RAIN GAUGE

RAIN GAUGE

“Three tenths,” he says, “You?”
“A quarter of an inch.”
Saying how much you got
is almost as important
as how much you get.

It’s not competitive,
but old Jerry down the road
always claims a little more
even though he seems to have
less to show for it.

We have thirsty dirt
in our country.
Dugouts fill slowly,
like gilded plates
in an offertory.

Winter snow cover was thin
so it’s all eyes on the skies,
asking, praying
for rains
between the sunshines.

Rain comes untithed
from the fickle gods.
We do so little
to earn their blessings,
so little to show our thanks.

Too much, too little,
too early, too late,
we crave perfection
in our rain
but take what we can get

The gauge is more
than a record of rain.
It’s a measure
of lives lived
on these dry plains.

When it falls just right,
when the bins overflow,
we think about now,
about this year,
in next year country

AT WAR WITH WEATHER

The seed went into the ground all right
Or so he claimed when it was sown
But then he turned his eyes to the skies
And darkly frowned a wrinkled frown
From his whiskered neck
To his tan-lined crown

Thunder rumbled – Rain, he grumbled
But the sky had nothing in it
The bastard won’t rain a drop
He rasped as if he himself was dry
He spied the clouds with squinted eyes
Dark slits of steel-grey flint

After a week he gave up hope
He mumbled profane sentiments
He shook his fist at the barren clouds
And called on God to damn them
To Hell where he said we’d all go
If it didn’t rain soon

I didn’t see him for a while
Another dry week slipped by
When he reappeared one day
He looked a lesser man
He slouched and cursed and spat
But stopped and sat to chat

He said the end was nearly here
His crop was all but buggered
His shoulders slumped and a tiny tear
Rolled down his grizzled cheek
He said that he was finished
And seemed a man diminished

Then a wind got up and clouds blew in
We could smell it in the air
There you are I said and heartily
Slapped a hand on his back
I thought that he would smile at that
But he only winced and said
If the sonofabitch only knows when to quit

Gregg Norman lives and writes in a lakeside cottage in Manitoba, Canada, with his wife and a small dog who runs the joint. His poetry has been placed in journals and literary magazines in Canada, USA, UK, Australia and India. He is also the author of four published novels and a novella.