Two Poems

Poetry
Brian Price


(019/365) Rain, rain go away
Photo Credit: Daniel Norwood

Rain South

The storm has broken
The rain eased but not for the
brown-barked cedar
Winds shake the spear-spiked leaves

Cold drops fall on my bare scalp
I shiver and drag for warmth
under the tiny shallow eaves
of the old brown shake roof

Redondo Beach, Manhattan Beach, and
Santa Monica all transformed from playgrounds
to dreary wet mounds of soft sand
The seagulls aren’t picky weather pickers

Venice is quiet with the few visitors
shuffling their deck-shoed feet in disappointment
Promised golden beaches bleached by warm suns
have lost their luster under the sullen skies of November

Southern California winters are not for the faint
dreams dreary in the reality, lost vitality
High heels turn to galoshes and fashion
sloshes and slips in winter’s gray grip

We are all just wet pedestrians now
knowing that tomorrow the sun will come
bright as ever and we will forget that
winter falls in Southern California

 

Sara

Sara is sleeping now as I write about
her and me, whatever us is.
Her broken chest raises slow and falls fast
under the yellow newspaper sheets.

I am cold again; these nights are long
for an insomniac homeless hairless mouse.
She came back yesterday through the backdoor like a thief
a killing thief, not just the robbing kind.

I was fifteen when I met Sara on the dirty streets
she was a wispy fourteen-year-old already deep in the life
nicotine teeth and alcohol breath, hateful tongue
her angel face is losing the moonlight now.

Her ivory-white arm sits on the pavement, tracked tracked
and her holey-nyloned leg, cracked souls, broken straps
all a mess on the cold night ground—who was I once?
The moon is falling behind the stark city like a sick mallard.

I pack my things, many things that don’t add up
little scraps of life found in the wet grey gutter,
soaked in the run-off of another life, some warm water life.
I knock off the worms and hit the streets; Sara knows better than me
how to die alone.

pencil

Brian Price is a California native born in the rural community of Mariposa, CA. He has been writing for 25 years and has never been published before. Email: poet738[at]aol.com

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