The Rain Eater - A poem of the desert and wildfire season

Dreaming of rain,
I lean back against
this warm brick wall, lazily.
Praying those thunderheads deliver
some precipitation today.

Like so many,
amid this hot drought,
I fear the fire dangers
those "Red Flags" flying
portend so direly.

'Southwest Monsoon Season',
too many virga storms,
where desert airs gobble up
the falling rains before
they reach ground.

I smoke carefully.
One here, inside town,
where sprinkler systems tap reservoirs
already so drawn down
there's rationing rumors.

The heat builds,
as the clouds billow.
Over the century mark already
inside the garage behind
where I sit.

Winds stir dust,
and those marshmallows swell
out over the Salt Lake
and along mountain ridges,
teasing the valleys.

Tempted to nap,
but today I'm watchman.
Asked to look for workers
to actually show here
and finish up.

But like storms,
they fail to appear.
Leaving me to wilt away
like weeds I pulled
waiting for them.

When the breezes
fail to find me,
I get a good whiff
of that work's results.
Strong body odor.

Weeding's mostly done.
Front lawn's rocks removed,
to the extent that's possible,
so pray for rain,
until next load.

Still, sitting here,
scribbling out some poems,
while fools set off fireworks,
despite the fire danger
celebrating Pioneer Day.

My mind wanders
amid shimmering heat waves
about strange things this day.
Pondering those round rocks
God shot-putted here.

Was He bored?
A bet with Satan?
Or some plan to stir
His angels to exercise
lest waists expand?

Ten pins, perhaps?
A really strange version,
using gravity and the canyon
to knock down distant,
blameless sage brush?

Stretching a bit,
I gaze over west
where the clouds lift out
unable to find moisture
to fuel rains.

Hints of haze
from fires burning around
weave and chase those towers
warning me tonight's news
probably ain't good.

I see only
dust and salt crusts
from sweat worked up earlier
on arms turning red
under this sun.

Thinking about dancing
to call down rain
but know lightning will answer
sparking even more fires
than those kids.

Sitting back down,
just waiting it out,
until sundown comes at last
and the meteors run,
and I relax.

And, sure enough
the Rain Eater Struck,
the desert's hot, arid breath
devouring some rain veils
just below bases.
It figures.
Drought.
Tough times.
For man, and beasts.
23July2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Free Showers? - A Poem from the Streets

Free showers.
That's all it is,
but the guys avoid
them like the plague
hiding fast.

Many need
that water's wash
to rinse away stink
from weeks without
a shower.

Some more so,
like that one guy
who ain't cleaned up for
at least a month
since leaving.

Oh, the rain falls down
and we all scatter
to avoid being
cleaned of sins and smells,
despite our strong needs.

It's still warm,
so no big threat
of freezing to death,
falling apart,
or jail time.

Still they run,
fools they remain
to evade the drops
falling from sky
like blessings.

Such a mess
we live this way,
cherishing the stench
of being thus,
just homeless.

Oh, the rain falls down
and they race about
seeking cover quick
to keep smelling bad
out of some weird pride.

Aromas
that speak our tales
about drugs we use,
tobacco we smoke,
or booze drunk
furtively.

Only I
stay out in it,
relishing the drops
that rinse my soul clean
as well my gear,
so I hope.

While others
stay under roofs
dry and still smelly,
I walk about
in the rain.

Oh, the rain falls down,
forcing the scatter
to places dry and warm
where some hold on tight
to their sole comfort...
...the homeless odor.

11September2013 - Dyfedd Rex