Bower

A raucous rain
pelts the bower,
where petals strain
to guard the flowers.

A wind-blown Palm
bows to green sod,
offers a frond
for an unseen god.

The pond bubbles
in tiny cores,
water troubles
at the grassy shore.

A gator peers
a smile so sad,
with ancient leer
amid Lilly pads.

The ducks drift by
with no concern,
quack and cry, and,
moon the shore in turns.

Bower petals
feed the flora,
as kept kettles
release sweet water.

I view the scene
this shower show,
through sprinkled screen
an old dream, I know.

TP/MMXV

Erato

I lounge on the lanai
and listen to a tattoo
of rain drops,
on screens and ledges
and storm shutters.

Streaks of lightning leap across
a flat Florida landscape
in nano-second bursts,
silent as my goldfish.

As I momentarily
drift off in the silence,
contemplating, "whatever."

I am jolted into the reality
of a long afternoon by
thunder
that I swear, has to be,
a special Florida
thunder.

A sound that is decibels
above,
that which I have heard up-north.

So's I take my journal and
jot down notes of poetic
significance and …

Wait,
I've already written
pieces on rain
and thunder
and lightning.

My muse Erato, in the form of a Force Majeure.

Write a poem about a Frank Sinatra Centennial.
Be a Romeo or Paagliacci.
A Medal of Honor recipient or a Goldbrick.

Something. Anything.

I awaken
from my hiatus
in the humid heat.

My pen found
on the lanai floor.

I write nothing.
©TP/MMXV