i used to love to run in the rain. i used to love to walk on the beach in the rain. Yesterday, i walked down a pier in the rain. i think i still would like to run in the rain and walk on a beach in the rain. But rain is also productive in my head, or at least, productive for me. i thought of about ten things to write about between yesterday morning’s rain and right now. There is supposed to be a gully washer this afternoon. My head might explode with ideas about what to write. Maybe, just maybe, i might go out and run in the rain. i know i won’t go down to the beach to walk in the rain: too much traffic. i suspect i will sit here and keep the fire going in the hearth and write. Maybe i’ll read some, or listen to music.

On New Year’s Day as we were leaving the golf course, Mary Ann Schoultz indicated she enjoyed my posts and encouraged me to keep on writing. i responded, “I don’ t think i could stop (writing). That is true, especially when it’s raining.

skin color

black
white
red
yellow
brown

what?
no green?
no purple?
no chartreus?
quite a while ago,
we had a close family friend
who was purple,
actually an ashy white
like a ghost
with purple overtones
and
white hair:
not white like they say my skin is white
but
white, real white.

she had some sickness,
a condition we called it,
solved with an old chemical remedy
which turned her ash white and purple:
scared the beejeezus out of me
when i was too young to say “hell” or “shit”
but
did so with my pals
but
never so my parents could hear.

she was a very nice old lady
and
i learned not to be scared.

now, i keep wondering
why we call me white,
those brown,
them yellow,
some red,
some black;

“people of color,” they say;
“we all is of color,” i say.
we all are different;
we all are the same;
we all have good folks;
and
we all have some bad apples:
apples are red,
violets are blue,
so is the sky,
so why do we do
the things we do
like label people
by color
by damn.