Rain on my Face — Writing from poetry with a small p.

It isn’t until I read Stephen’s poetry that I realize how dry and dull life can be without words like his to lift the heart, or make one cry, as the case may be. He has never yet failed to bring a smile to my face or tears to my eyes. Few people are as gifted as Stephen McGuinness.

Fine, cold rain paints my face.
I’m happy with it.
Mist, like new skin.

Baby skin, fresh with first
Lungfuls of sparked life
Leans gently against my chest.

All around, new generations
Dance and move with
Careless abandon as

Unblemished hands curl
Through hardened fingers,
Gossamer scrapes across knuckles.

An old man sings an old song,
Sinks to tears as memories
Envelope his music.

The truth is in no book.
It stares up at me from
Widened eyes.

This is why we confront terrors,
Live through horrors and
Carry our hopes like burdens.

This is why we smile and
Play children’s games
Beyond our understanding.

This is why a man with an old dog
Walks sodden fields on Sunday morning,
Smiles when rain paints his face.

via Rain on my Face — Writing from poetry with a small p.

11 thoughts on “Rain on my Face — Writing from poetry with a small p.

  1. Will,
    Thank you. For your kindness, support and encouragement always so generously given. Your blog posts are as a spur, a challenge to us to work at this thing of ours, this assembling of words, in essence so simple yet so complex.
    Your dedication and cheerful endeavour in your craft, in your art, shine a light on us all.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks for the kind words, Stephen. It’s a pleasure reading and sharing your work.
      I was thinking last night how nice it would be for my wife and I to visit you and your family. If the economy keeps booming, who knows; it could happen sooner than I hoped 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Yes! Come to Ireland.
        Don’t come as a tourist. Come and be Irish, if only for a little while. Come and search for what is left of us between the multinationals and invaders. Come and listen to us sing our conversations in the far west, southwest, northeast. Come and experience a haven of demented chaos in a far too serious world.

        Liked by 2 people

    1. Thank you.
      Any work that I post is deeply personal. Here the rain actually happened yesterday morning and prompted the poem in which I tried to address ageing, new generations replacing old and why we are comfortable with all of that.

      Liked by 3 people

      1. I should have said “how I am comfortable with that…” Or maybe “…am resigned to that…” On Saturday afternoon I watched a man celebrate his 90th birthday with his large extended family. Despite very recently being widowed, despite losing a son and grandaughter in the last few years, he delighted in the young kids dancing and playing, screaming with laughter. He told me on Friday evening that he just wanted to get through the party, that he wasn’t looking forward to it. Yet, he sang his old songs, dissolved to tears by his memories. I think these new generations gave reason to his struggles.

        Liked by 1 person

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