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[Return to Guest Poets Page] [Next Page]Forrest Curo
contact Forrest at forest@cts.com
You're being asked . . . You're being asked to leave the flames of Hell; you have done well and been well done. Why have you put yourself here? Can't you accept yourself without proving yourself fireproof? Can't you forgive yourself as you'd forgive others if you dared? Your Daddy's calling; it's time to come home and play. I used to love the rain. It goes back to my childhood; my mother wouldn't let me out in it at first; and then it was a treat to feel it plopping on my waxy yellow raincoat under the big bright hat like a fireman would wear or a fisherman out at sea in a hurricane, drops falling splat splat in the puddles-- water out of the sky--how amazing and how grown up to be walking in it all by myself. I used to love the rain, even when I came home from the storefront Methodist church my parents thought would be good for me full of Noah and the fire next time daydreaming of water over the ditch up the hill and into the driveway, water over the curb, into the basement, water up the front stairs and the door, flooding the whole world to the windows; then we could all go around in boats. I always loved the rain in the Bible, falling with loving impartiality; the real rain would remind me of it and make me smile; the air felt clean as if it were already done washing and on a rainy night you know the psychic power lines are buzzing so anything can happen, anything-- When you're an overpromised failure at college, inside-out and shriveling with loneliness, you might venture out on a sleepless midnight to find a wandering stranger at the doughnut shop (holy-eyed and ranting of past lives he'd seen you in) to invite you to a mansion in the Berkeley Hills where a young woman fifty thousand years old waits to initiate you into mysteries; anything can happen on a rainy night when you need it to happen, when the time is right; you can move in to protect a woman you're mistakenly in love with and adore her from afar in her own living room; you could steal her a Christmas tree thirty years ago when I did it though I wouldn't recommend that anymore; (The rain came down in drops crowded together, every drop like a fishbowl, the wind tearing at the world while I sat cozy inside the window.) I always wanted it to rain; I wanted to feel the angels washing me clean again for another start, another adventure, or maybe just the simple love of the rain. There was a time, once when a decent person might love the rain and it wouldn't have to mean someone was shivering; it wouldn't have to mean people sleeping in wet clothes with no mommy to put them in a hot bath so they wouldn't catch their deaths out in all that. I have seen my country ruin itself in a frenzy of wilful ignorance; I have seen mercy dispised, cruelty accepted-- heard men like ants prattling of freedom to create wealth by picking each others' pockets-- I have had to learn to live by swallowing indignation but beyond all that they have stolen my rain and that is not even mine to forgive. A Cat Meditation It's spooky. He's sitting in the living room, all tangled up, staring at a perfectly empty spot on the floor. I wonder how do they get into those positions, how can he spring if anything comes out? I wipe my nose on his hand and he tells me he's hunting the Great Mouse. Copyright © 1999. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Duplication of this poetry and/or art without permission of the author/artist is forbidden under copyright law. Please ask permission if you wish to use for non-commercial purposes
Tuesday, July 11, 2000 |