Rainy Days and Sundays
Rain and Daddy go together
Splashing in puddles on a summer’s day,
dashing from car to church to receive communion.
The day he left and stayed away far too long,
the grey days of yearning, wondering why he chose to go.
And years later,
did the clouds gather as we drove to the airport to greet him?
I don’t recall.
But today, as he lies dying, the rain continues to fall.
****
They call me Penny,
say I haven’t much sense and
banish me to this dark space
while they run on their senseless rat race.
They call me Penny,
say I haven’t much sense,
yet when the till opens
they look for my face.
Insulted, I remain hidden in my comfy dark place.
Note: I have no illusions that I am a poet. These two are a result of writing exercises I participated in yesterday at Write-a-Palooza held at Shamrock Music Shoppe, in Purcellville, VA, taught by Betsy Allen, David Sackrider, both excellent writers and teachers, and Mike Carducci, drummer for the band, Local Flavor. This particular class focused on poetry and songwriting and since I am neither a poet or a songwriter I did what I could to learn from them. What you have just read is the result.
The Schizophrenic Writer 