting,
the over-decorated
...

I’m bequeathing the old Dodge Dart to you;
(Guess that’s not the right word
since it implies that I’m dead, and I’m not) .
...

I was about 11 or 12 then.
She and I were sitting in the living room,
not the den. Maybe that had something
to do with it.
...