The Bond of Star-gazing
Son, his father says,
why do you stare at the stars?
How can something millions
of miles away be of any use
to us?
Son, of what good is a nest-full
of blue-speckled birds’ eggs?
They won’t feed your children;
nobody will buy them.
Son, why do you plant
marigolds and zinnias
in furrows that could
be used for lettuce
and radishes?
Hummingbirds, butterflies,
wild ducks on the pond
over there: pretty, but we
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poem by Sonny Rainshine
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The City Down There
When I drive home from work,
on the perimeter of the hill where I live,
and will forever,
I look to the right
at the city over there, and then
to the left, toward home;
my thoughts scale the incline
before I do.
Living above the city
seems more important than it did
when pretty girls and the swirls
of crowds aroused me, sustained me.
Urban persuasions undulate down there—
music, cafes, dance—romance. Up there,
only the dahlias are dancing,
the only diva the sparrow,
the day ends at 10 PM not 2.
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poem by Sonny Rainshine
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Playing Golf at Midnight
Playing golf in the moonlight,
at midnight, at night, when light
cannot be trusted, when sight
deceives, it can’t be right.
He drives the sphere with the craters
like the moon, white like the moon,
orbiting like the moon; soon
it will collide with grass or sand, and
the black night will swallow the white
moon and the driving sphere
and no one will know where
went the white and where went the black
and why.
And after the ball has divorced its tee
and after the moon laughs
and retires behind the roofs
of the neighborhood houses,
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poem by Sonny Rainshine
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Upon Outing My Friend As an Optimist
I want the old you back.
You were my Edgar Allen Poet
and I could always be sure
that no matter how crappy I felt,
you felt crappier.
Now you’ve betrayed me
and have become happier.
Who do you think you are,
Walt Whitman? All smiles
and lilacs blooming in your dooryard;
It’s all very disturbing,
curbing your lack of enthusiasm.
You’re up on the pinnacle of joy
while I’m teetering on the chasm.
Your favorite past-time
was to crash a funeral,
pretending you’re Maud
and I’m Harold.
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poem by Sonny Rainshine
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Current Currency
Dollars, euros, yen:
they’re all just pretty pieces of rags,
cotton, linen, and silk,
a bit of Crane paper, so we’re told.
Those currencies that no longer
predicate their value on precious metals,
gold or silver, for example,
have no more intrinsic worth than
fancy rags made of shirt fabrics.
Paper money is then much like
a wedding song “O, Promise Me”
performed over and over and over
until becoming superfluous.
Then the wedding guests long
for something more enduring
like Bach, Chopin, or Mendelssohn
(gold, silver, or real estate)
with no promises attached.
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poem by Sonny Rainshine
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