Paula Grenside

	Bio Water Poetry

The Rain Sonnet

We do not move in time, we move through rain
that falls down mossy bodies — seal-bones slip
on flesh, a rush of gorges not restrained.
It is not time we live, the rain reels, grips.
Of all the waterdrops we gather those
which swirl then rise and shift — As muscles split,
we cry like herons leaving lakes that froze
to hover to wet lands where lattice leaks
from single tree whose branches brim with buds,
and shadows cross, depart then double back
beyond our place, beyond time limits' stab—
The rain, the wind will bring a million tracks.
No time has ever been so charming, wild,
that's why in rainy, fleshy land we wind.


Rhapsody

Long time has passed, too many yesterdays.
Again our summer moments melt the pain—
We see, beyond defense's walls, the way
as gates of trust unclose and hearts acclaim.
And when the wind constructs the fleshy clouds,
we listen to the rain erasing faults
on leaves of life we'd dropped on grimy ground.
Forgiveness can then write its moisture lines.
Around us, drenched green dripdrops in scent
of pollen breaths as buzzing bees align—
with dreams of honey flowers, they descend.
In stirring glens the air vibrates all keys,
on score of skin, love plays its rhapsody.


Slow Man—

Arriving at the end of a glass-blown dream,
he gets off the train at the terminus,
passes through miles of debris,
canyons of finance, airtight windows

of offices, clerks who sow grim
pages, memos—with tremulous
hands, they throw the seeds for money-trees.
Along rusted rails people grin at the slow

man who missed success-machine's gleam,
didn't patch wilderness with banknotes. —Curious—
they think, the way he takes off, piece
by piece, all his clothes and wears sun-glow.

He reaches a field where blackbirds skim
the mist on blue skin, stands there in joyous
nudity. Out of dismissal papers—his paid fees—
he makes white kites, flies them as a new breeze blows.


Pomegranate Blues

Oh, how I break the gold-red skin! Cracking
on crust that splits in two; fleshy rubies within
from white bitter cells they poke, I pick, forget
about Hades, roll crimson beads on tongue that frets.

Oh, Let the juice refresh my throat, let seeds
deposit heat, I'll grow wild bush, I'll breed.
My lips are glossy, sugar leaks, I lick.
Far more than seven I ate without a break.

Oh, fingers dig in empty gold-red skin,
no purple pulp left, no drops refreshing.
I was the pomegranate and let you suck,
you left my inner bitter skin and packed.