Art seldom follows
where there is nothing new to see.
Art creates new eyes
new ears, new hearts to set us free.
Art imagines what minds can’t comprehend
forging new beginnings as old ways end.
Politics is an art form
tossing power to and fro
showing us what we really think
and where we might go.
Art is everywhere we look
showing us what we need to know.
Art has no end date;
its timeliness simply portends.
Vote! it is still not too late.
Art is our dearest friend.
Best to keep parched lips closed in the midst of drought.
When the rain comes, as it surely must, lips open wide,
with head tilted back, in a tumultuous shout.
Filling up with rain, one wet swallow can seem enough.
Memory quickly returns of a mouth full of dry dust,
reminding one a single swallow is not enough.
After thirsting so long words have grown tough
to swallow, feel bitter, feel wounded, feel flushed
where they would be drowned
if only rain would fall down.
Still, the short rain is enough to stir us to our feet,
on the forward march to greener pastures,
cool beneath our bare feet,
taking their fill of all the rains
that have gone before to make this place
one where one may stay to laugh and play.
We will not go back.
Tears of joy rain down now.
We swallow them whole,
filled with power so bold
we believe we control
the weather.
We don’t, we know.
But, we can vote.
And our vote grows in volume
as word drops form streams
and create new rivers of dreams
that flow within oceans so strong
their freedom carries us along
to new and better shores
where right overcomes wrongs.
Words fall like rain, again and again.
Dance in the rain and play
on the way to election day.
annarino writes 