Let the rain come

She stood there, decked out in the finest robes of righteousness,
A life immaculate,
Clean, pure, untouched,
Brow worn high,
nary a wrinkle
Scarcely a furrow,
And waited, in the rain, for the bus to come by.
She spoke softly in a confident tone
That spoke of riches in the winds
Of ethereal beauty
Heavenly gifts
All encased in the gilt fabric of conviction from the Other-world
Where one of her feet was firmly planted always.
Within this spirit of moral levity
She floated without imprint,
Leaving no history to besmirch her name.

The other bystanders wore galoshes and raincoats,
Mud-speckled boots,
Umbrellas with bent spokes
And rattled to each other their earthly secrets
Their stories of “who’s who and what’s what so there,”
And bore the scars and weathered lines of a lifetime of jostling for space,
And left behind progeny of memories and mixed emotions
That will course through the veins for the world
Forever after,
Tracing complex patterns of shimmering iniquity and gossamer goodness.

The bus picks them all up without judgement.

Are these days that test my faith,
even when I never had none?
Are these words of Anglica too poor
to be couched in nothing but Biblical referentia?
Are they crouching within
the left temple of Pat Robertson,
nay, synagogue,
nay, demagogue
(nay, but he is the Christian Balrog?)
Circle deep the pool of thoughts
plumb the Stygian depths of reptilian umbilica
and seek life in those clammy depths of the Mother Goddess
Her placental warmth gives rise to words of loss
pregnant with meaning and self-worth and self-standing.
Those few unearthed onyxes dew-ridden with the collective humidity of a heaving earth
they will be my messengers.
Take them and run.
hide in the caverns and wait your turn,
arise dear Lazarus when the sun strikes at the face of a new sky far away in time.