Oceans Of Rain

A poet is one who

wants to stop writing

but cannot

Don’t ask me what

this means

because

there’s no answer

to this foolishness

 

Sky is pissing down

oceans of rain

something from

out of this world

still,

I deny the existence

of Heaven and Hell

 

In youth, I had questions

as important as life

go unanswered

by an unwilling

ecclesiastic

conjuring idols 

from scriptural crystal-gazing

 

Now, I’ve seasoned

to this gray winter

an old inmate

waiting for light

to reap darkness

waiting for darkness

to bear down

 

Sky is pissing heavier

like wet dreams from the past

and if a cute nun

slipped a n****e in my mouth

I might be coaxed into believing 

Author's Note

from my unpublished manuscript: Straightforward, No Chaser

first published in The New Ulster Magazine (Ireland)

©dah/dahlusion 2017, 2019 all rights reserved

Reviews

[R.E. Ray]

As an admirer of the non-conformist and irreverent, I place this poem among the top, DAH. So much richness in your words here. The first stanza speaks to me more than any others. I write even after swearing I'm done with poetry. I know I'm not a "real poet" (whatever that is), and only a few will read my words, but it's a booze I can't stop. Perhaps it's escape from the darkness. As for your last stanza... I won't comment. Truly original work.

[DAH]

Thank you, RE!

[kentuck14]

R.E. I don't believe that a real poet is one whose are read . . . but one who has written!! I've enjoyed your work.
T

[DAH]

I agree with T: a poet is one who writes poetry. As for a "real poet", a person writing poetry is as real as it gets. So, in my assessment, RE, you, my friend, are a real poet. Write on!

DAH

[Lorry]

I love the fact that this feels completely honest and unedited for "likes" for want of a better word. From the duality of the writer, or should that be schizophrenia, the ultimate love/ hate relationship, to the warm fuzzy glow when our mind calms enough to let us flow, feeling the pleasure of completing something unique and new, out of whatever it is we believe the muse to be. (mine is a blonde pixie who sits about two feet above my left shoulder, giggling or sulking to no discernable pattern or shift.)
Second verse screams of our own duplicity, unbelieving there could be anything out there as awesome as us, so disregarded until three forms of photographic identification is shown and at least two miracles viewed. But if we say it, no verification required.
And what can I say to the last, but I concur. We are a complex, yet fickle bunch 😀

[DAH]

Thank you, Lorry!

[Dave Brown]

It is quite true
I would like to stop but the gibberish keeps pouring out of my head
BTW, they don't get nun

[DAH]

Thank you, Dave!

[Ted Kniffen]

Man oh man, how does a poet compete with the Muse? Words come … thoughts spring up … we are captives and with any luck, captivating. Foolishness? For some, but a necessity to others … our life's blood … we write because we have no choice … we question the premise … what is there, anything?
Those unanswered questions from youth have led to the old inmate patiently waiting to know one way or the other … in the meantime we write and wait for that nun to change our minds.

A good write, DAH

[DAH]

Thank you, Ted!

[jacob erin-cilberto]

oh those nuns...had them in grade school....wondered under those habits who they really were...
but yes, maybe we are inmates in a prison of writing, because we seem to not ever get paroled from it.
it is a life sentence...one that i find i embrace, gratefully...really like this write.
j.

[DAH]

Thank you, jacob!

[gram linski]

f*****g awesome, we write because we must it is sickness without a cure, and if you ever get a sweet catholic nip in the mouth, believe !

[DAH]

All of my life, people have asked me: why do you write so much? __ my answer is always the same: because I can't stop.

I'm happy to read that this one excites you, gram.
And, yes, to the nun nip making me believe.

Cheers,
DAH